"My name is Pendergast, and this is my associate Hayward. Now, Tiny, as I was saying to these gentlemen here, we wish to go birding. We're looking for the rare Botolph's Red-bellied Fisher to round out our life lists. We understand it can be found deep in the swamp."
"That so?"
"And we were hoping to speak to someone who knows the swamp and might be able to advise us."
Tiny stepped forward, leaned over, and deposited a stream of tobacco juice at Pendergast's feet, so close that some of it splattered on Pendergast's wingtips.
"Oh, dear, I believe you've soiled my shoes," said Pendergast.
Hayward wanted to cringe. Any idiot could see they'd already lost the crowd, that they would get nothing of value from them. And now there might be a confrontation.
"Looks that way," drawled Tiny.
"Perhaps you, Mr. Tiny, can help us?"
"Nope," came the response. He leaned over, puckered his thick lips, and deposited another stream of tobacco, this time directly on Pendergast's shoes.
"I believe you did that on purpose," Pendergast said, his voice high and cracking in ineffectual protest.
"You believe right."
"Well," he said, turning to Hayward, "I get the distinct feeling we're not wanted here. I think we should take our business elsewhere." To her utter astonishment, he hurried off down the street toward the Rolls, and she had to jog to catch up. Raucous laughter echoed behind him.
"You're going to walk off like that?" she asked.
Pendergast paused at the car. Someone had keyed a message in the paint of the hood: FUCK ENVIROS. He got in the car with an enigmatic smile.
Hayward opened the driver's-side door but didn't get in. "What the hell do you think you're doing? We haven't even begun to get the information we need!"
"On the contrary, they were most eloquent."
"They vandalized your car, spat on your shoes!"
"Get in," he said firmly.
She slid in. Pendergast turned and screeched off in a cloud of dust, and they started out of town.
"That's it? We're running?"
"My dear Captain, have you ever known me to run?"
She shut up. Soon the Rolls slowed and, to her surprise, swung into the driveway of the church they had passed earlier. Pendergast parked in front of the house beside the church and stepped out. Wiping his shoe on the grass, he glided onto the porch and rang the bell. A man soon opened the door. He was tall and rail-thin, with heavy features, a white beard, and no mustache. He reminded Hayward a bit of Abraham Lincoln.
"Pastor Gregg?" said Pendergast, seizing his hand. "I'm Al Pendergast, pastor of the Hemhoibshun Parish Southern Baptist Church. Delighted to make your acquaintance!" He shook the bewildered minister's hand with great enthusiasm. "And this is my sister Laura. May we speak with you?"
"Well, I... certainly," said Gregg, slowly recovering from his surprise. "Come in."
They entered the cool confines of a tidy house.
"Please, sit down." Gregg still seemed rather bewildered; Pendergast, on the other hand, ensconced himself in the most comfortable chair and threw one leg over the other, looking completely at home.
"Laura and I are not here on church business," he said, removing a steno pad and a pen from his suit. "But I had heard of your church and your reputation for hospitality, and so here we are."
"I see," said Gregg, obviously not seeing at all.
"Pastor Gregg, in my spare time from my pastoral duties, I have an avocation: I am an amateur historian, a collector of myths and legends, a rummager in the dusty corners of forgotten southern history. In fact I'm writing a book. Myths and Legends of the Southern Swamps. And that is why I am here." Pendergast said this last triumphantly, then sat back.
"How interesting," Gregg replied.
"When I travel, I always look up the local pastor first. He never fails me, never."
"Glad to hear it."
"Because the local pastor knows the folks. He knows the legends. But as a man of God, he is not superstitious. He isn't swayed by such things. Am I right?"
"Well, it's true one hears stories. But they are just that, Pastor Pendergast: stories. I don't pay much attention to them."
"Exactly. Now this swamp, the Black Brake, is one of the biggest and most legendary in the South. Are you familiar with it?"
"Naturally."
"Have you heard of a place in the swamp called Spanish Island?"
"Oh, yes. It's not really an island, of course--more an area of mudflats and shallow water where the cypress trees were never cut. It's out in the middle of the swamp, virgin forest. I've never seen it."
Pendergast began to scribble. "They say there was an old fishing and hunting camp there."
"Quite right. Belonged to the Brodie family, but it was closed up thirty years ago. I believe it's just rotted back into the swamp. That's what happens to abandoned buildings, you know."
"Are there any stories about Spanish Island?"
He smiled. "Of course. The usual ghost stories, rumors that the place is occupied by squatters and used for drug smuggling--that sort of thing."
"Ghost stories?"
"The locals are full of talk about the heart of the swamp, where Spanish Island is located: strange lights at night, odd noises, that sort of thing. A few years ago, a frogger disappeared in the swamp. They found his rented airboat drifting in a bayou not far from Spanish Island. I expect he got drunk and fell off into the water, but the local folk all say he was murdered or went swamp crazy."
"Swamp crazy?"
"If you spend too much time in the swamp, it gets to you and you go crazy. So people say. While I don't exactly believe that, I must say it is an... intimidating place. Easy to get lost in."
Pendergast wrote this all down with expressions of interest. "What about the lights?"
"The froggers go out at night, you know, and sometimes come back with stories of strange lights moving through the swamp. They're just seeing each other, in my opinion. You need a light, you see, to frog. Or it might be a natural phenomenon, glowing swamp gas or something like that."
"Excellent," said Pendergast, taking a moment to scribble. "This is just the sort of thing I'm looking for. Anything else?"
Encouraged, Gregg went on. "There's always talk of a giant alligator in the swamp. Most of the southern swamps have similar legends, as I'm sure you know. And sometimes they turn out to be true--there was an alligator shot in Lake Conroe over in Texas a few years back that was over twenty-three feet long. It was eating a full-grown deer when it was killed."
"Amazing," said Pendergast. "So if one wanted to visit Spanish Island, how would one go about it?"
"It's marked on the older maps. Problem is, getting there's a whole different deal, with all the mazes of channels and mud bars. And the cypresses are thick as thieves deep in there. During low water, there's a growth of ferns and brambles shooting up that are well-nigh impassable. You just can't go straight through to Spanish Island. Frankly, I don't think anyone's been out there in years. It's deep in the refuge, no fishing or hunting allowed, and it's hell getting in and out of there. I would strongly advise against it."
Pendergast shut the steno book and rose. "Thank you very much, Pastor. This is all very helpful. May I contact you again if necessary?"
"Certainly."
"Very good. I'd give you one of my cards but I'm fresh out. Here's my telephone number, if you need to call. I'll be sure to send you the book when it's published."
Getting back into the Rolls, Hayward asked, "What now?"