The shots had now ceased; he was finally too deep in the trees and too far away for the shooter to waste rounds. But even as he caught his breath, he saw the ripple of another alligator coming at him, moving fast below the surface. He braced himself, thrust the muzzle of the gun underwater — and when he felt it make contact, pulled the trigger. The kick of the underwater shot almost tore the gun out of his hands, but it did the job: the reptile jerked sideways, coming up out of the water, its lower jaw partially torn away, and then it fell back, sinking in a cloud of blood.
Keeping to the water, Pendergast began working his way around the island, circling at a distance. On the far side, a tongue of land extended out into the swamp, forming a sort of lagoon, at the head of which was a small cluster of ruined buildings. The peninsula was covered with slash pines, cattails, and strangler figs — thick brush that made for excellent cover. He worked his way toward the spit of land, keeping his head barely above water, alert for not only alligators but Florida panthers as well — common in the Everglades. No shots came: the shooter must have lost track of his location.
He crawled to a muddy embankment thick with mangroves. Keeping low, he made his way along the edge of the water until he reached the tongue of land. He had to keep moving; keep his adversary guessing. Leaving the water, he scurried through the understory at a crouch, staying in the thickest areas, careful not to make any noise or disturb the vegetation more than absolutely necessary. He could just glimpse the ancient lodge from time to time through the cypress trees. Finally, the ruined structures came into view — metal sheds on stilts over the water; a corrugated boathouse; a mudbank covered with rotting fifty-five-gallon drums and abandoned equipment; a pair of decaying hoists; and the hull of an old wooden barge. And lying everywhere on the mudbank were dozens and dozens of fat alligators, crowded into the patches of sun, their armored backs glistening. They seemed to be asleep, but Pendergast knew that was merely a hunting strategy: they were alert and waiting for prey.
His silvery eyes took it all in, along with the lines of posts in the water and rotten metal mesh that had once served as breeding cages. It was clearly an abandoned alligator farm. The ruins offered numerous hiding places and ambush points: an ideal spot for a man with a handgun facing off against one with a rifle. He paused in a cattail thicket, taking stock. If he could reach the cover of those sheds, he could change the rules of engagement. Everything depended on whether or not the shooter had truly lost track of his location — or was biding his time.
Bursting from cover, ignoring the pain in his wounded leg, he sprinted across the open area toward the closest shed. Instantly, flashes of gunfire erupted from one of the ruined structures ahead, and Pendergast threw himself down, rounds thudding into the earth on all sides. Crawling frantically, he retreated to a muddy ditch, bullets humming, then worked his way back to the embankment and slid into the water, pausing just long enough to take a quick shot at the dark maw of the shed where the rounds had come from.
The shooter had not lost track of his location. In fact, he’d anticipated what Pendergast would do and moved from his sniper’s nest to an ambush point in the old alligator farm.
Using the embankment as protection, Pendergast moved through the water and came around a turn in the shore, where a fallen cypress lay. Just above and beyond would be the shed where the shooter had fired from. With exceeding caution, he raised his head and peered through the ferns. He saw movement between the sheds: the brief flicker of a person running. He raised his gun, but it was too long a shot and it would only give away his position. He noticed that the man had moved to a central point among the ruined sheds. Evidently, he was determined that Pendergast not reach any part of that area. He was clearly a man who knew the layout of the island. And every tactical move he’d made so far indicated a military or law enforcement background. Such as John Vance had.
From his vantage point, Pendergast could see no way forward. The only option was to go back out into the water, using the fallen cypress as coverage, and circle farther around, looking for another approach. He had now taken the measure of his adversary, and the odds weren’t favorable. The shooter knew Pendergast would come to him; he knew time was on his side. As long as there was a possibility, no matter how remote, that Coldmoon was still alive, he had to deal with the shooter and get back to the sinkhole. The man with the rifle knew that as well as he did.
He inched along the fallen tree, careful not to make ripples in the glassy sheet of water. At the end of the trunk, he peered around.
The only way to determine the current location of the shooter would be to encourage him to shoot. Which meant showing himself. Pendergast was now fairly sure, from the sound and the character of the rifle, that the man was firing a scoped Winchester 94, 30–30. It was a decent hunting rifle but not, by any means, a tactical combat weapon.
Still working his way through the water, watching carefully for alligators and water snakes, he made for a particularly dense stand of trees. Using them as cover, he slid closer to the jumble of buildings, crawling along the bottom and keeping his head under water as much as possible. This was made a little easier by a line of underwater fence posts connected by wire mesh.
He worked his way from three hundred yards to two hundred before the next shot came, this time whacking splinters off a tree trunk beside his head. That was useful information; he now knew the man had changed position into the main shed over the water and was firing at him from the darkness of an open door.
Creeping forward with utmost caution, he closed in another fifty yards. The sliding doors of the shed were halfway open. Pendergast could not see where the shooter was positioned within the well of darkness beyond — and could only locate him by precipitating a shot, with its attendant muzzle flash. Even then, the target was still too far away for his sidearm to be effective. He had to get within fifty yards to be reasonably sure of a hit. The problem was, at fifty yards, with his 1911 up against a Winchester, he would be a dead man.
The logic of the situation was dismayingly simple. He could not leave the island as long as there was a possibility Coldmoon was still alive. Even if he tried to swim away into the swamp, he was certain the shooter, whoever he was, had a second boat somewhere — probably inside the boathouse or one of the nearby sheds — which he would use to chase him down. Besides, if he tried that, chances were the alligators would get him long before a rifle did. He had no choice but to get the shooter, here and now.
From the darkness of the sliding doors, something was flung out, landing a second or two later in the water. At first, Pendergast could not make out what it was. But the alligators sprawled along the bank did, and in a flash they were in the water, a sudden boiling around the spot where the thing had landed: thrashing and struggling, with whipping of tails and snapping of jaws.
They were fighting over a piece of meat.
Another piece was flung out with a splash, generating another feeding frenzy as more of the brutes spilled into the water. When the third toss came, Pendergast fired into the darkness of the shed, only to draw return fire that drove him back behind another massive cypress stump.
This was a new strategy. There must be a hundred animals in the water now. The pieces of meat had been consumed and the reptiles were spreading out, aroused from their torpor and eager for more. He could see the ripples and swirls on the surface, the dimpled water indicating movement below. Some of the ripples were coming toward him. He moved behind the stump, a mass of roots ending in a twisted knot of wood. There he hunkered down, hoping the hungry beasts would not notice him or the blood seeping from his bullet wound. If he tried to flee the approaching hordes, his movement in the water would only attract them.