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  To Katherine Anderton because I owe you one

  Special thanks to my helpful readers

  Molly Kilpatrick and Margaret Davis

  1

  I slowed my skiff at the mouth of Bluff Creek and stared over the Pascagoula River. The far shore was a looming wall of cypress trees and densely tangled underbrush casting a long morning shadow over the black water. I set aside my new fishing rod and pulled a map of Jackson County, Mississippi, from my pocket. I spread it on the seat and studied it. The Pascagoula River Delta was a broad, uninhabited marsh, indicated by a swath of green and hashed as wetlands. There were no other markings on the map for miles except a few red dots that I assumed were the old fishing camps. There were no roads and no way into the place except by small boat. And somewhere, in that enormous swamp, was a dead body.

  Dad had mentioned the swamp to me a few times, sort of like you’d talk about the moon. It was a place looked at from a distance. A mysterious place one never imagines going to.

  “I fished in the Delta once or twice with your granddad when I was a kid,” he said. “Back then you’d see people out there. That was before the conservation groups bought up the land and condemned the camps. It’s easy to get lost. Cell phones don’t work. You get in a fix, and it’s a long way to help.”

  I studied the river again. I had my flotation vest on in case I fell overboard or sank. I had a flare kit and a whistle in case I broke down. Dad is chief of police for Pascagoula, and he’d made sure I had every possible safety item. The only thing I didn’t have was his permission to leave Bluff Creek.

  He never actually said how far I could go. Considering I’d only gotten the boat a week before, on my thirteenth birthday, and I wasn’t the type of kid you’d expect to do foolish things, I doubt it crossed his mind that I would venture far from home. But I wasn’t the kid I used to be. Even though school had been out for a while, the fight stayed over me like a blanket of sickness that seemed impossible to get out from under.

  The school counselor told me I’d feel better over time, but I didn’t believe him. When I talked to his calm face and tried to tell him what I was feeling, all I could think was that he couldn’t possibly understand. Forget the physical pain—it was the humiliation that hurt the most. So I just started telling him and my parents what they wanted to hear.

  That I was fine.

  That I no longer thought about it.

  Then the sessions stopped and I was left to figure it all out for myself.

  There’s not much to figure out. Trying to make friends in a new town is already hard. Add getting beat senseless in front of the entire school, and things look hopeless.

  * * *

  For a couple of miles the river was nothing but a winding, featureless ditch of rich tannin-soaked water between cypress trees and savannas of tall buggy whips and marsh grass. Eventually I passed a creek that entered from my right; I remembered it from the map and kept going. From what I’d seen on the news, search and rescue, or S&R as Dad called it, had been mostly in the Ward Bayou Wildlife Management Area, still a few miles north of me. They’d found the abandoned jon boat sunk to the gunnels, streaked with blood, drifting slowly down the river.

  As my outboard engine raced on, and home fell farther behind, fear swelled inside me. I came to a fork in the river, stopped, swallowed against the fear, and calmed myself. I pulled out the map again and located where I was. Just outside the management area. The right fork would take me directly into it.

  There’s no way you can get lost, I told myself. It’s just one fork in the river.

  I put away the map and sped up, forcing myself to press on. Now there wasn’t even a distant cell tower or power line visible over the trees, making the river feel even more remote and empty. Maybe if I’d seen another boat along the way, I would have felt safer. Then I thought it was better that no one saw me. But mostly I thought it was the dumbest thing I’d ever done.

  I soon came to another creek entering from the east. That was as far as I could make myself go. On the map it was called Ware Bayou.

  I’ll explore just this one. I won’t even go deep into it. There’s no way I can get lost after just two turns.

  I motored into the mouth, and the cypress trees closed on both sides of me. They were seemingly taller, as if the swamp grew stronger the deeper into the heart of it a person went. Spanish moss hung from branches like the beards of old men. Beneath was a tangled thicket of palmettos and cane, swollen to an impenetrable wall of green with the wet June heat. The smell of the air was heavy and thick, like steamed vegetables. The foliage looked like a jungle, but I heard no bird or animal sounds. It was quiet and still. I heard nothing but my heart beating heavily in my chest and up into my ears.

  As I motored slowly into the mouth the water cleared to a dark tea color. With the creek curving out of sight before me, I visualized the map, remembering the countless creeks and sloughs that in turn split off into more creeks and sloughs. A feeling of defeat settled over me as I contemplated what I was truly up against. This was just one of maybe a hundred waterways I’d have to explore. Unlike S&R, I didn’t have a helicopter and night-vision scopes and real search vessels. It was going to be impossible to find a dead body in this place. Especially after everyone had already searched for five days and given up.

  I looked down beside the boat, examining the dark-colored depths. I thought about the corpse rising up from the bottom, bloated and yellowish-looking like I’d seen in a horror movie.

  What would I do if I found it?

  Seeing it would be enough.

  Then I’d report it. Then I’d be on the news and everyone would know about it. Dad would be so impressed with me that he wouldn’t care that I’d taken my boat so far from home.

  Suddenly the foot of my outboard motor slammed into something and shut off. Fear raced up my spine again as I spun and looked at the water behind me. I saw the tip of an old piling just inches beneath the surface. Dad called them deadheads, and the description had never sounded so fitting.

  As I slowly drifted past the deadhead my mind flashed with visions of being stranded in such a place. Then something splashed to my left and startled me. I looked just in time to see an eight-foot-long alligator disappear into the depths. It seemed the place wasn’t so empty and still after all. I imagined creatures of all sizes crouched within that green wall of tangle, watching me.

  I stood up, grabbed the pull rope, and yanked. The engine started, but I knew there was a chance I’d broken something. I put it into gear and let out a deep breath when my skiff started forward again.

  It’s okay, I thought to myself. Just a little farther.

  I began seeing remains of the old fishing camps. A few were collapsed and partially sunken into the mud and hidden behind a screen of cane and vines and palmettos. Others had been burned and there was nothing left but the charred nubs of creosote pilings. It was like a strange ghost town. I passed eight of these eerie ruins before I came
to one that was still standing. The roof was partially gone, and the deck looked too unstable to climb onto. On the outside wall was the number 34, sloppily spray-painted with blaze-orange paint.

  I kept on, passing a few more of the abandoned camps, most of them barely visible, a few more with painted numbers, all of them looking too far gone to stay in or even fix up. More alligators slid into the depths. Occasionally a fish boiled the surface or a turtle scrambled off a log. A blue heron screeched like a banshee and glided away.

  It wasn’t long before I decided I’d gone far enough. Once I made this decision, I felt much more at ease and willing to pause and study my surroundings. I shut off the motor and drifted and listened. I felt safe in the middle of the creek, the sides of my boat protection from whatever lurked in my perimeter. There were more sounds I hadn’t heard over the engine noise. An osprey cheeped from high in the branches of a bald cypress. Something croaked to my left. On my right the cane rustled and a tree branch shook and trembled. My eyes darted about, trying to catch a glimpse of the hidden creatures. I saw small birds flitting about in the underbrush. Then I heard another strange sound—hammering.

  I turned my ear to the knocking. I determined it wasn’t a woodpecker. It was someone hammering nails not far ahead of me. But I couldn’t imagine what a person would be building this far in the middle of nowhere.

  I started the engine again and eased forward, keeping my eyes on the creek bank ahead. As I came around the bend I saw another camp. It hadn’t been burned, but it was leaning and rotten, and the door was missing. On the outside wall was the number 64. I studied the two front windows. Most of the panes were broken out, and the inside of the cabin was dark behind them. Then I felt the back of my neck tingle when I saw a ghostly image staring back at me, just above the window ledge.

  2

  Behind that window in the old camp was the face of a boy with crew-cut hair and glasses. I lifted my hand off the tiller and gave him a weak wave. The boy waved back, then disappeared. After a moment he stepped onto the rickety-looking deck that fronted the house, holding a hammer. He appeared to be close to my age, but a little on the small side. He was barefoot, filthy dirty, and his clothes were torn in several places. His face and arms were dotted with so many insect bites it looked like he had chicken pox. He adjusted his glasses and studied me.

  “Hey,” he called.

  “Hey,” I called back.

  “What you doin’ out here?” he asked me.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  He kept staring at me.

  “Where’d you come from?” I asked.

  He pointed to a place beside the camp. “I paddled that boat.”

  I saw the outline of a canoe almost completely hidden in the marsh grass.

  “The canoe?”

  “Yeah. You gonna tell anybody?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  He smiled. I felt myself relaxing, mostly convinced I wasn’t talking to a ghost.

  “I like your boat,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “You wanna come see my camp?”

  I thought about it. “Okay,” I finally said.

  I motored over to what was left of a narrow boat dock. Most of the boards were gone. The boy came across the front deck like there wasn’t anything wrong with it, stepping over rotten places and open holes and down onto the dock to help me. I met him at the front of the boat and gave him my bowline. He took it and wrapped it around a nail.

  “I need a cleat,” he said, meaning a metal hook to fasten boat ropes to.

  I thought it strange he would think of something minor like that.

  I stepped carefully onto the dock and looked back at my boat to make sure it wasn’t floating too close to any debris that might scratch it.

  “It’ll be okay,” the boy said, like he knew what I was thinking.

  I turned to him. “I didn’t know people could have camps out here anymore.”

  “Yeah, they told my brother it was fine.”

  “Who told him?”

  The boy shrugged. “I don’t know. Whatever person he asked. This used to be our camp about five years ago. Before the government took it away.”

  “You build it?”

  “Daddy and my brother did. I wasn’t old enough. But I used to come stay in it with ’em.”

  “You’re lucky it didn’t get burned like those others.”

  He turned and admired the dilapidated old structure. “I know. I’ve been tryin’ to get the orange paint off. Come see the rest.”

  I followed him up the dock and onto the deck, stepping carefully in his footsteps.

  “What’s your name?” I asked him.

  “Davey,” he said. “What’s yours?”

  “Sam Ford,” I said.

  We stepped into the camp and I looked about the dark room. It was no more than sixteen feet wide and twelve feet deep. It was definitely leaning, but inside it wasn’t as noticeable. The roof had obviously been leaking for a while. The plywood floor, damp and stained, flexed under my feet. The place smelled of rotting wood and animal pee. Against the wall was a bunk bed. The mattresses had holes on the sides where rats had torn into them and pulled out the stuffing. To my left was a countertop with a sink and old dishes and a coffeemaker. An old charcoal grill sat on the floor.

  “It won’t take me long,” Davey said. “I swept most of it out already. I just need some wood.”

  “Where’s your dad and your brother?”

  “They’re comin’,” he said.

  “How long have you been out here?”

  “About a week.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Sort of. I have a mouse. You wanna see?”

  Davey went to the counter, where there was a rusty cooking pot. He looked into it, then held it out to me. I peered in and saw a ball of what looked like mattress stuffing.

  “Feel in there,” he said.

  I didn’t like the idea of poking my finger into a mouse nest. “Will it bite?”

  “It’s just a baby,” Davey said. “I was cleanin’ and I messed up its nest. The momma ran off.”

  I nudged the nest and saw a hairless pink mouse baby. Its eyes were closed and it was no bigger than the tip of my thumb. The mouse squirmed at the disturbance and worked its way back into the stuffing.

  “I named him Baldy,” Davey said.

  I replaced the stuffing over Baldy and backed away.

  “What do you and Baldy eat?” I asked.

  “Well, we need some more food. And some boards.”

  “You don’t have any food?”

  “I caught some fish. And I found three cans of beans in the cabinet under the sink.”

  “What are you drinking?”

  “Dr Pepper. We left it up here.”

  “You mean, like, five years ago?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  I watched him, thinking maybe this was all a joke he was playing. He didn’t appear to be joking at all.

  I had so many questions I didn’t know where to start. “When are your dad and brother getting here?”

  “I don’t know. Soon.”

  “Like today or tomorrow or what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But all you have is a canoe. What if they don’t come for a week?”

  Davey adjusted his glasses. “They should be here by then, for sure,” he said.

  “How can you stay here without any food?” I said. “You don’t even have bedding or anything, and it looks like a thousand mosquitoes have bitten you.”

  “They’re gonna bring everything I need.”

  “But you need it now.”

  Davey smiled and grabbed a broom leaning against the wall. He made a couple of sweeps across the floor and smiled. “They’ll come,” he said. “Real soon.”

  It was almost eleven o’clock and I needed to get back in time for lunch. Just an hour before, I would have sworn I’d never venture into the swamp again, but now there was something irresistible ab
out this strange boy and his swamp camp.

  I got some insect repellent out of the tackle box in my boat and brought it to him. “You can have this,” I said.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “I’ll bring some food,” I told him. “But I have to go home first and check in with my parents.”

  “What about some cheese for Baldy?”

  “You think Baldy’s big enough for cheese?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “Milk, I’d say.”

  Davey watched me expectantly as I got back into my boat.

  “I’ll try and bring some,” I said.

  He smiled like it was something he couldn’t help, excitement rising into his eyes.

  “Can you spend the night?” he asked.

  “My parents wouldn’t let me,” I said. “I’m not even supposed to be this far away from our house.”

  A little of the excitement faded from his face, but the smile stayed.

  “But I’ll bring you a sleeping bag. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he said.

  Davey shoved my boat off and I backed away from the dock.

  He gave a small wave. “See you this afternoon.”

  3

  I idled out of the creek, careful not to hit a submerged tree or another deadhead. Once I reached the river I sped up again and steered toward home. It took me twenty minutes to get back to Bluff Creek, where I made a wide turn off the Pascagoula and slowed the boat. Then I was no longer worried about making it back in time or getting stranded in the swamp.

  A little ways up the creek I turned again into Kings Bayou, a mile-long waterway lined with waterfront homes. I lived almost at the end of the bayou, where the land was lower and the houses less expensive. On my left, at the mouth of the bayou, the ground was higher and the homes nicer. All of the docks were roofed, with decorative patio furniture on the deck and expensive motorboats in the lifts. Grover Middleton lived on the point in the nicest house of them all. As exciting as my experience had been that morning, thoughts of the fight crept into my head again and smothered it away.