“Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it? How? She’s outrun everybody for years. Truant officers, census takers,
“I’m not afraid of that. Just because nobody else could catch her doesn’t mean we can’t. But that wouldn’t be the smartest way of doing it. I say we set a trap.”
“Oh yeah. Well,” the deputy said, “I know a thing or two ’bout trappin’. And when you go to trap a fox, it’s usually the trap that gets foxed. It’s not like we have surprise on our side. We been out there knockin’ on her door enough to scare off a brown bear. What about the hounds? That’d be a sure thing.”
The sheriff was silent a few seconds. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m getting old and soft at the grand ol’ age of fifty-one. But running down a woman with hounds for questioning doesn’t seem right. It’s fine for escaped convicts, people already convicted of some crime. But, like everybody else, she’s innocent until proven guilty, and I can’t see setting hounds on a female suspect. Maybe as a last resort, but not yet.”
“Okay. What kinda trap?”
“That’s what we gotta figure out.”
• • •
ON DECEMBER 15, as Ed and Joe discussed options of how to bring Kya in, someone knocked on the door. The large form of a man loomed behind the frosted glass.
“Come on in,” the sheriff called.
As the man stepped inside, Ed said, “Well, hello, Rodney. What can we do for you?”
Rodney Horn, a retired mechanic, spent most of his days fishing with his pal Denny Smith. The villagers knew him as quiet and settled, always in bib overalls. Never missed church, but wore his overalls there as well, with a nice fresh shirt ironed and starched stiff as a plank by his wife, Elsie.
Rodney took off his felt hat and held it in front of his belly. Ed offered him a chair, but Rodney shook his head. “This won’t take long,” he said. “Just something might be rel’vant to the Chase Andrews thing.”
“What ya got?” Joe asked.
“Well, it was a while back, now. Me and Denny were out fishin’ on August 30, this year, and we seen something out at Cypress Cove. Think it might be of interest to ya.”
“Go ahead,” the sheriff said. “But please sit down, Rodney. We’d all feel more comfortable if you sat.”
Rodney took the chair offered and, for the next five minutes, told them his story. After he left, Ed and Joe looked at each other.
Joe said, “Well, now we’ve got motive.”
“Let’s get her in here.”
37.
Just days before Christmas and earlier in the morning than usual, Kya motored slowly and quietly toward Jumpin’s. Ever since the sheriff or his deputy had been sneaking out to her place, trying to catch her at home—failed efforts she’d observed from the palmettos—she’d bought her gas and supplies before first light, when only fishermen were about. Now, low clouds scudded just above a sloshing sea, and to the east, a squall—twisted tightly like a whip—threatened from the horizon. She’d have to finish at Jumpin’s quickly and get home before it hit. From a quarter of a mile out, she saw his wharf billowed in with fog. She slowed even more and looked around for other boats in the soggy quiet.
Finally, at about forty yards out, she could see Jumpin’s form in the old chair leaning against the wall. She waved. He did not. He did not stand. He shook his head slightly, just a whisper. She let go of the throttle.
She waved again. Jumpin’ stared at her, but did not move.
Jerking the stick, she turned abruptly back toward the sea. But coming in from the fog was a large boat, the sheriff at the helm. Another couple of boats, flanking. And just behind them, the squall.
Gunning her engine, she threaded the needle between the oncoming rigs, her boat banging whitecaps as she raced for the open sea. She wanted to cut back toward the marsh, but the sheriff was too close; he’d catch her before she got there.
The sea no longer swelled in symmetrical waves but tossed in confusion. The water grew meaner as the edge of the storm engulfed her. In seconds it released a torrent. She was soaked through, long strands of hair stringing across her face. She turned into the wind to keep from capsizing, but the sea pushed over the bow.
Knowing their boats were faster, she hunched forward into the ragged wind. Maybe she could lose them in this soup or dive into the sea and make a swim for it. Her mind raced through the details of jumping in, which seemed her best chance. This close to shore, there’d be a backwash or rip, which would zip her along underwater, much faster than they’d think she could swim. Popping up to breathe now and then, she could get to land and sneak out on a brushy shore.
