Deb draped her arm over Jenner’s shoulder, and together they moved quickly down the bank to the dock. It was dark now, and the mist that had settled over the swamp was thick enough that he didn’t think they could be spotted from the farmhouse. It took them less than a minute to get down to the water.

The canoe was gone.

As he got closer, Jenner saw the canoe was there, just half-submerged. The back of the boat had sunk underneath, and now only the rim of the bow stuck above the surface, like a cup in a sink full of water. Either the canoe had already been leaky, or he’d damaged it when he dragged it down to the river.

It didn’t matter which—the thing was fucked.

Deb looked at the Go-Devil swamp boat and at the airboat, then back up at the farmhouse. She looked pale and felt heavier on his shoulder.

She saw a shadow in the mist, and whispered, “Jenner—there’s someone coming.”

Whoever it was would go to the shed first, and there was nowhere to hide there. He whispered urgently, “Into the water…”

He guided Deb down the bank, and on into the black river, pressing her close to the foundered canoe so she had something to hold on to. He led her deeper and deeper into the channel, trying to support her.

She was tough. Every step must have hurt like a bitch, but Deb never made a sound. Jenner took her deep, right to the end of the dock; he felt the kick of her feet, churning slow currents to keep her head above water, but he was still just able to stand.

He whispered, “Save your energy—hang on to me, tilt your face up. I’ll help keep you up.”

Jenner held on to the wood at the end of the dock, and helped her arms around him; underwater, she wrapped her legs around his, and clung on to him tight.

It was just one man coming down the slope, Jenner saw. He was in shirtsleeves, and carried a flashlight, the light bouncing through the drizzle.

Then Jenner recognized him. He held Deb close and, putting a finger to his lips, pointed ashore and mouthed, “Craine.” She ducked her head into the hollow of his neck.

Craine stopped first at the car, shining the light into the compartment, then trying the doors. Finding them locked, he tried the trunk, swore softly when he couldn’t open it, and came on down the slope to the shed.

He turned the corner and stopped in front of the open door.

Then Jenner saw his pistol, something small and dark, a Glock, maybe, or a Kahr.

Craine opened the door wider, pointing his gun into the dark interior. He pressed his back to the door, and moved slowly inside, calling out “Nash?” into the darkness.

He reached a hand in, then fished around to find the switch. The light revealed an empty shed, the floor smeared in blood.

Craine’s voice was panicky now. “Nash!” There was no reply.

Craine came out of the shed and faced the swamp, gun raised, eyes scanning the river. He walked halfway out onto the dock and stopped. Jenner held Deb’s head against his neck, pointed down; they took a breath, then slowly sank together under the water.

Jenner kept his fingers pressed to the side of the dock. He felt the vibration of Craine’s footsteps as the man walked out farther, closer to them. Five seconds turned to ten, then to fifteen, and then Jenner felt Craine’s footsteps again, faster now, moving away. He slowly brought Deb to the surface, held her against the rotting wood of the dock; she was crying with pain. They silently gasped at the air, breathing in as deeply and as slowly as they could.

Jenner floated out slightly to look up at the dock; Craine was in the middle now, deciding what to do. He stared at the swamp boat and the airboat, turned to look back at the empty shed, then up at the farmhouse.

He began to run, loping up the dock to disappear into the shed. He emerged a few seconds later with a concrete block. He smashed the window of Nash’s Taurus and opened the driver’s-side door.

Craine rummaged around the car but didn’t seem to find what he was looking for. Then he leaned under the dash, and the trunk door opened.

He walked around the back and rifled through the contents, immediately finding the garbage bags of money. With obvious dismay, he pulled out the leather bag that Jenner had eviscerated; he brushed it off for a second, then massaged it back into something approaching its original shape. Then he began to fill it with cash; he moved quickly and haphazardly, jamming the last wad of money into the bag. He’d almost finished when Jenner saw him pull up the white plastic laundry bag, open it to find the hundred thousand, and stuff that into the overnight bag, too. He reached into his pocket, pulled out two passports, and dropped them into the bag, then tried to zip it shut. It was too full to close; he’d have to repack it but now was not the time.

Craine hefted the bag and was about to cross the road to the field in front of the farmhouse when he saw two big black SUVs moving silently along the drive, their lights off.