campground. If the caretaker asked, she would say she was trying for another shot of the Great Horned owl that nested there, an excuse she knew she owed to Marcia.
Adjusting the backpack comfortably on her shoulders, she bent down and lifted her plastic hiking boots out of the closet, tucked them under one arm, and opened her bedroom door. The space under Mar-cia’s door was dark. In her tennis shoes, Cara tiptoed across the hall, through the living room and dining areas, and out the kitchen door into the carport. Marcia would be more alarmed than Truck at the notion of Cara going out alone, even though they had squatted with a tripod together for hours among the moonlit pines and palmettos, hoping for a flash shot of the owl or a night-feeding heron.
Cara stowed the backpack with her boots in the passenger seat of the station wagon, and putting the gears in neutral, pushed the car out of the driveway and into the silent street. As she finally started the engine, she checked her watch: twelve-fifteen.
After rattling over the four bridges, she swung onto Route 347, past the pine tree farms to Shell Mound Road. No other cars passed her on that straight stretch of asphalt. She skirted Black Point Swamp, pulled around a chain barrier into the campground, and parked at a distance from the caretaker’s trailer.
Once out of the station wagon, she opened the passenger door, hoisted the backpack again onto her shoulders, settled the wide, padded shoulder straps, and thrust her feet into her boots. An orange moon now rose high above the tattered scrub oaks of the park. The air felt moist and fresh, but she could smell damp grasses and exposed soil. She locked the car, crossed the road, and found the narrow trail where the pavement ended. It forked off from a dirt road that ran under giant oaks toward the mound. Flicking on her flashlight, she peered again at her watch: one thirty-five.
She set out on the woodland trail, over pine needles and leaves, between twisted oaks and stubby palmettos, around the swamp’s edge, breathing in the heavy odor of wet soil and decaying plants. Occasionally, the sandy ground gave way to saw grass and bare cypress trees. She thought of bobcats and rattlesnakes, but she counted on her footsteps to frighten them off. Her trek was not silent. Night insects twittered and whirred. From the marsh came the croak of frogs. Once an alligator bellowed.
At last the trail inclined upward. She could make out the cluster of huge oaks that stood to the east of the mound, could feel the crunch of shells beneath her boots. She hiked up a rise. Before her lay a wide expanse of marsh grass, and beyond the tidal flats, the black waters of the Gulf. Heart knocking against her chest, she crept between two gnarled oaks and knelt beneath their twisted branches. Here she would wait, several feet above the road that curved around the hilltop. The mound was in full view, perhaps forty feet away, its half-buried shells white in the moonlight. She slipped behind a myrtle leaf holly, unfastened the tripod, and hid its slender legs among the prickly leaves. With shaky fingers, she mounted the camera, affixed the zoom lens, and screwed the six foot flexible cable release wire into the shutter release button.
Then Cara dropped down on a bed of leaves. She felt safe. She could relax, hidden by saw palmettos and a veil of Spanish moss. Leaning her back against the rough tree trunk, she realized how tired she felt. A spot between her shoulder blades ached. Before her the Gulf lay still, the tropical storm hundreds of miles away. Far in the distance she heard the sound of a car’s engine. Just for a minute she would close her eyes and rest. Her head dropped, the woods around her faded away, and she dozed.
In a rush she was alone again in the shadowy room she had visited so often in nightmares. Wind screamed outside, rattling the window. Rain pelted the glass. While she lay paralyzed with fear in the bed, she heard a shriek, heard
Adjusting the backpack comfortably on her shoulders, she bent down and lifted her plastic hiking boots out of the closet, tucked them under one arm, and opened her bedroom door. The space under Mar-cia’s door was dark. In her tennis shoes, Cara tiptoed across the hall, through the living room and dining areas, and out the kitchen door into the carport. Marcia would be more alarmed than Truck at the notion of Cara going out alone, even though they had squatted with a tripod together for hours among the moonlit pines and palmettos, hoping for a flash shot of the owl or a night-feeding heron.
Cara stowed the backpack with her boots in the passenger seat of the station wagon, and putting the gears in neutral, pushed the car out of the driveway and into the silent street. As she finally started the engine, she checked her watch: twelve-fifteen.
After rattling over the four bridges, she swung onto Route 347, past the pine tree farms to Shell Mound Road. No other cars passed her on that straight stretch of asphalt. She skirted Black Point Swamp, pulled around a chain barrier into the campground, and parked at a distance from the caretaker’s trailer.
Once out of the station wagon, she opened the passenger door, hoisted the backpack again onto her shoulders, settled the wide, padded shoulder straps, and thrust her feet into her boots. An orange moon now rose high above the tattered scrub oaks of the park. The air felt moist and fresh, but she could smell damp grasses and exposed soil. She locked the car, crossed the road, and found the narrow trail where the pavement ended. It forked off from a dirt road that ran under giant oaks toward the mound. Flicking on her flashlight, she peered again at her watch: one thirty-five.
She set out on the woodland trail, over pine needles and leaves, between twisted oaks and stubby palmettos, around the swamp’s edge, breathing in the heavy odor of wet soil and decaying plants. Occasionally, the sandy ground gave way to saw grass and bare cypress trees. She thought of bobcats and rattlesnakes, but she counted on her footsteps to frighten them off. Her trek was not silent. Night insects twittered and whirred. From the marsh came the croak of frogs. Once an alligator bellowed.
At last the trail inclined upward. She could make out the cluster of huge oaks that stood to the east of the mound, could feel the crunch of shells beneath her boots. She hiked up a rise. Before her lay a wide expanse of marsh grass, and beyond the tidal flats, the black waters of the Gulf. Heart knocking against her chest, she crept between two gnarled oaks and knelt beneath their twisted branches. Here she would wait, several feet above the road that curved around the hilltop. The mound was in full view, perhaps forty feet away, its half-buried shells white in the moonlight. She slipped behind a myrtle leaf holly, unfastened the tripod, and hid its slender legs among the prickly leaves. With shaky fingers, she mounted the camera, affixed the zoom lens, and screwed the six foot flexible cable release wire into the shutter release button.
Then Cara dropped down on a bed of leaves. She felt safe. She could relax, hidden by saw palmettos and a veil of Spanish moss. Leaning her back against the rough tree trunk, she realized how tired she felt. A spot between her shoulder blades ached. Before her the Gulf lay still, the tropical storm hundreds of miles away. Far in the distance she heard the sound of a car’s engine. Just for a minute she would close her eyes and rest. Her head dropped, the woods around her faded away, and she dozed.
In a rush she was alone again in the shadowy room she had visited so often in nightmares. Wind screamed outside, rattling the window. Rain pelted the glass. While she lay paralyzed with fear in the bed, she heard a shriek, heard
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