“WHAT IF WHAT THEY SAID is true?” Jessica asked as the three of them pedaled north out of the town of Franklinton in the drizzling rain. “Where will we go if we can’t get to the cabin?”
“I don’t see any reason why policemen here would have made it up,” Casey said. “They probably don’t want us hanging around here either, and wouldn’t do anything to encourage us to stay. But still, it’s unbelievable that they would close a whole state to non-residents. Can they do that?”
“I don’t know,” Grant said. “I guess all bets are off as to what people may do and what may happen in a situation like this, mainly because it’s never happened before.” Grant was reeling with the impact of what the police officers had told them. If it were really true, he had made a terrible mistake to bring his two trusting companions all this way for nothing. If they couldn’t reach that cabin, he had no idea where they would go or what they would do. They were already low on food and he had no alternate plan for obtaining more. Turning back to New Orleans certainly wasn’t an option. Riding out of Franklinton in the continuing rain didn’t do anything to improve his optimism, but until they received this news, the cabin had seemed so close it had felt as if they were already there, and he could put up with any amount of discomfort knowing they would not have to spend another night out on the road. Now, everything had changed. They had come all this way only to learn they might not even be allowed to ride the rest of the way to their safe haven.
For now, it seemed as if the only logical choice was to continue on to the state line to see for themselves whether or not they would really be turned back. Maybe they could somehow convince the officers at the roadblock to let them in. It certainly didn’t seem fair that only those with Mississippi driver’s licenses could enter the state. His parents were landowners there, and the land and cabin were his to use any way he wanted while they were out of the country. But he also was painfully aware he didn’t have any way to prove the place even existed, other than by a verbal description and the address, which was on a remote rural lane in the middle of nowhere that few would likely be familiar with. It had never occurred to him that he would need to carry such proof. And of course, as his actual place of residence was the apartment in New Orleans, his driver’s license was issued in Louisiana, just like Casey’s, so neither license would do them any more good than the California license Jessica carried, if what they’d just learned was true.
At least they wouldn’t have far to go to find out. He couldn’t remember exactly how far it was to the state line, but a quick check of the map showed it was less than 12 miles. They could stop under a bridge or somewhere out of the rain and eat lunch, and still be there in two hours. As they pedaled he began to ponder a new idea. There was no way he was going to give up on reaching the cabin just because of some stupid roadblock that was probably illegal and unconstitutional, despite the circumstances. Grant figured they were blocking Highway 25 at the state line because it was a logical route from most of the populated areas to the south. Although there were some alternate smaller roads that also crossed the state line in the vicinity, he knew they would likely be watching those too, as there weren’t many of them and it would be easy enough to set up checkpoints at all of them if they were serious about keeping non-residents out. But what they likely would not be watching, he reasoned, was the river.
Like most rivers in the region, the Bogue Chitto flows mostly unseen through deep forests, swampy bottomlands, and other areas accessible by only a few roads. Although the river was popular with weekend canoeists and fishermen, few people in the area would think of using it as a travel route. And since recreational paddlers seldom bother trying to fight its sometimes swift current to travel upstream, the authorities would hardly suspect anyone would try slipping into the state by that route. Grant knew they could get away with it, and besides, the cabin they were trying to reach was right on the banks of the Bogue Chitto. There was a bridge crossing the river just a short distance south of the state line, and from that point he knew it was less than 10 miles upstream to the cabin. It would take a lot longer to paddle that distance than it would to ride the bikes to the cabin on the road, but it would be a sure way to get there undetected. The only problem was that they would need a canoe and paddles. He had one at the cabin, of course, as floating the stretch of river down to the next bridge was one of his favorite pastimes when he spent time there. That one wouldn’t do them any good, now, but an alternative might be found, if he remembered correctly. It still wasn’t his first choice by a long shot, but thinking about it gave him something to do while he pedaled.
Five miles north of Franklinton, they met a refugee family that had indeed been turned back at the state line. Seeing them riding their bikes in the rain, heading north, the driver of a southbound antique Ford pickup pulled over and rolled down the window to wave them over.
“I hope y’all ain’t tryin’ to go to Mississippi,” the man said.
Grant brought his bike to a stop and Jessica and Casey did the same. The truck was in great condition for its age, and had probably been kept in a garage and only driven occasionally or displayed in car shows prior to the family’s current need for it. The driver looked to be perhaps in his late thirties or early forties, his face weathered and tanned like that of a man who earned his living working outside every day. On the bench seat beside him was a boy of about six, and on the other side sat the boy’s mother, an overweight but pretty brunette who looked quite a bit younger than her husband. The back of the truck was covered with a blue tarp secured by an assortment of old ropes and bungee cords.
“We are,” Grant said. “My parents own a cabin not far across the state line. Is it true they are turning people back?”
“Yep. I got a brother lives out from Columbia, about an hour from here. Got a big place in the country and raises about everything he needs. I was taking the family up there to get away from that mess in Baton Rouge. I was raised up there myself but moved down here years ago for the work. I’m a roofer by trade. Now I wish I had never seen that place. A big city like that ain’t no place to be with the lights out an’ all. I never would have thought they’d turn us back at the state line though. I lived in Mississippi more than 20 years until I moved down here. Now I can’t even get in. I don’t know what we’re going to do now. We ain’t really got no place to go and no way to get anything we need. I sure don’t want to take my family back around all them people. Heck, I don’t even have any way to protect ’em anymore since they took all my guns away.”
“Took your guns? Who took your guns?”
“Them sheriff’s deputies up there at the roadblock. Said I broke the law trying to bring weapons into the state, and they didn’t even let us in to begin with. Heck, all I had was an old 12-gauge pump I figured would come in handy for huntin’, with all the grocery stores cleaned out, and my Smith .357 revolver that had belonged to my daddy.”
“How could they just take them? Doesn’t just about everybody around here in Louisiana and Mississippi have a gun in their vehicle? It’s not illegal to own one or transport it.”
“Naw, but everything’s changed now. Some of these gung-ho law enforcement officers act like they’re in a war zone or something. Do whatever they feel like doing, and there ain’t nothing you can do about it. Heck, they even look like soldiers, standing around out there with their BDUs on and carrying those M-4s. I tell you, there ain’t no arguing with ’em, and it’s only gonna get worse. If I was you, I wouldn’t be ridin’ up there on no bicycles trying to get across that line with them two pretty girls you got with you. I’d be gettin’ off the road too, unless you’re packing yourself.”
“I am armed, and I intend to stay that way,” Grant said. “I’m really grateful you told me they were confiscating weapons at the roadblock, though. We won’t attempt it now.”
“Well, I hope y’all have good luck trying to find some place to go. I’d give you a ride somewhere, but as you can see, we’re loaded down. Don’t know really what we’ll do, but my wife’s got some friends that’s got a place out in the country a bit north of Hammond. I reckon we’ll go there and see if they’ll let us camp out on their property. I’ve just barely got enough gas left to get there.”
“Good luck to you too. I hope it works out that you can stay there. I’ve got a couple of alternate ideas, and the info you gave me helps a lot.”
The man put the pickup back in gear and drove off. Grant turned to Casey and Jessica, who were expectantly looking at him, waiting to see what he had to say about all this.
“Can you believe that? Confiscating guns, closing a state line to non-residents…this is crazy. It’s like I told you before about New Orleans after Katrina. The cops there were going around collecting weapons, even from innocent citizens who only had them in their homes for self-protection.”
“So now we can’t even try to cross the state line,” Casey said.
“Why not?” Jessica asked. “We won’t need a gun when we get to the cabin, will we? I mean, I know it’s your dad’s gun and all, but we could just buy him a new one later, after all this is over, couldn’t we?”
“That’s not the issue,” Grant said. “Right now, in this situation, any gun is priceless and cannot be replaced for any amount of money. We can’t risk losing it. And yes, we may well need it for self-defense, even at the cabin, and if not for that, then certainly for small game hunting.”
Jessica was exasperated. “So a gun is the reason we can’t try to cross the border. What are we going to do, then?”
“It’s not just about the gun, Jessica. It’s clear that they wouldn’t let us in anyway. They turned that guy down and he has a wife and small boy with him, not to mention that he’s from Mississippi, even if he doesn’t live there now. Besides that, there’s no telling what those lawmen will decide to do next. They’re obviously on a power trip and are making up new rules on their own. Like the man said, you two attract a lot of attention, even if you do look like a couple of soaking wet rag dolls right about now.”
Casey smiled. The rain was letting up so there was hope they wouldn’t have to stay soaking wet much longer. “So what is the alternative, if we can’t even attempt to cross the state line?” she asked.
“I didn’t say we couldn’t attempt to cross it. I just said we can’t risk trying that roadblock, or any other roadblock for that matter. That means we won’t be crossing into Mississippi by road.”
“So how are we supposed to get there, then?” Jessica asked.
“The river. I’ve been thinking about it since we left Franklinton. The river goes right to the cabin, and nobody will be watching it because there’s nothing but woods where it crosses the state line. In fact, it’s so remote between bridges you really don’t have any way of knowing that you’ve crossed from one state to another.”
“What do we do, walk along the banks pushing the bikes or something?” Casey asked.
“No, that would be impossible. You couldn’t walk the banks at all, much less with a bicycle. It’s too swampy and the undergrowth is far too dense. It’s almost like a jungle, in fact, and you’d need a machete to go a hundred yards. It would take days to walk it and in places you’d have to wade or swim across sloughs and side creeks. Nope, we can’t walk it, we’ve got to go by canoe, that’s the only way.”
“But where are we supposed to get a canoe?”
“I’m not a hundred percent certain, but I think I have a pretty good idea. But first we have to keep going north just a few more miles. Then we’ll turn back west on the last road that crosses the river on the Louisiana side of the state line.”
They continued riding on Highway 25 into an increasingly rural setting, where large pine plantations and other wooded areas outnumbered pastures and clearings. The turn-off to the west that Grant wanted to take was less than a mile south of where 25 crossed the state line and became Mississippi State Highway 27. In the flat, wooded terrain, though, it was impossible to see that far, so despite their curiosity about the roadblock, Grant led them west onto Highway 438, the northernmost east-west road in Louisiana to bridge the Bogue Chitto, and the closest river access to the cabin on this side of the state line.
It was only a short ride on 438 to the river from the turnoff, and when they reached the east end of the bridge, Grant pulled over on the wide gravel shoulder and dismounted. There was a deeply rutted dirt and gravel access lane leading down the steep bank and curving out of sight under the bridge. The river was wide here, flanked by heavy woods on either side, and swollen above normal levels by the rain of the past two days, its current running strong, especially in midstream.
“Let’s push our bikes down the bank and get them out of sight of the road, in case someone comes along.”
“Wow, this river is bigger than I thought,” Casey said. “From the way you described it, I thought it was more of a creek.”
“It is, normally. The rain’s got it up. It rises fast in rains like this, but goes down fast too. It looks like the rain is about over now, and if it is, the river will be back to normal in a couple of days or so. It’s a lot nicer when it’s lower. The sandbars in this stretch are normally a lot wider, but you can’t see all of them because they are partially underwater right now.”
“How could anybody paddle a canoe upstream against that?” Jessica asked. She had never been canoeing, but remembered how hard it was to paddle against the wind when she and Casey were out playing on Larry’s kayak during their island vacation the summer before.
“You can’t go against the main current,” Grant said. “But you can play the eddies close to the bank, get out and pull it in some shallow places, and use a pole to push off the bottom in others. It’s doable, you’ll see.”
“But I still don’t see any canoes, Grant,” Casey said. “Where do you plan to get one?”
“Downstream. There’s a camp not too far up below the bridge on this side of the river. I remember seeing it last time I paddled this stretch from our cabin and we took out down in Franklinton. There must be a private road leading to it from somewhere off of Highway 25, I’m not sure, but it’s one of those really nice weekend getaway camps, not a full-time residence. Probably owned by someone in New Orleans or Baton Rouge. I remember seeing a separate boathouse up on the high bank next to it, with a whole rack of canoes in it. I seriously doubt whoever owns that camp was able to get here after the lights went out. It’s probably vacant unless someone local is using it.”
“You’re not thinking of stealing a canoe, are you?”
“Not stealing—buying. I wouldn’t do it if they just had one, but there must have been at least six in that boathouse. I figure our three bikes are worth a lot more than one canoe, and besides, after all this is over we can bring it back and maybe even get our bikes back. But we sure don’t need them as bad as we need a canoe right now.”
“How will you ask them to trade if no one’s home?” Jessica asked.
“I don’t plan to ask, and I’m counting on the odds that no one will be home. We can’t get these bikes through all the undergrowth downstream to the camp anyway. I figure we can hide them somewhere partway up there and leave a note for the owners of the canoe, telling them where to find them, and explaining what we did.”
“Isn’t that still stealing, in a way?” Casey asked.
“It’s survival, Casey. If we don’t find a way to get to my cabin soon, we’re going to be out of food and in real trouble. Do you have a better idea?”
“No, I guess not. I just don’t want to get in trouble, and I don’t want to get shot by somebody for trespassing and stealing from them.”
“We’ll be extremely careful. Here’s what I had in mind. I’ll need one of you to go with me to help me carry the canoe down the bank and paddle it back up to here. Someone needs to stay behind with the bikes and our gear just in case we can’t get a canoe and still need them. Casey, I think that should be you, since you know how to use your dad’s pistol. I’ll leave it with you and take Jessica with me to get the canoe.”
“Shouldn’t we all just go look for it?” Jessica asked. “Can’t we just hide the bikes and our other stuff?”
“We’ll hide everything, but I’ll still feel better if one of us is with it. It shouldn’t take more than an hour to get there and get back with the canoe, assuming we can find paddles, which should be stored in the boathouse too. We’ve got to be quiet. If we all go, it will be harder to sneak up to the cabin, just on the off chance someone is home.”
“I’ll stay,” Casey said, “but in case someone is there, don’t you need to take the gun with you?”
“No, I hardly want to get into a gunfight with the owner. If anyone’s around, we’ll forget the whole thing. But I don’t want you staying here alone near the bridge unarmed. Someone could come down to the river at any time. Let’s get the bikes out of sight, and all you have to do is sit tight and wait. We’ll be as quick as possible.”
When they had rolled the bikes into a patch of tall river cane where they could not be seen from the bridge or the dirt lane leading under it, Grant set out, picking his way through the woods downstream, with Jessica following him. He carried his machete, but didn’t want to make noise by cutting vines and brush out of their path, so they had to weave their way through the worst of the undergrowth. The rain had turned all areas of the bank that were not sand into mud, making the walking difficult, but because everything was so wet, they were able to move quietly without the worry of crackling leaves or snapping twigs.
Grant was beginning to wonder if his memory was playing tricks on them by the time they had worked their way maybe a half mile down the river. Then they came to a clearing in the riverside forest, and carefully approaching the edge while staying in the cover of the trees, he saw that it was the camp he remembered. The cabin, which was as big as many regular houses, was situated on a clay bluff that overlooked the river from maybe 20 feet up. He could see the boathouse on the other side of it. It would be too risky to simply walk out across the open yard to it, as they would have to walk right past the front of the house to reach the canoes and it was impossible to tell if anyone was home or not. He whispered to Jessica and she followed him as he began to circle the property, staying out of sight within the edge of the woods as they worked their way all the way around to the other side to the boathouse.
When they crossed the gravel driveway leading into the house from the east, Grant could see no sign that anyone was there. They waited and watched for a few minutes, and when he was completely satisfied that they were alone, they walked to the boathouse and, much to his delight, found the canoes on the racks he’d remembered, overlooking the river from the bank where he’d seen them as he’d floated past over a year ago. Four of them were well-used Grumman 17-foot aluminum canoes, the kind that was popular with canoe rental outfitters for their durability and low maintenance. One was a short solo canoe made by Mad River, and the other was a 16-foot Kevlar-hulled Mohawk. The Mohawk was the best of the lot, but a little small for three adults. All of the canoes were locked to the wooden racks with light chains and padlocks. Grant selected one of the Grummans that looked to be in the best shape, and, with his machete, easily liberated it from the chains by simply hacking through the two-by-fours they were passed around. Jessica helped him set it outside, then he picked out three decent wooden paddles and a spare, as well as three life jackets, and put all these in the canoe. This done, he hastily scribbled out a note explaining his actions and describing the location of the bicycles. He didn’t mention their destination in the canoe, of course, and figured anyone would assume it was downstream somewhere anyway, as no one in these parts ever paddled upstream. He wedged the note into a gash he cut in the canoe rack and looked around the shed one more time. One item that looked too tempting to pass up was one of a dozen fishing rods and reels hanging on one wall. He grabbed one and also found a small tackle box with a few artificial lures and hooks in it.
“You don’t eat fish, either, do you, Jessica?”
“No. I used to, when I was growing up, but not since I became a vegetarian.”
“We’re getting pretty low on supplies, and I don’t know how long it’s going to take to buck that current up to the cabin. We may be reduced to what we can catch before long. I hope you don’t get hungry.”
“I’ll be all right,” Jessica said. “I don’t eat much anyway.”
Grant dropped the topic. He felt certain Jessica would be changing her diet sooner than she thought, but there was no point in pressing it now. Satisfied that he had what they needed for the trip, he was ready to get the canoe to the river and get going. There was a path winding down from the boathouse to a small deck built at the water’s edge; it had turned to slippery mud after two days of rain. By the time they got the canoe to the bottom of the high bank, both of them had slipped and fallen and had gotten mud smeared all over the knees and seats of their pants. Grant pushed the bow of the canoe into the river pointing upstream, and held it steady so Jessica could step in.
“Shouldn’t I be in the back, since I don’t know what I’m doing?” she asked.
“No, that’s exactly why you need to sit up front. The stern paddler is the one who does all the steering and keeps the boat going straight. All you have to do from the front is paddle to provide extra power. It’ll take both of us to paddle against the current.”
When Jessica was situated, Grant grabbed the gunwales with both hands and put one foot in the boat while he shoved them off with the other. The canoe immediately started drifting backwards until he dug in with his paddle and began stroking hard to gain momentum against the river. Jessica splashed her paddle awkwardly until Grant told her how to properly hold it and how deep to dip it on each stroke. They made progress at a crawling pace at first, slowly leaving the cabin behind them as they paddled past the woods they’d crept through on foot to get there. The river made a gradual bend to the right and it was not until they had followed that curve around to the end that they could get a glimpse of the distant bridge where Casey would be waiting with the bikes.
“There it is!” Jessica said. “We made it, but this is a lot harder than riding the bikes, even uphill. How far did we paddle, a mile?”
“Not hardly,” Grant said. “More like a little over a quarter of a mile. It’ll be a half by the time we get to the bridge.”
“Oh wow. We’ll never get to the cabin at this rate then. Didn’t you say it was like 10 miles?”
“It is, but it’s still just like riding the bikes. Remember when we left New Orleans? I said don’t think about the whole distance. Just focus on riding and the miles will slip by. It’s the same with paddling, it’s just a lot slower—but we don’t have nearly as far to travel by canoe as we did by bike. We’ll get there, probably by tomorrow night, in spite of the current.”
As he spoke these words of encouragement to Jessica, he knew it was going to be a hard slog upstream, but had no doubt they would make it. By the time they got to the cabin, Jessica and Casey would know how to paddle a canoe, he figured. Now that they had a canoe, he felt a whole lot better about their overall situation than he had earlier that day when faced with the prospect of being turned back at the roadblock. It had always amazed him how practically no one in this country utilized the rivers any more for anything other than occasional recreation. In Guyana, the rivers were the highways of the jungle. One seldom traveled far without passing local dugouts, going both upstream and down. He was just wondering if anyone else would be using the Bogue Chitto as a travel route when he saw the flash of a reflection off a wet paddle under the bridge ahead. Sure enough, it was a canoe coming downstream. Jessica saw it too as they continued to paddle, hugging the bank next to the woods to stay out of the strongest current. The downstream-bound canoe, however, was closer to the other side of the river, taking advantage of the main flow. As it came closer, they could see the hull was a dull aluminum color, identical to the one they were in. It was guided by a lone paddler with a mountain of gear in front of him, all of it covered by a camouflage tarp lashed over it. The other canoeist saw them too; there was no way to avoid it. Grant hoped he wasn’t a local resident who knew the owners of the cabin they’d “borrowed” their boat from, but from the amount of stuff he had with him it seemed unlikely. This guy looked like he was planning to stay in the woods for a long time, and was just passing through here as quickly as possible.
The solitary paddler looked right at them as he went by going downstream, and Grant waved. The distance was a little too far for comfortable conversation, and Grant figured if he had wanted to talk, he would have steered his canoe closer to their side of the river when he first saw them. Instead, he waved back, watching them as he paddled by, but showing no intention of slowing down. Grant wondered if Casey had seen him go by or if the man had seen her when he paddled past the bridge.
“I wonder where he’s going?” Jessica asked.
“I don’t know, but it looks like he knows what he’s doing. See how he’s only paddling on one side of the canoe? He’s using a guide stroke to keep it tracking straight, and he’s right in the middle of the current for better speed. Not at all your typical weekend canoe renter like you usually see around here. He’s probably traveling the river to avoid people, which is a smart idea. It looks like he’s loaded to bug out to the woods for a long time too. He may be headed for the big swamps downstream, where the Bogue Chitto runs into the Pearl River.”
When Grant and Jessica were out of sight, Casey began thinking about how nice it would be to clean up a bit while she had the privacy. The rain had stopped and the afternoon sky was starting to brighten a bit in the west, giving her hope that the cloudy overcast would soon give way to sunshine again. She felt awful after riding in the rain for two days, and knew a quick bath and changing back into dry clothes would do wonders for her attitude. The river did not look inviting at the edge of the canebrake where they had hidden the bicycles. The bank there was muddy and it looked like it dropped off into a deep hole with swirling currents where she could not see anything below the surface. But when they had pushed the bikes down the bank from the highway, she had noticed a large sandbar just upstream of the bridge. Part of it was probably visible from the roadway above, but it looked to her like it continued on, beyond where the river curved around out of sight to where it would be obscured by trees and secluded enough for a quick dip before Grant and Jessica returned. She knew Grant wouldn’t want her to wander off and leave the bikes, but they had seen no one on the road in the vicinity of the bridge and she couldn’t imagine anyone finding them before she got back.
She sorted through her gear and made sure she had dry clothes and shampoo in her backpack, then she put her father’s pistol in it as well and started up the bank, passing beneath the concrete pilings supporting the bridge. She had to push her way through more river cane on the other side of the bridge to reach the sandbar, but once she was there, she saw that it was ideal for her purpose. It did indeed stretch around the bend, its edge sloping off as a sandy beach into the river, where she could sit or crouch in two feet of amber-colored water that was translucent enough to allow her to see what was on the bottom.
She walked until she found a convenient log to put her backpack on to keep it out of the sand, then looked back to make sure she was completely out of sight of the bridge. She felt a little self-conscious taking her clothes off on the wide-open sandbar in broad daylight, but told herself that was silly as there was no one around and nothing in sight of the sandbar but the river itself and the surrounding dense woods. Besides, it felt great to peel off her soggy long-sleeve shirt and cargo pants, which she hung on a nearby branch. It was even better to remove her wet socks and feel the soft sand between her toes. She continued stripping down until she was completely naked, hanging her sports bra and panties next to the rest of her clothes and wading into the river with the bottle of shampoo. The water was colder than she expected, but she was determined to have a bath. She walked in until she was knee-deep and gradually eased herself down to a sitting position on the bottom. Once the water was up to her waist, it didn’t feel quite as cold. She held the shampoo bottle between her knees and used her cupped hands to dip water over her head to wash her hair. Lathering up and washing away the greasy feeling and road grime of the last three days was wonderful. When she was done with her hair, she stood and used the shampoo to wash her entire body, then, after rinsing the shampoo by kneeling back in and splashing herself with her hands, she stepped back onto the sandbar to drip dry. She rinsed and squeezed out the bra and underwear and hung them back up on the branch. Even though she was sure she was alone, she still felt uncomfortable standing out in the open naked, and slipped on the sweatpants and last clean T-shirt from her backpack. Grant and Jessica would be jealous to learn she’d had a nice bath and changed into her last dry clothes. She was sure they would want to do the same when they came back, hopefully in the canoe that would take them to the cabin.
Thinking about the canoe, she looked out at the river and wondered how hard it was going to be to travel upstream against the current. Grant had said that it was less than 10 miles by river from this bridge to the cabin, but it sure looked to her like it wouldn’t be easy to paddle that far going the wrong way. Grant had said the strongest current was usually in the middle and along the outside edge of bends, and that by sticking to the inside edges of the river’s curves they could play the eddies and patches of slack water to make progress. Looking upriver along the sandbar on which she stood, it did appear that there was a reverse current flowing the other way near the bank. Curious, she left her backpack and drying clothes where they were and walked a bit further in that direction to get a closer look at the eddy and see how far it went. The river seemed to curve on around almost like a horseshoe bend, and she thought if she walked upriver another hundred feet or so she might see where it straightened out again. Then it would be time to head back to the bicycles and wait for Grant and Jessica.
The sandbar narrowed as she went upstream, and in places tall river birch and sycamore trees leaned out of the forested top bank and forced her to duck under to pass. She could see now why Grant had said they couldn’t walk upstream following the river. The sandbars were not continuous, and in the places where there were none, this hardwood forest would be extremely difficult to travel through, as the understory beneath the trees was a choked tangle of vines and bushes forming a wall of greenery at the water’s edge. She looked at the river as she walked, fascinated by the counter-current and marveling at how much Grant knew about rivers and so many other things relevant to their situation. It felt liberating to be walking barefoot in such a pristine place after bathing naked in the river, and she imagined that Grant would feel right at home doing exactly that. Then she thought about what it would be like if he were here now, just the two of them, without Jessica. It was a momentary pleasant daydream, but she was suddenly startled out of it when she ducked under another big tree and was stopped in her tracks by what she saw just a short distance upstream, at the upper limit of the sandbar. Pulled halfway up on the bank ahead of her was an old aluminum canoe that clearly had not just washed up there on its own. A paddle was leaning against it, and a green canvas backpack and two large duffel bags were lashed down to the thwarts inside it. Casey felt suddenly exposed and vulnerable, not believing someone could have been this close all this time without her knowing it, especially when she was bathing naked in the river just around the bend. She took a faltering step backward, suddenly wishing she had not left the backpack and the gun that was in it behind. As she did, she backed into something solid that had not been there before, and faster than she could react, she felt an impossibly strong arm encircle her waist and a steely hand close over her mouth to stifle the instinctive cry of alarm that would have come next.
Before she could even struggle, she felt herself pulled backward and off her feet by her unseen assailant. The next thing she knew she was on the ground and belly down in the sand, both arms pinned behind her by an immovable weight that she soon realized was her attacker’s knee as he forced some kind of fabric in her mouth and used both hands to tie it tightly behind her head. She tried desperately to spit it out and scream, but it was no use. She couldn’t even turn her head to see what he looked like before she felt yet another piece of cloth being wrapped and tied over her eyes and forehead. The weight shifted and she felt hands working at her wrists, tying something around them, securing them behind her back so that she was totally helpless, blindfolded and gagged. She tried to use her feet to flip herself over and kick at her attacker, but when he had finished securing her hands, she felt her ankles locked together in a vise-like grip and then the constricting force of something being wrapped and tied around them as well. The next thing she knew, she was lifted from the sand in strong arms, carried a short distance, and put down on the sand again. She heard movement that she realized was the sound of the canoe sliding in the water, and then felt herself lifted again. Twisting and squirming did nothing to prevent her from being picked up and set down again, this time on a hard surface, with softer objects under her feet and head. She heard a crackling sound as something was pulled over her, and then could feel it being tucked around her and pulled tight as the other objects in the canoe were shifted around and positioned so that her movements were even further restricted. She realized that she being covered by something, as it shut out what little light she had seen before through the blindfold. She felt the canoe slide some more until it was free of the bank, then she could feel it floating free and tipping sharply to one side as someone stepped into it and sat down. She heard a paddle dip into the water, then felt the canoe surge beneath her, then pick up speed to the sound of rhythmic stroking as it moved into the river current.
Casey was terrified. She could not believe how suddenly and completely she had been subdued and abducted and was now being taken away. She was alone with this wordless stranger who had her in his canoe and had her completely and totally at his mercy. Grant and Jessica would have no way of knowing what had happened or where she was. How could anyone find her? She knew a canoe was silent, and, traveling the river, it would leave no tracks or trace of its passing. She would have to somehow get out of this fix on her own, but there was absolutely nothing she could do right now. She realized that, bound and gagged as she was, there was no way she could swim if the canoe tipped over, so it was best not to struggle at this point, because the idea of drowning with her hands tied behind her back was no more appealing than the thought of what this man might do to her. All she could do was lie there and think about how unfair it was that something like this could happen now, after they’d already been through so much in just three days.
She knew Grant and Jessica wouldn’t know what to do when they came back and she was gone. This would put them in more danger and keep them from getting to the cabin, because she was sure they would spend a lot of time looking for her around the bridge without success. She thought about her dad as well, knowing he must be terribly worried about her and would be going crazy by now, because he most likely would have no way to even get back to the United States mainland, much less New Orleans. But even if by some miracle he had made it there and found her note, and then set out for Grant’s cabin to look for her based on the directions in the note, she would not be there. If that happened, he would be in constant danger traveling there to look for her in vain.
The thought sickened her with worry and regret. Maybe she’d done the wrong thing after all to leave New Orleans with Grant. Now she’d gotten her best friend, Jessica, out here in the middle of nowhere too. Something bad could just as easily happen to them and she would be partially to blame. These dark thoughts filled her mind as she lay helpless in the canoe, like just another piece of baggage piled in the bottom as cargo to be taken wherever the owner intended to go.