Page 204 of Hidden Nature

The food soothed her, brought comfort. And she felt the strength of the resurrected blood do its work.

“I’ll know when the time comes, when the word comes down and into me. But the vision? It showed me this. We’re to take them both. She was there when the lightning struck the one we’ve chosen. He’s part of this battle.”

“How can we do that? Take two?”

“The way will come, doll. It will come. Until then, we watch, we wait, we prepare.”

As April warmed and blossomed, Sloan welcomed the tulips, the haze of willows greening, the early pop of trillium, the graceful arch of Solomon’s seal in the woods, along the banks of streams.

And as she searched for reports of missing persons, she went beyond the radius on her map.

She found nothing that fit the victim profile, and had to conclude the abductors had changed pattern.

Sickness, an accident, an arrest over something unrelated—any of those could account for the lag in time.

They could have botched an attempt that went unreported.

When she put on her uniform, she set it aside.

To add to the training, she assigned herself and Elana to boat patrol for a week.

Warmer weather brought out the locals and the spring vacationers. Kayaks, canoes, Sunfish, sloops glided silently while boat engines puttered, purred, or occasionally roared.

It felt good to cruise along, feel the air whip, the sun spread.

The swan family kept near the shoreline, where the cob rose up, big white wings flapping a warning if anyone—man or fowl—came tooclose. Duck families stuck together even as a head went underwater for a snack.

“It’s the same out here as on a trail or any patrol.”

“Education,” Elana said, “assistance, advice. Always those first.”

“That’s right. Now for instance, those two guys at three o’clock, in the outboard? They’re using walleye as bait. We’re going to go over and educate them on the fact that’s illegal on this lake.”

“I know that’s illegal, but how can you tell from here it’s walleye?”

“First, the color. Olive on the dorsal side, and going more gold along the flanks, white belly. Five darker saddles.”

“Okay. That tells me I need to learn more about recognizing fish.”

“Do that. We’re here to protect the waterways, the fish, fowl, and humans in and on them.”

She cruised over to the outboard, judged the two occupants at around fifty in their fishing hats and windbreakers.

“Good morning,” she called out, and idled the boat.

“Good morning, ladies! Sure is a pretty one.”

Not local, Sloan concluded. New York or New Jersey from the accent.

“Where y’all from?”

“We’re Jersey boys,” the second man called out. “Got a week down here. Sure is a pretty spot.”

“We think so, too. You gentlemen may not be aware that Maryland doesn’t allow the use of walleye as bait.”

Their cheery went puzzled, then wary, but Sloan kept the smile on her face.

“I bet you’re hoping to hook some largemouth bass. The best thing to do is head to the bait shop. Rendle’s over on the east side of the lake can fix you up with some shiners or herring. My grandpa swears by shiners.”

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