Page 49 of Murder in Calusa Cove
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Hayes gripped the rail of the airboat as it skimmed through the narrow cut of water, sawgrass slapping at the hull, the engine growling loud enough to rattle his teeth. The Everglades stretched out in every direction—lush, humid, and deceptively serene. But Hayes had learned that peace in the Glades was a lie. It was a place that swallowed things—storms, secrets, and sometimes people.
Keaton throttled down, and the boat glided to a near stop. The engine settled to a murmur, just enough to hold them steady in the sluggish current. Up ahead, a sliver of dry land jutted out, mangroves twisted into a low canopy around a weather-beaten shack.
Hayes had seen it before—once, with Chloe and Fletcher. But this time, something felt different.
“Dewey and Silas are mapping out all the shacks they know of in the Everglades,” Fletcher broke the silence. “The Seminoles keep track of them, and we don’t touch them. Many of them were built over a hundred years ago. Some long before Calusa Cove was more than a tiny fishing port.”
“My deputies have come out, searching some of them, with the help of the Seminole tribe, looking for drugs, arms, anything illegal going on back here,” Dawson said. “But we can’t be everywhere all the time. The Coast Guard has been conducting more spot checks on boats entering and exiting Calusa Cove. They’ve made a few arrests of smugglers and pirates, but since what happened with Massey and his operation, and then with Trinity, things have been quiet.”
Keaton adjusted his sunglasses. “I don’t see any movement. Looks peaceful.”
“That doesn’t mean shit,” Dawson muttered. “He could be watching us from behind a tree right now.”
“Hell,” Fletcher added, “he could’ve rigged the whole damn clearing with booby traps over the last couple of days.”
“I was just here and nothing went boom.” Hayes scanned the area. The last time he’d been here, Cole had been twitchy, his conversation laced with distrust and the kind of survivalist edge that never quite left a man who’d seen too many bad years. However, there was a softness to Cole. A desire to immerse himself back into civilization, or at the very least, walk the tightrope between the two worlds.
“Let’s go in slow,” Dawson said. “No surprises.”
“I don’t believe he’s our guy, but something still doesn’t feel right.” Hayes glanced over his shoulder. “Cole might be a broken man, but how many of our brothers have we seen like that?”
“Not the point,” Dawson said.
They tied off the boat, stepping into knee-high grass and thick heat. The air was dense with that wet-earth smell, and the faint buzz of insects filled the silence like white noise.
Hayes took the lead, staying just behind the tree line, careful not to crowd the open space around the shack. He could still picture the table around the side, scattered with maps, hand-carved wooden objects, and that manila folder with a photo inside no one had gotten a good look at.
“What’s our play if he bolts?” Keaton asked, voice low.
“He won’t,” Fletcher said. “He didn’t run the last time, and he thinks we want to hire him.”
“That was before we knew his wife cheated on him,” Dawson pointed out. “And before we connected the timelines. He could’ve killed at least four of the early victims and the two right here in Calusa Cove. That’s motive and opportunity.”
Hayes stopped a few feet from the porch. The shack’s door hung slightly ajar, a slice of darkness inside. No movement. No sound. Just the kind of stillness that made his spine itch.
He turned back to the others. “We go in soft. Keep your hands visible. He’s an ex-Marine, and he’s wired tight. We don’t spook him unless we have to.”
Fletcher nodded, hand resting just near his holster. “Let’s find out if he’s home.”
Hayes took the last few steps up the warped stairs and knocked on the doorframe—once, twice, loud enough to carry but not enough to sound aggressive.
“Cole?” he called. “It’s Hayes Bennett. We just want to talk.”
No response.
He exchanged a glance with Dawson, who stepped up beside him, hand hovering over his weapon.
“Cole,” Dawson added, voice firm, “if you’re in there, we’re coming in.”
Still nothing.
Hayes pushed the door open.
The air inside was warm and stale, heavy with the smell of wood shavings, sweat, and something faintly metallic. The carved figures were displayed on a rickety shelf—dozens of them now. Owls, mostly, but other animals, too. Each one set out in perfect rows.
But it wasn’t the carvings that made Hayes’s stomach twist.
