Half an hour later, Warren, the local mechanic, had wiped the black motor oil from his hands on a soiled rag and closed his car repair shop, and the three of us headed in my Tahoe down a country road that looked no bigger than a gravel driveway. The farther we drove the less sunlight fingered its way through the umbrella of trees: pines mixed with beech, magnolia, and oak, already unfolded into leaves the tender green of spring. Indian paintbrush speckled the roadside a bright orange. Had we been in the Thicket for another reason, I might have enjoyed the scenery.

"I cant promise you I know everybody, but I know quite a few folks living back here," he said. An avid outdoorsman, Warren had grown up in the Thicket and knew nearly every road that led to a fishing hole or a hunting blind. As I drove, in the backseat he and David divided a map of the surrounding area into six pie-shaped pieces. The first covered a slice of the forest north of town.

"Where to first?" asked David.

"Well, theres this couple name of Gibeteaux. Theyve been around here longer than almost anybody. I thought wed stop at their place first. They know quite a few people living in the Thicket. Thought they might recognize your guy."

"Good," I said. "Just point me in the right direction."

The road wound through the trees, many dying under thick coats of vines crawling up their trunks and Spanish moss hanging from their branches. Warren, clearly delighted with the prospect of an adventure, plotted in the backseat, talking with David, describing people he knew and places a criminal on the run could hide.

"Turn left, here," he said, pointing into an opening in the trees that led into a clearing. "Thats their place back in the woods."

I pulled over, put the Tahoe into four-wheel drive, and then followed tire tracks between the trees and through low brush into a clearing. Straight ahead, on the porch of a double-wide trailer home surrounded by trees, an elderly man dressed in coveralls rocked on a chair. When he saw us, he jumped up and ran inside, emerging, moments later, followed by his wife and carrying a shotgun.

I pulled to a stop.

"Hey, Willie," Warren yelled out the window. "Its me, Gus, and I got a couple folks here to see you. A Texas Ranger and an honest-to-G.o.d FBI agent."

"That you, Gus?" the man said, popping his Caterpillar tractor bill cap back on his head as if that would give him a better look.

"Yeah, its me all right."

"A ranger and an FBI agent, you gotta be pulling my leg."

"Nope, its the real thing. Theyre looking for Miss Fontenots murderer."

"d.a.m.n," he said, waving toward us. "Ill put this thing down, and you bring them in."

Up close, rust pocked the trailers siding and much of the wood porch flirted with rot. Inside, family photos covered walls and tables in every style of dollar-store frame imaginable. We congregated around a worn aquamarine Formica kitchen table with matching vinyl chairs, and Edna Gibeteaux invited us to sit down.

"We need your help," I told them. "Were trying to find the person who killed Louise Fontenot."

"A Texas Ranger and an FBI guy come all the way out here to find out who killed Louise Fontenot?" Willie Gibeteaux scoffed. "That dont sound right. Must be more going on here than the killing of one old biddy."

"Willie, you stop that," his wife ordered, waving a crooked, arthritic finger. "Louise was a good woman. Why wouldnt they come here to help?"

"Well, we do have one other reason," confided David, conspiratorially drawing them in. "We believe this same person may have killed others."

"That the truth?" asked Willie, his eyes widening in wonder.

"Yeah, thats the truth," I answered.

We stayed nearly half an hour. The Gibeteauxs were good people, and they tried to help. They examined both composites and thought long and hard. Finally, they shook their heads.

"Maybe he looks a little familiar," said Willie, pointing at the composite of our suspect in his younger years. "But I cant say why. And I sure cant tell you who he is."

That settled, they gave us the names of others they hoped could help more, and then waved good-bye from the porch as we drove away. Disappointed, I knew wed accomplished no more than supplying the couple with a bit of entertainment.

From the Gibeteaux place, Warren directed us through the Thicket to other trailers, shacks, and remote hunting and fishing camps along the river, more secluded than anything wed seen so far, most without electricity or telephone. The folks we encountered offered no more answers than the Gibeteauxs, and we found no sign of anything amiss. No evidence of an intruder, a killer hiding on the run. Throughout the morning, I checked my cell phone, wanting to call Sheriff Broussard, to find out how hed fared with the composite in town, but wed traveled so deep into the Thicket the screen on the phone shone blank. Angry with myself that I hadnt asked the sheriff to lend us a radio, I realized we no longer had any connection with headquarters or, for that matter, the outside world. If we needed help, we had no way to get it. I said nothing. Instead, as Warren directed, I circled back, to begin yet another loop on a road as remote and inaccessible as the first.

Just before noon, wed been at it for four and a half hours and wed exhausted every possibility Gus Warren, the Gibeteauxs, any of those whod tried to help us had supplied. We drove toward town to drop off our guide and begin the ride home. The morning had begun with hope but ended with frustration that hung between us like a curtain, stifling conversation. I knew what David had to be thinking, Id brought him all this way, laid his career on the line, and we knew no more about Gabriel than we had when wed left Houston. I thought about Maggie and Mom. How would I explain the suspension to them? When Bill died, I told myself Id take care of Maggie for both of us. I promised myself that she would never suffer because she no longer had a father. Now Id buried myself in my work and jeopardized my job, all for nothing.

"Of course, theres a bunch more places out in the Thicket," I heard Warren explaining to David. "n.o.body knows who all is living out here. Some parts would take a boat to search. Gets swampy, and no way you can drive in. Most of the time the forest is too thick to see anything much from the air. Could take days, maybe even weeks to cover."

Weeks. I was lucky if I had hours.

With that dismal a.s.sessment, I noticed the service lines flash across the panel on my cell phone; it beeped and a series of messages popped onto the screen. Most were from Captain Williams and headquarters. I knew he was under pressure to produce me, to answer for my wayward ways. Ignoring the others, I focused on a call at the very bottom of the list.

"Where the h.e.l.l you been?" asked Sheriff Brousssard.

"Out of range," I said. "Whats up?"

"We may have a hit for you over at J. P.s joint. You know? The bar on the outskirts of town."

Thirty-one.

We dropped Gus Warren at his garage and arrived at J. Rs just after noon. The place was populated with a few women but mainly men wearing cowboy boots and blue jeans, sleeveless T-shirts and plaid cotton shirts with snap-down pockets, most limp and stained with sweat. Sheriff Broussard led us to the bar, where J. P. stood jawing with a cache of paying customers.

"J. P.s got someone he wants you two to meet," Broussard said.

With that, the proprietor motioned us forward and introduced us to one of his patrons, W. O. Harris, a man so old his hands looked as gnarled as the thick black branches of the ancient live oaks surrounding the joint.

"Well, J. P. here showed me that picture of that boy. He told me what you two was asking for, and I got some questions. Give me the right answers, and I might have a name for you," he said, his short gray beard flapping with each syllable.

"What questions?" David asked.

"Aint no way this freak is ever gonna know I was the one who first said his name?"

"No way," said David. "My word on it."

"No way this old mans ever gonna have to testify against no one. 'Cause if that takes place a bad case of that amnesia stuff might just hit this old man and he wont remember, not one thing."

"I cant answer that until I know what youve got to tell us," David replied, looking sympathetic but stern.

"But we understand," I said, ignoring a look from David that radioed be-careful-what-you-promise. "Agent Garrity and I know that a man with amnesia probably wont be much good to us on the stand."

The old man a.s.sessed me. He surveyed David. He scanned Sheriff Broussards blank face.

I knew he wanted to talk.

"h.e.l.l," he said. "That being the case, I suggest you look for a boy, about twenty, maybe twenty-one. I cant say as Ive seen the kid in years, but that drawing of yours, the younger one, sure does remind me of Doyle Tyler."

"Who is he?" I asked.

"He lived back in the Thicket with his mother, a pretty woman considering that she used to make money by supplying what a man needs to some of the old boys in town," J. P. interjected. "No one ever saw much of that boy after the time he turned a teenager or so. Never did come to town much. He and his momma didnt much care for people."

"He was a strange one," flapped W. O. "Lets say, I used to avail myself of his mothers charms at times, when my old lady was out of sorts. You know?"

"Sure," said David.

"Thelma Tyler was an odd woman," he explained. "She wasnt like a normal person in her profession."

"Explain that," I said.

"Well, her daddy was a preacher, not formal educated but kind of his own religion, real fire and brimstone, talked in tongues and laid on hands to heal the sick. He held services in the front room of the house for some of the folk living out in the Thicket. Her momma died when Thelma was a little one. Her daddy raised her after that, and they lived a real solitary life out there, living off the land, him making a little with his preaching. Then the daddy disappeared, when she musta been about fourteen or so. Just up and left when he felt a calling to preach the gospel in other parts, the way she told it. That point on, Thelma made her living on her back. But that girl had her daddy in her. All the while a man was cranking away, she was spouting Bible verses, just like her old man on the pulpit. Some of the boys in town didnt care for it much. Said it hindered the natural flow of things, if you know what I mean. They stopped coming around. Me, it never bothered. Dont much believe in all that religion mumbo jumbo."

"Whos the boys father?" I asked.

"Dont rightly know," said W. O. with a shrug. "Thelma never said, that I know of. But she had him not long after her daddy disappeared. Some in town always figured, isolated like she was, that Doyles most likely daddy was..."

"Say it," I said.

"Some always figured Thelmas daddy wasnt living what he was preaching, and that he fathered the boy," he said. "But thats only gossip. Dont believe no one really knows for sure."

"Tell us about Doyle," David prodded.

"Well, that kid was smart as a whip, but doing some very peculiar things, even when he was a little one," he explained, shaking his head in disbelief. "One day I walked up on him skinning a possum."

"Whys that odd?" I said.

"d.a.m.n thing was still alive," he said, shaking his old head.

David shot me a glance, and I could feel the fine hair on my arms stand up, as if from static electricity.

"That poor thing wailed like a sinner on judgment day. I asked that boy, he was maybe eight then, why he was doing that to that poor animal. I never liked possum much, but some things you just dont do. He never said a word, just looked at me with those eyes, those hateful eyes, ice-cold blue eyes. I just shrugged it off. Left to go see his momma, which was what had brought me out there in the first place."

"Tell us more," I asked.

"The last time I saw Doyle, he looked like that sketch you got there. He mighta been twelve or thirteen. After that, when I did go see his momma, which werent too often, mainly because my years were coming on and my manly needs werent as strong, the boy was never around. When I asked about him one time, Thelma said he was living out in the Thicket. He hardly ever came 'round, even to the house. Strange kid."

"And what happened to them, to Doyle and his mother?" asked David.

"'Round 'bout two years ago Thelma stopped catering to the local men. Her religion got real strong," Harris explained. "Last time I went to see her, she told me she was hearing the call herself, just like her daddy. She said she was devoting her life to G.o.d and that she needed to start over, someplace different. Guess thats what happened. Never saw her again."

"And Doyle?"

"Dont know. He mighta gone with her. Or, it could be that hes still out there somewhere, living off the Thicket," Harris said. With a chuckle, he added, "Guess thats a question you two big-time police will have to answer."

"We need to go out to the house, to see where they lived," David said, an edge of excitement in his voice. "How long will it take to get a search warrant, Sheriff?"

"One thing about little towns like this one. Not a lot of red tape," Broussard answered. "I can have one for you in ten minutes. This time of day the judge is easy to find. Hes eating lunch in his office."

That settled, David turned back to the old man. "Wed like you to take us, Mr. Harris."

"Guess I could, but Id prefer not to."

"Why not?"

Harris shook his head as if David had taken leave of his senses.

"It really aint too far from town. You used to be able to drive right up to the place, but we had a h.e.l.lacious storm little more than a year ago. Trees down all over. No one living there so n.o.bodys been around to clean up. Now, the only way theres on foot," he said. "Plus, that woods is full of critters, hogs, wild cats, not to mention cottonmouths and rattlers. Never had much love for snakes, which is one reason I settled here in town. Besides, Ive claimed this here bar stool and my a.s.s werent planning to leave it the rest of the day, except to relieve myself, and then Im just going as far as that there mens room."

"Mr. Harris," I said, softly. "Theres something youve got to understand. Doyle Tyler isnt just a suspect in Miss Fontenots murder. We believe hes responsible for the murders of at least five people, one a young mother who left little children behind."

Harris looked at me and gave me a wizened grimace. "I know what youre doing, making me sympathetic and all."

"Thats exactly what Im trying to do. There are a lot of families suffering because of this man," I said. "And if we dont stop him, therell be more. Because this boy, as you call him, isnt going to stop killing."

Harris thought for a moment, and then nodded. "All right. Guess I gotta do it. Ill meet you out front in ten minutes. No bathrooms in the Thicket. I suggest you do your business here before we leave. These days, it takes me a while to do mine, 'cause of age, you know."

Thirty-two.

In the bright midday sun, W. O. Harriss skin had a gray-yellow cast not apparent in the dim light of the bar; it reminded me of cigarette smoke and liver disease. He took Davids place in the Tahoes front pa.s.senger seat and directed me to back up and turn right onto the main road. We wound through the town, past the sheriffs office and turned left onto a narrow back road just past the Cut and Curl beauty parlor, then drove ten minutes east, where the houses ended and the pavement was replaced by gravel that pinged the SUVs undercarriage. As we traveled deeper into the Thicket, we pa.s.sed narrow dirt roads that trailed into the forest. Some wed traversed just hours earlier with Gus Warren.

In the backseat, David stared silently into the woods. I knew he had to be considering the uncertainty of what lay ahead. Was Doyle Tyler Gabriel? Would we find him waiting for us in the Thicket? I had that familiar gnawing in my gut I get when were closing in on a suspect, and I guessed David had it too. But what if we were wrong? What if Doyle Tyler had nothing to do with the murders, beyond the unfortunate circ.u.mstance of resembling the killer? Lost in thought, I almost missed the turn when W. O. motioned to the left. I steered off the gravel and, as the old man directed, parked at the entrance to what appeared to have once been a dirt road, blocked by fallen trees and claimed by high gra.s.s.

"Thats what that storm did. A bunch of tornadoes whipped through, bringing trees down all over the place. Unless youre fixing to move these here trees, this is where we start walking. Hope youre up for it," said W. O., as we all climbed out of the SUV.

"How far is it?" David asked, staring into the woods.

"The most a couple of miles, but you shouldve worn boots, like your lady friend here," he said, glancing down at Davids tennis shoes. Spitting the runoff from his tobacco chew onto the ground, he smiled, his decaying teeth coated with thick brown saliva, and raised his right foot to display his own tattered lizard-skin boots. "Like I said, theres critters you dont want to step on out here."

I didnt have an extra pair of boots for David in the Tahoe, but I unlocked the metal locker in the back and pulled out two Kevlar vests, a twelve-gauge Remington shotgun with a twenty-one-inch barrel, basically a riot gun, that I handed to David and a .30 caliber Remington semiautomatic rifle for myself. We both had our pistols in our belts. Whether we stepped on an unfriendly snake or met up with Doyle Tyler, we were prepared.

Our vests on, we hiked what remained of the overgrown dirt road for twenty minutes or more, W O. in the lead, with David stepping over fallen branches. Every few minutes, I felt for my pistol, just for securitys sake. On one side of the road, rickety poles with electrical lines ran overhead. Around us, the woods grew dense. The temperature felt ten degrees cooler than in town, and the pine-scented air filled my lungs with a heavy dose of oxygen. Sunlight dappled a mat of ferns, pine straw, and fallen leaves. The only sounds were those of courting insects, the breeze ruffling through trees, and the crush of our own footsteps.

Not far ahead, a wide swath of sunlight.

"Almost there," flapped W. O.

Moments later, at the edge of a clearing, we stopped. Two hundred feet ahead stood a dilapidated, weather-worn cabin, large sections of its wood siding rotted away. A front porch ran the length of the small wooden structure. An ancient tree crumpled one corner of the cabin, its trunk still attached to a knotted ball of roots heaved from the ground, and a thick branch pierced the roof. On the only section spared by the tree limb, someone, perhaps decades earlier, had built a makeshift steeple, topped by a cross.