“Anyway, whoever the offender was who owned this canoe never reclaimed it, so my daddy gave me permission to take it out whenever I want.” He was still holding the paddle and motioned with it for Foster to get in. “I know what I’m doing. Don’t be scared. Climb into the bow there.”

Foster didn’t move. He just stood there, then blurted, “I called Mr. Maxwell and told him everything.”

Rusty’s blood surged from normal temperature to an instant boil. “Come again?”

“You heard me. I don’t need to repeat it. Mr. Maxwell knows you intend to set him up as our scapegoat.”

Rusty didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop to think about it, just reacted with a burst of uncontrollable rage. He cut a horizontal arc with the paddle. Had it been a blade, it would have decapitated Foster. As it was, it struck him in the neck with such force, Rusty was sure it had crushed his windpipe. He dropped the flashlight, grabbed his throat with both hands, and attempted to make a sound. What issued from him was painful to hear.

Rusty watched calmly as Foster staggered forward a few steps before toppling facedown into the murky water amid an intricate, knobby sculpture of cypress knees, then lay still. Perfectly still.

The flashlight had landed in a few inches of water. It was still on, creating an unnatural underwater glow that was downright eerie. It even spooked Rusty a little, but he didn’t retrieve the flashlight. Better to leave it.

It had been his plan all along to kill Brian Foster. No way in hell would he have lived through the night. However, Rusty hadn’t planned to do it here, where his body could be so easily discovered by someone on an Easter outing.

Upon reflection, though, this unexpected turn of events wasn’t all that unfortunate. In fact, it was better than what he had originally planned to do, which was to canoe to one of the deepest parts of the lake, whack Foster in the head with the paddle, and dump him.

He realized now the flaws in that plan. Once the body gassed up and resurfaced, a medical examiner would have determined that it had been a homicide. Of course nobody would ever suspect the sheriff’s son of committing murder, but it would have created a hubbub that Rusty would rather do without.

This way, it would appear to have been a fatal accident. That would be an easy sell. Foster was new to the area. He was from up north someplace, had never experienced swampy terrain. He’d stupidly left his car on the road and walked—in wingtip shoes, for crissake—into the forest at night, completely unaware of the hazards it and the wetlands represented. The dumb schmuck had stumbled, crushed his windpipe when he fell, knocked himself unconscious, and drowned, his flashlight still on.

No relocating or disposing of his body was necessary. Leaving him where he’d died was much more efficient and less strenuous. He could simply paddle away. Which also saved time. Because now he had the additional complication of Joe Maxwell to deal with.

Addressing Foster’s still form, he said, “Fuck you for that.”

He used the paddle against a tree root to push the canoe away from the copse, then executed a one-eighty and headed for the dock with the shed where he would return the canoe.

He’d barely registered the splashing sound before Foster surged up out of the water and clouted him in the side of his head with a length of a fallen tree branch. It struck him in his jawbone, just in front of his ear. It stunned him. It also hurt like fucking hell.

Instinctively, he bellowed in pain and reached out for the jagged limb before Foster could wield it again. But Rusty missed, succeeding only in scraping the palms of his hands on the rough bark.

Foster, teeth bared and clenched, took another swipe with the natural club and caught Rusty just beneath his rib cage. Yowling, he bent double in an instinctual effort to protect the soft tissue from further assault. Taking advantage of Rusty’s position, Foster grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him out of the canoe and into the water.

Rusty tried to catch hold of the side of the rocking canoe, but Foster kicked it out of his reach and sent it gliding across the surface, then relaunched his attack on Rusty.

They thrashed and splashed, kicked and clawed, each trying to gain solid footing amid the network of gnarled roots both above the surface and below. The soles of Rusty’s boots couldn’t gain traction on the slimy lake bottom, and he fell hard, landing in a sculpted formation of cypress knees. A lightning bolt of pain sizzled up his left arm, went through his chest, and straight up into his brain. When it struck, he screamed.

But when Foster came at him from behind, he fought with a vengeance to stand, despite the agony and uselessness of his left arm. His right arm was working, though, and he jabbed his elbow backward into Foster’s injured throat.

He felt the man’s knees buckle and turned to see Foster crumpling. Foster tried but failed to stay on his feet. He stumbled backward, his arms flailing, as he fell into the water, face up. He went under.

Rusty stayed where he was, his breath rushing in and out, causing bursts of pain that had him blinking back tears.

Foster wasn’t done yet. He made an effort to rise.

“Die, you motherfucker!” Rusty shouted.

Foster continued his struggle to pull himself out of the water.

And then, out of the corner of Rusty’s eye, he saw motion.

Two dark forms moved with silent and lethal intent just below the surface, only their reptilian eyes catching the glow of the flashlight. They glided with deadly purpose toward the man flailing his arms in a vain attempt to save himself from drowning. Poor bastard was already dead and didn’t even know it.

Rusty watched in petrified awe.

One of the gators lunged up out of the water, clamped Foster in his jagged maw, and dragged him under. He simply vanished. There was nothing to signify that he’d ever been there except for the swells that disturbed the surface, testaments to Foster’s final struggle for survival.

Rusty stood there panting noisily until mere ripples remained on the surface. He had the presence of mind not to clamber onto the shore where he could leave footprints. He would have to stay in the water and hope to God the gators competing for Foster would be kept busy until he could get to his canoe.

He remembered the direction in which it had been sent drifting. He set out after it, plowing through knee-deep water. Every shadow on the surface of it looked like an alligator or poisonous snake, every shadow on shore a black panther sensing weakened pray.

He waded for what seemed like miles before he spotted the canoe. It was caught up in some aquatic vegetation. It was still a fair distance away. He feared going into shock before reaching it.

Cradling his throbbing left arm against his middle, which pulsed in pain, he slogged through the shallows, every step impeded by his heavy boots, his sodden clothes, and mostly by his increasing anxiety over what he was going to do about his injuries.

And about Maxwell.

At this moment, Joe could be drunk and quivering in fear that Rusty was contriving to have him implicated and arrested. Or, just as possible, he could have called the law already and was trying to negotiate his own deal.

But, not being a complete and utter fool, Joe wouldn’t report this to the SO, which was Mervin’s domain. No, he would notify another department of law enforcement. The Texas Rangers. FBI.

The thought caused Rusty to snivel worse than Foster.

A more rational section of his brain, however, insisted that a sot like Maxwell wouldn’t do that. Before spilling his guts to any branch of law, he would want a guarantee of immunity, and none was going to grant that without hearing what Joe had to tell. He couldn’t say a thing without risking that the sky would fall on his daughters, Lisa and the younger one. Destroy their futures? No, that would be too big a gamble for poor ol’ Joe. He would never take it.

Rusty wanted to believe that.

Fear still niggled at him, though. It frightened him to think that tough cops, who went by the book and weren’t impressed with the last name of Dyle, were on to him already.

One thing was for damn certain: He couldn’t be caught with the money. Hiding it was priority numero uno. After the bag of cash was secured, he could deny any accusations thrown at him. His daddy would vouch for anything he said.

But just in case the unlikely happened, and he did fall under suspicion, and his old man turned contrary, Rusty also should establish an alibi. For the burglary. For Foster.

He hadn’t actually killed the dipshit, but that could be a tricky technicality if he was ever accused of having done so. Best to establish a solid alibi for the entire night and avoid the whole mess.

By the time he reached the canoe, he had formulated a new plan. It involved Crystal, and it was brilliant for so many reasons, all of them self-serving. Eager to implement the plan, he covered the remaining distance to the canoe with a gush of renewed energy.

Getting into the damn thing with only one functioning arm was going to be a challenge, and he wasn’t sure how to go about it. He was relieved to see that the paddle hadn’t fallen out when Foster had tipped the canoe and pulled him into the water.

The paddle was lying in the hull.