The boats were pontoons mostly, each loading between ten and eighteen people. Darren set a boot on the lip of the nearest boat. He kept a hand on his pistol but didn’t remove it from its holster, knowing the stance was enough to command folks’ attention. “Everybody off this boat.” The boat’s captain was a leathery white man who was all skin over bones that looked as thick as carved stones, so he appeared vulnerable and terrifying at the same time. The sides of his head were shaved, and his mullet, bleached white from the sun, bopped up and down as he pushed through his paying customers to the back of the boat to see what in hell was going on. “We got a kid missing out there on the lake and not a lot of time,” Darren said. The captain saw Darren’s hand hovering near his Colt .45. He saw the badge too. Something flashed in his eyes—maritime duty, Darren hoped. He believed they had an understanding. “This is an emergency. We need to get everybody off this boat.”

There was a toddler who started crying when the captain began ushering the tourists off the boat, promising refunds and a free ride later. Marcus hung back on the dock, offering a hand to passengers as they exited the boat, grumbling and grousing as they went, the women holding their children tightly. Once the Blue Heron was empty of passengers, Marcus joined Darren in the boat. He put on two life vests, one strapped over the other. Darren pulled the maps from his pocket and told the captain to take them north along the narrow branch of Cypress Bayou that was a passageway to Carter Lake, which would lead to Back Lake and Goat Island and the spot on the map Darren was pointing to. “Gogo Island,” he said.

The captain walked to the engine’s control panel. It was set in the center of the boat, with seats all around it, built with a tourist’s unobstructed view in mind. So Darren left the map with the captain—Jim, he’d said his name was—and went to stand at the front of the boat, the metal railing pressing into his hip bones. Marcus hadn’t said a word since they started sailing. He was pressed into the bench seat in back, not moving. “Never heard of it,” Jim called to him. “But, hell, you could live in these parts fifty, sixty years and never know every stretch of island, every bayou strait, every duck blind or bootlegging outfit once tucked in these woods. I bet there’s stuff in here even God couldn’t find with a map.”