The Thanatos Syndrome

Lucy.”
    Lucy’s voice is constricted and high in her throat. “What in the world—!”
    I tell her the plan.
    â€œAre you crazy? Don’t fool around with those people. Let me call the police.”
    â€œWe will. But I want to get Claude out now and there’s something I need to find out.”
    â€œYes, but they’ll—”
    â€œThey’ll what? Shoot me? No no. Van Dorn doesn’t know what we have on him. He’s mainly worried about the heavy-sodium connection. He’ll want to explain, talk me into something. He’s the one that’s worried. They don’t even know about your clinical findings with the children. You didn’t tell anybody, did you?”
    â€œNo, but—”
    â€œBut what?”
    â€œPromise me that—”
    â€œThat I won’t shoot anybody? I promise I won’t shoot anybody.”
    â€œPromise me that you’ll take care of yourself.”
    â€œI will.”
    â€œGood God.”
    â€œNow listen, Lucy.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œWhere is your truck?”
    â€œHere. I’ve been here with the children, either on the phone trying to reach Gottlieb or waiting to hear from you.”
    â€œAll right. Give the keys to Vergil. When we finish our business at Belle Ame, we’ll either take my car if it’s still there, or we’ll drop on down to Pantherburn in the pirogue. I have to get back here by two. You can drive me up.”
    â€œAfter you finish your business.” She’s calmed down, is breathing easier. “And what do I do if you don’t show up or I don’t hear from you?”
    â€œIf we don’t show up by midnight, call the cops.”
    â€œCall the cops,” she repeats. “Why do you need Hugh?”
    â€œHe knows the river.”
    â€œHe knows the river.”
    â€œSee you later.”
    â€œSure,” she says absently.

3. THERE’S A DIRT TRACK atop the levee beyond the chain link fence. You can’t see the river through the willows of the batture. There’s another fence in the willows. The morning sun is already warm. A south wind from the gulf is already pushing up a dark, flat-headed cloud. It is like late summer. My nose has stopped running. Walking the levee in flatlands has the pleasant feel of traveling a level track between earth and sky.
    There is no horse patrol in sight, only guard towers on the prison farm, but I’d as soon get off the levee and into the willows. The batture here has been cleared down to the fence. I quicken my stride. The smudge ahead under the cloud must be the loess hills. And here’s the crossing fence, crossing the levee and squaring off the two fences running on each side. Beyond the fence a shell road angles up one side of the levee and down the other. The fence is maybe eight feet high, but it is not a good idea to climb it. I’m still in clear view of the near tower. Elmo mentioned the downriver corner. I see why. There’s a washout just upriver from the corner, grown up in weeds, but a washout nonetheless, a space gullied under the fence. It is not hard to see. It can only mean that the fence is symbolic and the detainees have no reason to escape, or that the guards, both mounted and in the towers, keep them in sight. Or both.
    I make my turn, look back toward Angola, see no one, widen the turn to carry over the brow of the levee to its shoulder, moseying along, hands in pockets like the bored ex-President of Guatemala, down and out of sight of the guard tower. The grass is ankle high, but the footing is good and it is easy to angle down the levee. On the steeper shoulder of the levee at the washout I roll down and under the fence the way you roll down the levee when you’re a boy, elbows held in tight, hands over your face.
    The willows of the batture are thick. It is good to be in the willows and out of sight. I figure to hit the shell road, which angles away from me, by keeping parallel to the river. The going is heavy, but after a hundred yards or so I hit not shells but a dirt track, hardly wider than a path. This must be Elmo’s jeep trail. The soft dirt has three tire tracks, which puzzle me until I remember that deer hunters hereabouts use three-wheelers more than jeeps.
    The trail angles toward the river. The batture is dropping away. The dirt is quiet underfoot, but presently there is a roaring. The top of a poplar moves fitfully as if it were being jerked by a