An old fishing boat listed by a dock near the side of the house. It still floated-more by the sheer will of his older brother than any real soundness of keel. Randy sat on a lawn chair at the foot of the dock, beer can in one hand, staring at the boat. Bare-chested, he wore knee-length shorts and flip-flops. His only acknowledgment of Jack’s arrival was the lifting of his beer can into the air.

“So we’re going hunting,” Randy said as Jack reached him.

“Did you call T-Bob and Peeyot?”

“They got word. They’ll be here”-Randy stared to the lowering sun, then belched with a shrug- “when they get here.”

Jack nodded. T-Bob and Peeyot Thibodeaux were brothers, half black Cajun, half Indian. They were also the best swamp trackers he knew. Last spring, they had helped find a pair of drug smugglers who had abandoned ship in the Mississippi and tried to escape through the delta. After a day on their own, the escapees were more than happy to be found by the Thibodeaux brothers.

“What are we hunting?” Randy asked. “You never did say.”

“A big cat.”

“Bobcat?”

“Bigger.”

Randy shrugged. “So that’s why you came here to fetch Burt.”

“Is he with Daddy?”

“Where else would he be?”

Jack headed toward the house. His brother was in an especially sour mood. He didn’t know why, but he could guess the source. “You shouldn’t be drinking if you’re coming with us.”

“I shoot better with a few beers in me.”

Jack rolled his eyes. Unfortunately his brother was probably right.

Reaching the house, he swung open the door. He hadn’t lived here in over a decade. He had his own place near Lake Pontchartrain, a fixer-upper he bought after Katrina. He entered the front parlor. This was home-more home than anywhere else. The smell of frying oil competed with a black melange of spices. Over the ages, the odor had seeped into the very mortar of the stones, along with wood smoke and tobacco.