Page 25 of Rowe

The directions were simple.

They became less simple after the abandoned sugar mill failed to appear.

The driver slowed where the map showed a rusted conveyor crossing the road. There was no conveyor, no mill chimney, and no ruin. On the west side stood a new field of cane. On the east, cypress trees crowded a drainage ditch.

“We missed it,” the passenger said.

“We did not.”

“Then the map is old.” Vance leaned between the seats.

“Continue to the chapel.”

They drove another four miles. The road narrowed. The center line vanished. Dragonflies flashed above standing water in the ditches.

A white chapel appeared on the left, smaller than the one shown in the photograph. Its sign read SAINT MARTHA MISSION. The map named SAINT BARNABAS. The driver stopped beneath an oak.

“Wrong chapel.” Vance checked the coordinates.

“Right coordinates.”

“Wrong name.”

“Take the east turn.” There was no east turn.

A chained cattle gate blocked a dirt track fifty yards beyond the chapel. Behind it, grass grew knee-high between two-wheel ruts. A hand-painted board warned PRIVATE PROPERTY and ALLIGATORS, though someone had added MOSTLY ALLIGATORS beneath it in red paint.

The passenger studied the satellite image.

“The access road should begin here.”

“That is not a road,” the driver said.

“It was when the image was taken.”

Vance got out. Heat folded around him. He walked to the gate, examined a lock orange with age, and looked past it. The track curved into trees within a hundred yards. No fresh tire marks crossed the weeds. No utility poles followed it. No hospital sign stood anywhere in sight.

He returned to the truck.

“Call the number.” The passenger called. A recorded voice said the number was not in service.

“Again.” The result did not change. Vance phoned Victor’s assistant.

“We have reached the coordinates. The access road is closed and appears unused.”

“Closed how?” he asked with contempt.

“Chained gate. Overgrowth. No sign of a medical facility.”

“The hospital was there yesterday,” he said in surprise.

“The road was not.” There was a pause.

“Find another approach.” Vance looked at the drainage ditch, the wall of cane, and the cypress beyond the gate.

“Understood.”

They drove east, then south, then west. Every route folded back toward the highway or ended at water. A parish bridge marked on the map had been removed, leaving two concrete abutments facing each other across a black channel. A road labeled LAUREL CUT narrowed into a private driveway and stopped at a fishing camp. The man on the porch watched them through binoculars and never lifted a hand.