Saving an Innocent Man

by Robert E B Wright

  The music became more ominous. Overweight ten-year-old Malcolm stood holding his school books in the midst of four other boys standing on a sidewalk. The school bullies. One slapped him on the back of the head from behind. Another hit him in the testicles with the knuckles of a clenched fist. Another snatched the thick-lensed, black-framed glasses from his face and tossed them over a hedge. Then in a slow-motion scene that played all too often in the theater of Malcolm's mind, one kid got on his hands and knees behind Malcolm as the others pushed Malcolm over the other kid's back. Malcolm fell hard, his books and his pride sprawling all over the place. And once wasn't enough. The scene repeated in rapid instant replays as the music swelled in his brain. Each time it was painfully humiliating. The feeling of helplessness. The admission that he was way overweight and weak. A literal pushover. His chin quivered as he dreamed on.

  His mother stormed down the sidewalk, apron around her, his lunch box in hand. She chased the boys.

  They taunted her as they ran away. She hugged her little Malcolm. And she gave him a big red lollipop to ease the pain.

  The music segued into a strange, otherworld synthesized sound. Intense. Dramatic, with macabre Black Mass roots.

  Atop the metal roof, Malcolm's head jerked in spasms as he lay under the stars. But he did not awaken. The weird synthesized music became somber. His embalmed mother lay in a coffin as candles burned in the night around her. She was old. Small. White haired and wrinkled. The music buzzed and pulsed and climbed in intensity.

  A bluish bare light bulb swayed over his dead mother's coffin. Back and forth it swung, gradually dimming to blackness to reveal a sky of brilliant stars over her. The music became ethereal. Surreal. The sounds of the cosmos. The space music of Jarre, Tomita came from the heavens. From other galaxies. The billions of stars in the black nothingness twittered. Vibrated. They shook with the building energy of the music. Pinpoints of light became small wavering lines dancing in agitated blurs. Some of them changed color, from silver to electric blue and neon pink.

  The cosmic light show faded, giving in to a sweeping fog. The smiling face of Malcolm's mother appeared in the sky, getting larger and larger.

  Malcolm's eyes rolled beneath their lids. His breathing became labored and rapid, as if he had just run a race.

  Malcolm sprang up from his nightmare! Sweat was running down his face in droplets. His lungs were pulling on the heavy dark air. His eyes filled to overflowing. And as he looked up at the heavens, a tear ran down his cheek.

  The black curtain above him was electrified with tiny, twinkling stars. A cloud passed in front of the moon. And the only sound that filled the night was the very real, very natural night music of the Glades.

  • • •

  In the strengthening late morning sun, high above the ground, six or seven large black vultures glided in ever tightening, descending circles.

  Malcolm slept late this morning, worn out from his frenzied, upsetting dream the night before. He stirred now, aroused by the heat on the metal roof. He heard something, like the scratching of claws. He turned to see a hellish, bareheaded vulture walking awkwardly on the tin roof right toward him. And another just landing. He stood up quickly on the slanted roof and almost had a mid-air collision with a third one flying in. He ducked just as fast as he stood up and the vulture did a barrel roll the likes of which any aerobatics flyer would be proud.

  Malcolm flailed his arms. "Get outta here! Get the hell outta here! Git! Git! Go chase something that won't chase you back!" The buzzards were just as surprised as Malcolm. And, preferring easy-to-find carrion to a very much alive human, the flapping black umbrellas took to the air. Malcolm shook his fist at the rising birds. "And don't come unless you see worms in my eyes, ya creeps!"

  Malcolm muttered, "Imagine that, they thought I was dead. I bet a lot of people think I'm dead, too. I don't blame them. Who the hell could expect anybody to live through this? And as far as I'm concerned, they can go right on thinking I'm dead. I'll spruce myself up somehow and walk out of this hot Siberia real soon. I know I'm getting close now. I've got to be real careful. But soon, surprise! Surprise! Here I am! With my millions of bucks!"

  Malcolm climbed down through the hole in the roof, down the bunk beds, gently shuffled across the floor and made it down the stairs of the cabin. He muttered under his breath the whole way. "You can't even lay down out here. Vultures think you're dead. Ants think you're dead. Lots of things just waiting around for something to die so they can live. That's fine. But keep your beaks off me, I got better things to do than die. I'm not quite ready yet. See me in fifty or sixty years."

  Malcolm stood outside now. He took a deep breath, stretched in the morning sun and said, "Now for a little breakfast and a nice pleasant walk through the neighborhood." He marched off past his mound of money.

  Malcolm spent the rest of the day exploring this different looking landscape. It seemed much more hospitable then where he had been. This was a day to relax and rejuvenate. Which he did.

  Evening came quickly.

  Twenty-One

  As the cloud moved, it revealed an incredible big, full, romantic moon. The soot-black sky was full of stars. The heavenly spectacle illuminated the lonely two-lane blacktop in a surprisingly bright light.

  The road was as straight as if someone had drawn it with a ruler. So was the canal that ran alongside it. Everything else on the landscape was thick vegetation dissolving into bluish darkness. The innocuous mid-size rental car drove quickly into the night.

  Tony DiSantis, still dressed in a dark business suit and maroon tie, made repeated glances at the GPS. The car passed a road sign reflecting the word COPELAND and the car pulled off the Tamiami Trail a few miles past it.

  The sign outside the tavern did not say what the name of the place was. It just said COLD BEER – FRESH WORMS painted by hand in black paint with a house-painting brush on a piece of white painted plywood. There was also a neon Schlitz beer sign shining in the dark window, even though Schlitz beer hadn't been sold in that tavern for more than thirty years. The small neglected wooden building appeared to be the only building in Copeland. And it seemed like everybody in Copeland was right inside that bar.

  Outside, about a dozen pickup trucks were parked haphazardly, each one practically covered with dried mud. Some had rifle racks in the rear windows. Some had dogs curled up in the cargo beds. Almost all had bumper stickers of some kind with representations of the rebel flag.

  Inside was a shit-kicker’s delight. Good old country music twanged on fuzzy sounding speakers, handfuls of sweating long-neck bottles of beer clunked to the bar, posters of half nude cowgirls decorated the walls and you just knew nobody in there didn't belong.

  When DiSantis walked in, the noise level from the hullabaloo dropped in half. DiSantis just stood in front of the closed door for a moment letting his eyes adjust. Nobody moved. They just looked at him. Nobody said a word. But the music played loud. In the smoky darkness, images came into clarity.

  Then DiSantis spoke. "Can I have your attention?"

  "You're the only one who's got it, buddy," a voice from the dim light yelled out.

  "I'm Detective DiSantis."

  A man screamed in a mock shrill voice, "Oh my God, it's a raid!" The place broke up in hysterics.

  "A couple of weeks ago, there was a plane crash in the Glades, down by Lost Man's Bay, about twenty-five miles from here."

  "Oh, my gawd!" another falsetto voice from the crowd yelled out.

  More laughter. More bottles banging on the bar.

  "The two men who crashed were running drugs."

  "Drugs! We don't smoke no marijuana in Okeechobee.”

  “One of the men died in the crash. One of them escaped. He's still out there."

  "You mean we got us an honest-to-goodness escaped con in our own backyard?" This question was asked by an unattractive middle-aged woman in a halter top and shorts. She had a tattoo on her shoulder that said FUMF.

  "That's what I'm telli
ng you." DiSantis finally got their attention. The bartender turned the music off. Some of the redneck patrons spoke up.

  "Where is it you said the plane crashed?"

  "A few miles from the Gulf, about thirty-two miles south of Everglades City. Just north of Lost Man's Bay.”

  "There's nothing down there,” one man said. “No way out," said another.

  DiSantis continued, "We know he's making some progress. We've seen signs about three miles from where the plane went down, headed in this direction."

  "Hey, is this guy dangerous?"

  "Yes. We think he's a hit man for the Mafia in Chicago." That set the crowd off. It was like disturbing a swarm of bees.

  "Hold it, hey, quiet, let's hear what he's got to say!" one of them scolded.

  "We believe he's very dangerous. If he makes it out of the worst part, he'll stop at nothing to keep going. I mean take hostages, steal, kill, whatever." DiSantis set off the hive again.

  "What's he look like?" Somebody shouted over the crowd. The place quieted down to listen.

  "That's the hard part. We don't have a very accurate description. But the two men who saw him say he's very big. Between six and seven feet tall."

  "Six to seven...holy shit, you sure you're not talking about a basketball player?"

  "And they said he's probably over three hundred pounds." The place buzzed again.

  "Oh yeah! I saw him! Last hunting season! He was wearing a big black fur coat at the time and he had these big white teeth and big claws!" The tavern clown paraded around in front of DiSantis, trying to look like a bear.

  "What do we do if we see him? Say hello for you?" was a contribution from someone else.

  "Capture him. But don't kill him."

  "You're tellin' us to track and trap somebody out there?"

  "I'm telling you to get the person we're after. Track him, trap him, catch him, corner him, shoot him... just don't kill him."

  The place was solemn except for comments like, "If I see that sonbitch, I'll nail the mother! I don't give a shit!"

  "I been huntin' all my life out here in these Glades. If he's there, I'll find the bastard."

  "I got that thirty-aught-six with the scope. I'll pop that sucker off from two miles away!"

  DiSantis took control of the room again. "OK, listen up. If you see a really big man who looks like he just crawled out of the swamp, and he doesn't look like anybody you've ever seen, play it safe, don't hurt him. Take him into custody, capture him, don't hurt him unless you have to. But whatever you do, don't kill him. If he's injured, don't let him die. Give him first aid. Don't let him die!" The crowd was mumbling.

  "Oh yes, one more thing,” DiSantis added. The silence returned. "Turn him over to me, alive, and I'll give you a five-thousand-dollar reward."

  Pandemonium broke loose. A jamboree of hootin' 'n hollerin'. Heavy boots stomped on the floor.

  DiSantis handed out his business cards to everyone at the bar.

  Somebody put a beer in his hand and said, "You're welcome here anytime, boss. Anytime."

  • • •

  The sign said GATOR BOB’S – GAS & BAIT – COLDEST BEER – SWAMP BUGGY RIDES. The parking area out front was a collection of pickups, vans, four-wheelers, boats on trailers, swamp buggies on trailers and airboats on trailers. This was a favorite gathering spot midway across the Tamiami Trail, between Miami and Naples, smack dab in the middle of nothing.

  Tony DiSantis walked past the old-style gas pumps guarding the front door to the rustic yet lively bar and grill.

  Even from outside you could hear DiSantis yell over the din.

  "May I have your attention.”

  • • •

  The Seminole Indians sat under their long dining chikee made of cypress timbers and palm frond roofing. There must have been three or four Indian families there all at the same time. All of them in bright, colorful clothing. They all looked up at once toward the man who had just walked in on their evening supper.

  "May I have your attention, please?"

  Twenty-Two

  The sun was directly overhead. Twelve-o'clock high. Malcolm cast no shadow. It was hot and humid. Insects buzzed in the tall trees. Birds shook bushes and shrubs as they flew in to roost and flew out to forage. Mosquitoes were becoming a problem. And the sap from the gumbo-limbo tree was just about all sweated off his body by now. It was first priority to find a gumbo-limbo tree to tap in the next few hours.

  In an hour or so, Malcolm had found one. He ripped the paper-like bark from its sides and cut into the tender underlying layers with his rusty kitchen knife. When the helpful, aromatic sap oozed from the tree, Malcolm patiently painted every exposed part of his body with the sticky stuff. It blended into his body color, like suntan lotion.

  "Thank you, paper-bark tree. You saved my ass, again! And my back, and my shoulders, and my chest, and my belly, and my arms, and my feet and my face. I'll be back. Don't go away!"

  In a while, Malcolm found a wild guava tree. He picked two pieces of ripe fruit, leaving the rest for a future visit. He spotted a limestone rock nearby and rubbed the blade of the kitchen knife against it. He sliced and ate the wet fruit that any housewife would spit out. He thought it was just great. A perfect way to start the day.

  A while later, Malcolm found a stopper bush. He popped a couple of the little purple berries into his mouth. He figured one per wild guava would be just about the right prescription. Now he wanted something a little more substantial. And in about ten minutes he had it. He stood overlooking a depression in the land that had, over years, turned into a lagoon. Magnificent cypress, adorned with elaborate epiphytes, grew in and around the pond. Around the edges grew the expected shrubs, bushes, vines and trees that prefer moist soil. And floating like small logs, each no more than twelve inches long, was a party of baby alligators.

  Malcolm searched for the mother but didn't see her. He approached closer, crouching behind bushes. Still he didn't see her. He crept forward. Finally, he was at the edge of the lagoon. He saw a couple of gators on the opposite bank and another sunning itself to his right. But they were all rather small by demon standards.

  The smallest was about five feet, the largest about seven. She's got to be around somewhere, Malcolm thought. Perhaps waiting on the bottom. He looked around for a long, heavy club and found one in the thickets. He also found a slender, one foot long hollow reed and he took that one, too. He lowered himself up to his waist at the very edge of the pond. Hiding himself in an overhanging bush, he stood with arm raised, battering stick in his hand. He put one end of the hollow reed in his mouth and held it between his teeth. He put the other end in the water. Then he made a sound that came from deep down in his chest. A low, grunting, burping sound. He was trying to imitate the sounds he had heard the alligators make at night.

  He wasn't sure if the sound would attract all the gators, none of the gators, or the mother. But he was hoping it would attract the babies first.

  The stick vibrated and created ripples on the surface. The vibrations, of approximately the correct frequency and duration, traveled through the water and reached the baby gators. At first, only one heard the call. But then others followed, moving in the direction of the audio decoy.

  The little armada wiggled over to the edge, right under Malcolm’s raised club. The baby alligators blinked, bewildered, searching for the reptilian creature that summoned them.

  In a heartbeat, with powerful down strokes, Malcolm beat the water furiously. The little gators bolted in every direction, but not before three of them floated limply on the surface. The remainder of the fleeing fleet sent distress signals in the form of little grunts to any adult gator within earshot. The three larger gators Malcolm had spotted before moved into the water.

  Malcolm quickly snatched up his rewards for stealth, cunning and hunting prowess and left the edge of the lagoon.

  At some safe distance away, Malcolm savored the young alligator tail as much as he would if it were lobster tail. It was a new tre
at for him. One he would enjoy again and again.

  __________________________________

  Don’t eat raw gator, either.

  __________________________________

  Twenty-Three

  "Did you find anything?"

  "Nothing more than you told me when I got here."

  DiSantis had come to tell McGuire he was on his way back to Chicago.

  "Well, that's too bad, DiSantis. Sounds like your trip was a waste of time after all."

  "I wouldn't say so. You never know if someone I talked to will run across something."

  "Oh, who'd you talk to?"

  "Rednecks mostly, people in bars."

  "Well, I bet nobody seen nothin'."

  "So far, nobody seen nothin',” he imitated. “But they might. And if they do, we want to know about it, don't we?"

  "You betcha. What time's your plane?"

  "In about an hour and a half."

  "Hey, you don't have much time. You didn't have to come up here before you left town, you should've just gone straight to the airport."

  "Call it professional courtesy."

  Mulholland and Diaz walked in just as DiSantis and McGuire were shaking

  hands. "Speaking of courtesy," said Mulholland, "have a nice trip back to Chicago, Lieutenant."

  "Right Lieutenant," added Diaz, "safe trip. Hope you enjoyed some of the sights."

  "Oh, yeah, but I only had time to hit the, ah, highlights. Thanks for the copies of the records and the pictures, Mulholland."