Leviathan

by Jared Sandman

  The Tuckers lived near the mouth of the Kissimmee River, where it drained into Lake Okeechobee. The local Seminole tribe originally named the lake, translated from their language as Big Water. To the Lakers it was known as the Big O, the second-largest freshwater body in the United States. It stretched thirty-three miles from north to south, thirty miles across and covered almost 470,000 square acres.

  At the turn of the twentieth century, a campaign was launched to drain the surrounding stagnant swampland into the lake. In 1905 Governor Napoleon Bonaparte Broward ordered the Miami Canal be built to cultivate farmland west of the lake. Four years later the Everglades Drainage District finished the operation. Misfortune struck in 1926 and ’28 in the form of intense hurricanes that swept through the state and flooded the lake. Thousands perished in the ensuing deluges, which prompted the Army Corps of Engineers to erect the Hoover Dike. Channels and locks — some of which were twenty feet deep in places — guaranteed security from subsequent weather calamities.

  The river ahead curved right around a gentle bend. Evan guided the craft along the left edge of the river, where erosion had carved the riverbed deeper. The river’s right side was shallower, a dumping ground for sediment. There two sandbars peered above the waterline.

  Sara turned to him and motioned at her wristwatch, pantomiming whether they were almost at their destination. Evan nodded, no expression on his features. He didn’t smile or answer her question aloud. He’d learned to keep his mouth shut whilst on the river unless he wanted to choke on noseeums. Dense clouds of the gnats billowed together in the darker recesses of the swamp.

  His gaze lingered on her tan legs. They were strong, the thighs of a long-distance runner. Evan felt no remorse for ogling the co-ed since he had no one waiting at home to reprimand him for such behavior. No girlfriend to chide him, no wife to berate him.

  The craft passed an expanding field of cattails. The nutrient-rich black soil was perfect for their explosive growth. Mile after mile of cattails clogged the waterways, growing four acres each day in some areas. He slowed the fanboat here, for the Tucker place wasn’t much farther. Within moments the ramshackle shack came into view, partially obscured by saw palmettos.

  Evan tied off to the rickety dock that jutted from shore. “You want some company?” Sara asked. She batted away a mosquito on her shoulder.

  “Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes. You sit tight.”

  He didn’t mind her tagging along for the day. Sara had begun a semester internship from Florida State University and had been assigned to shadow Evan for graduate credit. But as bright as she was — and attractive, God was she attractive — he didn’t want her to meet the Tucker brothers. They were rambunctious enough without having a pretty blonde around to get them riled up.

  He stepped off the fanboat and sneezed twice. Even with sunglasses his eyes were sensitive. From the corner of his vision he spotted a copperhead snake undulating in the water. It was about six inches long and had a telltale flat, bronzed skull. Like much of the flora and fauna in Florida, it was beautiful and harmful to humans. The subtropical environment was so harsh that wildlife and plants had evolved additional defense mechanisms.

  The pier ended onto a mulch walkway that led to the cottage twenty yards away. The house was located on what used to be a delta between two tributaries, on the western side of the lake in Glades County. A WPA program in the 1930s had redirected the flow of water from the river to feed into Okeechobee. Here the ground was fertile for vegetation, especially the outlawed type the Tuckers liked to harvest.

  Empty Budweiser cans littered the porch when the ranger approached. He knocked on the door and waited several seconds. No answer. He knocked again, harder and punctuated by impatience. “I know you’re home, the Jeep’s in the driveway. Somebody come to the door.”

  “Evan, is that you?” a muffled voice asked. “We’re in the back.”

  The ranger trekked around the shack and found a smaller building, a smokehouse. His nose wrinkled at a sudden pungent odor, which smelled like the basement of a funeral parlor. He’d taken enough biology courses to recognize the aroma as formaldehyde.

  One of the brothers stood next to a fifty-five-gallon steel drum. He wore a rubber smock and gloves, a pair of rusty metal tongs gripped in his hand. “That’s some godawful chili you’re cooking,” Evan said. The ranger knew what the Tuckers were up to, wondered whether it fell within the parameters of the law.

  “It ain’t chili,” the man said.

  “John is it?” he asked. He could never tell the twins apart.

  “I’m Jonas. John’s in the can.” The hulking man stared at Evan with his good eye; the other one wandered like Moses in the desert. “You don’t notice the smell after awhile.”

  “How’re things with you two?”

  “Can’t complain. Well I could, but you ain’t interested in nobody’s sob story.”

  “I’m really not,” Evan agreed. “Just making my rounds today and wanted to drop by.”

  “I wondered when you’d come,” another voice said, identical to the first. John appeared from the back door of the shack, wiping his hands on stained overalls. “Thought you’d be here last week, actually.”

  “What’ve you boys been up to? Not getting yourselves into any trouble, I hope.”

  “Nope,” John said. “Not anymore. We’re strictly legit now.”

  “I’d like to believe that,” Evan said. “Except the Tucker brothers as God-fearing, law-abiding citizens strikes me as oxymoronic.”

  “You calling us stupid?” Jonas asked.

  “It’s a figure of speech.”

  Jonas’ arm dipped into the barrel and appeared a second later with a skull clenched between the tongs, still steaming from its acid bath. He dunked it into a bucket of cool water then hung the object on a nail pounded into the outside wall of the smokehouse. The bleached skull had the unmistakable shape of an alligator snout.

  Evan said, “That better be from a nuisance gator.”

  “Only type we hunt,” John said.

  “I got a call from Mister Bombeck the other day, said he’s heard gunshots out this way. Wouldn’t know anything about that?”

  “Wasn’t us,” Jonas said.

  “That’s good to hear. Because hunting gators without a state license carries some pretty hefty penalties. It’s a third-degree felony that can put away someone for up to five years.”

  John said, “We got all our paperwork in order. Our permit don’t expire ‘til next June.”

  “And for your information, we were shooting nutria. Goddamn oversized rats are everywhere.”

  Evan couldn’t argue with that. Rodents the size of domestic cats, nutria mated constantly; their population had grown exponentially in the last decade, forcing drastic actions from Wildlife Control. The county resorted to hiring sharpshooters to rein in the problem, with mixed results. “Leave that to the professionals from now on.”

  “The state pays us to trap and kill nuisance gators. We’re providing a service to the community.”

  “I don’t care about the nuisance ones. Just make sure those are the only gators you’re going after, none of the peaceable ones. Mind if I look at your cache?”

  There was a moment of silence, and Evan wasn’t certain his entreaty would be granted. Then Jonas said, “Don’t matter to us. Take a peek around.” He set down the tongs and opened the smokehouse door. The small room inside smelled like a barbeque pit. The walls were lined with cured gator skulls, and on the floor was a pile of dead alligators. Evan glanced over the bodies, his eyes probing for any hint of gunshot wounds. There was none. All of them had the necessary identification tags on their hindquarters and met legal requirements.

  In 1972 Florida sanctioned the hunting of gators. It was an error of judgment, because within two years the reptiles’ numbers dwindled almost to extinction. The federal government then enacted the Endangered Species Act, which prohibited further killing of the animals. The state’s Nuisance Alligator C
ontrol Program employed poachers to catch only those creatures that posed a direct risk to the general public. After they were put down, the hides were sold; seventy percent of the proceeds went to the hunters and the rest to fund the program. If anyone else caught a troublesome gator, the hide was marked so poachers couldn’t unduly claim it.

  “How long it take you to collect these?” Evan asked.

  “Three weeks or so. We take a new batch to auction every month. Next Tuesday in fact, if you wanna tag along.”

  “I have paperwork piled up as it is.” Evan wiped his brow with a handkerchief. It had to be at least ninety-five today, several degrees higher with the heat index factored in. Evan shoved the bandana in his back pocket. “I don’t want any more reports of disturbances, y’hear.”

  “Yessir,” Jonas said. John said nothing, merely watched the ranger with a suspicious gaze. He stood behind a workbench next to the smokehouse. The table was covered in dried blood and slivers of reptile meat.

  “Otherwise I’d have to send out the Sheriff’s Office,” Evan said. He spotted a garden to the side of the shack, down a pathway and hidden by a thicket of tall grass. “Is that your raise bed?”

  “Why, you wanna snoop over there too?” John said.

  “Depends on what you’re growing.” Five years ago the brothers had been arrested for cultivating marijuana in the swamp. Glades County law enforcement still flew a helicopter over the Tucker place on occasion to check for signs of recidivism.

  “Only tomatoes,” John said. “And we’re seeing if pineapples will take. So far no luck. Feel free to take a look.”

  “I believe you.” The ranger didn’t want to invade their privacy any more than he already had. It was none of his business if they liked to grow pot, so long as they didn’t sell it.

  John took a small gator from an ice chest, slapped it down on the workbench. The dead reptile was two and a half feet long and weighed no more than ten pounds. Using a sharpened cleaver and using a butcher’s precision, he lopped off the animal’s appendages with single blows. Then he proceeded to carve off the creature’s tail and head. The skull took several tries and required a grinding motion before the head rolled off the table. Without skipping a beat, John scooped it up and tossed it in the barrel of formaldehyde.

  “During the Civil War, the Union cut off leather supplies to the Confederate Army,” John said. He didn’t look up from the work, his hands working with the speed of experience. “It didn’t bother the Rebels none. We made due without, thanks to these fearsome beasts here. Belts, boots, horse saddles, you name it.”

  John took a pair of pipe cutters to slice through the skin of the gator’s underbelly, scissoring from its severed hind legs to the neck stump. He peeled away the precious scales like an orange rind and set aside the hide before hanging the naked carcass in the smokehouse. “Too bad the South lost the war,” he said as he moved on to the next body. “Country would be a whole lot different. A whole lot better off, you ask me.”

  “It’d be more colorful, that’s for sure,” Evan said. “I should let you get back to work.”

  “Like I said, we’re on the straight and narrow now,” Jonas promised.

  Evan nodded and held back a smile. “Just make sure it stays that way.”

  * * * * *

  The ranger had company waiting when he returned to his office that afternoon. Lucas Hamilton sat flipping through an old fishing magazine when Evan came through the door.

  “Can I help — ” The words stopped on his lips as he recognized the figure in his refurbished trailer. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “When did you get in?”

  “I expected a two-hour drive with traffic, but I made it here in record time. I pulled in fifteen minutes ago.” It had been more like half an hour. Hamilton stood to shake hands. Evan and Hamilton had known each other for many years. Both of them belonged to the Epsilon Zeta chapter of the Sigma Nu fraternity at the University of South Florida.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Evan said. “I can’t say how excited I was to hear from you. What brings you my way?”

  “A bit of fishing. You know if they’re biting?”

  “Try around dusk. There’s a great spot north of here, Stanley Hole. I’ve heard the fish will jump into your boat. Never seen it myself, but that’s what they say.”

  “What kinds are out there?”

  “Crappie and tilapia mostly. If you’re lucky, you’ll snag a bass.”

  “Sounds like I got my work cut out for me.”

  “So how’re things? You’ve been a ghost lately. I haven’t seen you since — God, when was it? — that golf tournament last summer.”

  The Siesta Key Research Institute held an annual competition for local scuba divers. One weekend each year the park was open to outside divers. Contests were held in a mock Olympics, and one of the games involved golfers hitting neon-colored balls into the ocean and having the divers retrieve them for prizes. At the end of the second day, medals were awarded and alcohol consumed. Divers came from across the state and the festivities gained in notoriety every year. It proved to be a lucrative fundraiser for the Institute and an innovative way to drum up media attention, in addition to being genuinely fun.

  “That long? Didn’t realize I’d dropped out of sight. It hasn’t felt that way. The Institute’s runnin’ me ragged.”

  “How’s the place treated you?” Evan leaned against his desk, arms crossed.

  “Between us, I’d like less office bullshit and more fieldwork.”

  “You’re preaching to the converted here. Since I work for Uncle Sam, I can’t take a piss without filling out forms in triplicate.”

  Hamilton sighed and put down the magazine. “Most days all I do is beg people for money.”

  “You want something to drink?” Evan asked.

  “No thanks.”

  Evan went to a counter on the other end of the trailer. It was cluttered with various charts and a coffeemaker. “I’m a bit parched myself.” He took a mug from an overhead cabinet and poured himself a cup. “Nothing like a cold cup of java on a hot day.” He took a sip and grimaced. “Those coffee grounds must be a week old.” He opened the trailer door and emptied out the beverage.

  “Speaking of fishing, you hook yourself a wife yet?” Hamilton asked.

  The ranger grabbed the coffeepot and poured it out the door too. “Ocean’s full of fish, just haven’t found a keeper yet. After Julie I’m leery, y’know. Guess I let her dangle on the line a bit too long.”

  “That was for the better. I can’t really imagine you tied down.”

  “The wife and the two-point-five kids and the white picket fence sounds nice, but I don’t think it’s in the cards for me. What about you, any prospective Missus Hamiltons out there?”

  “I was seeing someone ‘til last month. A year and a half down the drain.”

  “Did I meet her, the brunette with the big teeth?”

  “Krystal, yeah. She was offered a job as manager of the San Diego SeaWorld.”

  “That’s a bitch,” Evan said.

  “So was she. The relationship wasn’t going anywhere anyway. The decision was mutual.”

  “At least it was a clean break.”

  “Even if I wanted to stay with her, I couldn’t leave my post now. Two years as director is too short a term. Paperwork aside, I do like certain aspects of the job. We always conduct intriguing studies, and the pay isn’t bad.”

  Evan returned to his desk and took a seat, hands laced behind his head. “What kind of programs you got?”

  “Right now I’m working on a paper about dolphin intelligence. We purchased a couple bottlenoses that I’ve been training, testing their memories. I think they may be as smart as pigs. They can recognize themselves in a mirror and are able to memorize complex routines. Now we’re testing their capacity to perform tasks using creativity and logical reasoning.” Hamilton shifted in his chair. “What about you?”

  “This time of year I’m busy with poachers. People sneak
onto the preserve and will tangle with an angry mama gator to get her eggs.”

  “How valuable are they?”

  “They’ll fetch five, six bucks apiece from a gator farm. It’s reckless and stupid. Thing is, my hands are tied. All I can do is fine them. We need every one of those eggs too. The gator population’s been steadily declining for ten years, and the juveniles are important to us.”

  “What’s caused the drop off?”

  “I did a water analysis last fall and found heavy mercury levels in the lake. Pollution and chemical runoff is making the females sterile. We don’t need that, especially since only five percent of the total gator population are fertile females anyway.”

  “Have you seen the domino effect?”

  “I’ve noticed fewer birds, herons and egrets in particular. That’ll be my next project. I have a theory their numbers are depleted as well, after eating all that contaminated fish.” Evan scratched his elbow and asked, “What’s this venture you mentioned over the phone?”

  “Seems one of my researchers stumbled on something interesting,” Hamilton said.

  “What?”

  “We don’t really know.”

  Evan folded his hands in his lap. “You have my attention.”

  “We sent an expedition into the Sylvian Trench to assess some equipment, namely a new type of infrared camera. Within five years we plan to compress the technology for commercial use, mostly other researchers and documentarists. Within ten years I predict it’ll be available to the private sector.”

  “So you recorded an unknown fish you want me to verify?”

  “Not quite,” Hamilton said. “It’s a bit more than that, at least from what Kelly told me. I didn’t see the creature firsthand.”

  Evan arched an eyebrow. “Kelly?”

  “Doctor Andrews. She heads our marine biology department.”