Matanzas Bay

by Parker Francis

  I tried to tell her she had no reason to apologize, but she plunged ahead.

  “No, I over-reacted, and it wasn’t fair to you. Now that you’ve met my uncle and heard his story, though, you probably have a better idea of who I am and why I might have these conflicted feelings.” Serena gazed toward the plush leather chair where Walter Howard had sat as if checking to see if he was still there.

  “It took a lot of courage to tell his story to a stranger.”

  She nodded in agreement. “The truth is he’s kept it pretty much to himself. I never heard his story until a year or so after I returned from college.”

  I looked at her with raised eyebrows.

  “He had moved to Daytona Beach with his family after it happened. My father moved to Chicago, and we lived there through high school.” She paused and took a sip of wine.

  “After we returned to St. Augustine, and I went off to college, dad persuaded Uncle Walter to move in with him. His wife, my Aunt Aletia, had died, and his daughter had married and moved to Atlanta. There was nothing keeping him in Daytona.”

  “But didn’t your father tell you what had happened?”

  “Not exactly. He told me his brother had been part of the civil rights movement in the sixties, and hadn’t been treated well by some of the racists in the community. Then I returned home from college filled with myself, thinking this nearly white girl could do or be anything she wanted. I even dated a white man for a while until my father told me Uncle Walter had something he wanted to share with me. That was the first time I heard the complete story about his beating at the hands of Bat Marrano and the Klan.”

  I reached over and placed a hand on hers. She didn’t move away, but slowly looked up at me.

  “You can’t imagine how I felt when you told me you were working for Mrs. Marrano. She’s part of this family of … of racist dogs who almost killed my uncle, and you were working to find her husband’s killer.”

  Her eyes glistened, her emotional turmoil churning my stomach.

  “You heard what my uncle said about the two boys. Who do you think they were?”

  I recalled what Henderson had told me about Bat Marrano taking his grandsons to the Klan rallies. “Bill and Buck Marrano.”

  She pulled her hand from under mine as though an electric shock had passed between us. “Buck and Bill.” The names exploded from her mouth. “Your client’s husband jumped at the chance to beat on a helpless nigger.”

  “But that was such a long time ago,” I replied. “You can’t blame Erin for what her husband might have done as a kid. Besides, you never said anything to me about this when I took the case.”

  “I should have,” she admitted. “Anyway, you were the first white man I’ve dated in twelve years. I hadn’t intended to get involved, but you grew on me.” She offered me a hint of a smile before turning her head away, maybe hoping I hadn’t seen it. Too late.

  “The thing is, I still have feelings for you.”

  I came here tonight convinced our relationship was beyond resuscitation. In my mind we were here for only one reason—to sign the death certificate and make it official. But if I was reading her right, a faint heartbeat still existed.

  I stared at Serena who seemed to be waiting for me to pick up on her cue. Her honey brown eyes sparkled, but for a moment I saw bright blues and pictured myself kissing Erin Marrano. I wanted to tell Serena it was too late for second acts. Tell her I couldn’t handle the kind of emotional heartburn that would surely come with a renewed relationship. Instead I said, “Hey, I have feelings for you, too.”

  Thinking I should learn to keep my big mouth shut, I leaned over to kiss her. At least I tried to kiss her.

  Serena pushed me away. “No, Quint. I’m telling you this just won’t work.” She read the confusion on my face and added, “I’m sorry.”

  ***

  We eventually sorted things out, confirming our friendship for one another and promising to stay in touch. All the insincere things men and women say to each other when they break up. At her door, I kissed her on the cheek and she offered me a sad smile and a pat on the back. Jamming my hand into my jeans, I pulled out my car keys and the yellow piece of paper fluttered to the floor.

  “What’s this?” Serena bent to pick it up.

  “Nothing.” I held out my hand but she was already reading the anonymous note.

  “When did you get this?”

  “This afternoon. I’m on my way over there now.”

  “You don’t even know if it’s legitimate. Someone could be fooling with you.” Serena gave me the note and I stuffed it back into my pocket.

  “You’re right, but I can’t ignore it. What if it’s legit?”

  “Maybe you should call the police and let them handle it.”

  “No, that would screw everything up. The note said to come alone. Someone has to know something about Marrano’s murder. This could be the break I’ve been looking for.”

  She held my eyes for a long time before saying, “I’d feel better if you called me after the meeting.”

  “You don’t have to worry. Like you said, it’s probably someone’s nasty idea of a joke and I’ll find myself alone with the alligators.”

  “Quint, promise me that you’ll call.”

  I shook my head as if to say she was a big worrywart, but secretly I was pleased to know she cared. “Fine, I promise I’ll call you as soon as I find out what this guy has to say. One way or the other, I should be on my way home by ten-thirty or so.”

  “Get out of here,” she pushed me through the door into the hallway. “And Quint …”

  I turned around. “Yeah.”

  “Be careful.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The Alligator Farm was bathed in shadows as I turned off Anastasia Boulevard into the darkened parking lot. Scaly and beaked creatures of all sizes and dispositions were sequestered behind a high wooden fence flanking the perimeter of the zoological attraction.

  One of Florida’s oldest tourist spots, the Alligator Farm began its life over a hundred years ago as a scam, a place of burning waters. The owners figured if people would pay to see oil burning in a pond they might pay to see alligators, which in those days were so common you might trip over one on your way to the privy. Today, St. Augustine’s Alligator Farm is part of the American Association of Zoological Parks and Aquariums with a diverse collection of animals and one of the largest wild bird rookeries in the State of Florida.

  By day, the palm trees and scrub oaks dotting the parking area formed a pleasant enough environment for the visiting tourists, but the attraction closed at six and now an uncomfortable air of apprehension hung over it. Dark and foreboding, the shadowed fence loomed like a malignant organism lying in wait to pounce on any unwary creature unlucky enough to wander too close.

  Standing next to my car, waiting for my vision to adjust to the darkness, I felt the smothering presence of the elongated shadows. There were no other cars in the parking lot even though it was five minutes past the ten o’clock meeting time. I wondered if Serena was right, and someone was messing with me. She had woman’s intuition on her side, but maybe, just maybe, this was the lucky break I’d been searching for.

  I walked around to the passenger side, opened the door and reached into the glove box. Retrieving my revolver, I slid it into the waistband of my jeans. This might be a harmless meeting where a name was the only surprise thrown at me, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  I tried to imagine who my mystery informant might be—a secret witness to Marrano’s murder. Possibly a disgruntled girlfriend hoping to get even. Could it be someone I knew? No face appeared in my mind’s eye, and I still had no clue who left the note on my windshield. It didn’t matter, I told myself. With Poe’s attempted suicide, the pressure mounted. Find the evidence to free him. Find it quickly, or I feared Poe’s fragile mental underpinnings would collapse.

  I walked to the corner of Anastasia Boulevard and Old Quarry Road hoping to see someone waiting for me
. No one in sight. In the distance a dog barked and a twinkle of light appeared. Soon the barking stopped and the light winked out.

  Trudging to the front of the attraction, I heard night calls of birds and the huffing and grunts of what I assumed were either alligators or crocodiles on the other side of the fence. From a previous visit, I knew the Alligator Farm had an impressive collection of crocodilians, including one monster they called Maximo, a 15-foot, twelve hundred and fifty pound saltwater crocodile from Australia.

  During that visit, I’d watched in fascination as the massive creatures swarmed toward a feeding perch, clawing and leaping at chunks of raw meat dropped into their midst. Perhaps these night noises I heard were a crocodilian version of Morse Code, a signal that fresh prey was approaching.

  A thick hedge of pittosporum fronted the fence surrounding the Alligator Farm. For the first time I noticed a service door cut into the fence to the left of the conservation center. I pulled at the metal handle on the door. Locked.

  A slash of light slithered past me and I turned to watch a car driving along Anastasia Boulevard. The gloom returned as the car faded into the distance. Ten minutes had passed since I arrived, and I feared Serena may be right.

  Patience, I reminded myself. I owed it to Poe to stay the course, to solve the puzzles surrounding this case. I’d always been good at solving puzzles, and it got me to thinking that I’d been treating the case as another puzzle in search of a solution. Not placing enough emphasis on the potential for danger.

  We’re all familiar with those insipid movies where the moronic teen in her bra and panties creeps down the stairs into a darkened basement despite everything, including the ominous music, warning her to run in the other direction. Of course, she gets what she deserves when the crazed killer takes her head off with a machete. I’ve always laughed at those scenes and knew I’d recognize a dangerous situation with or without the portentous soundtrack in the background.

  Before I had a chance to worry about a man with a machete, the dog down the street began barking again. I stared in the direction of the racket, wondering if a stranger lurking in the shadows had triggered the dog’s response. Reflexively, I grasped the handle of the Smith & Wesson.

  Something crashed to the ground in the parking lot near my car and I spun around feeling goose bumps erupt on the back of my neck. I pulled the revolver from my jeans, prepared to defend myself.

  The weak light spilling from the spots on the front of the building illuminated a palm frond lying near the front of my car. It hadn’t been there when I’d parked. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, lowering the gun to my side. Smiling at my jumpiness, I told myself life wasn’t like a bad horror movie.

  As I turned away from my car, the gun still in my hand, I heard a rustle in the hedge behind me. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a dark shape rise up from behind the thick foliage. My muscles tensed. Adrenaline spiked into my system. I pivoted toward the hedge, raising the gun as I turned, but the looming figure had already moved and something smashed into my right temple. My legs buckled. The gun slipped from my hand. A battery of brilliant tangerine-colored sparks burst through my head, and I fell into a black, crystalline sea.

  Consciousness played fickle games with me, and I remembered hearing what must have been the door in the fence scraping open. I seemed to be floating in a thick fog, unable to move, but I forced myself to open my eyes. A stocky man dressed in dark clothes, his head covered by a hood, pulled the door closed. My head throbbed and my stomach lurched, the sour taste of shrimp stir fry paying me a return visit. Feebly, I reached out with my right arm and attempted to grab his leg. The man in black easily eluded my grasping fingers and a heavy work boot shot out toward my head.

  More pain before blessed blackness carted me away.

  Minutes later—or perhaps hours—I emerged from my stupor only to wish for the sanctuary of sleep as a roaring filled my ears and crushing pain reverberated through my skull. I pictured myself tied to a railroad track, my head resting on one of the tracks, and a train engine rolling over it. Then backing up and doing it again.

  Through the fog of misery, I felt myself dragged roughly by the feet, my head bouncing along the ground. The grunts of large animals filtered through my dazed brain. I heard water splashing, and knew this night would end horribly for me if I didn’t do something.

  I recalled the feeding frenzy I witnessed during my last visit to the Alligator Farm—dozens of prehistoric creatures clawing over each other to snatch a piece of raw rodent dropped from above. Powerful jaws snapping, the water boiling with whipping tails and probing snouts. If they put on such a show for a piece of goddamn rat, I thought, what would they do for a real hunk of meat?

  I grabbed at the weeds and swamp grass trying desperately to slow my rush to extinction. They slid through my hands, leaving them raw and bleeding. Finally, I managed to wrap a hand around a small bush. The bush held and I caught my breath, trying to lift my head to see the person on the other end of my legs.

  Strong hands tugged furiously at my ankles, trying to loosen my grip on the bush. I clenched it tighter, digging my other hand into the muddy ground, hoping to find some purchase there.

  “What do you want?” I managed to quake, but received no response as my grip on the bush slipped. The pressure on my legs suddenly eased and I renewed my handhold on the bush. I turned my head to get a better look seeing only the dim outline of his legs in the dark. As I watched, I saw one thick leg rise over me before crashing into my stomach. All the air rushed from my lungs and I gagged. I also let go of the bush. The bouncing and scraping began again.

  Gasping for breath, fighting the dizzying pain in my head, I again attempted to yank myself free. My legs suddenly flipped upwards in a tight embrace against the man’s chest. He hoisted me off the ground like I was chained to a pulley, and drove my head against the ground. I passed out again.

  I awoke with a crash to find myself on the other side of a fence. Face down in a patch of damp earth, fetid smells assaulting my senses, I lay there feeling the throbbing pain radiating from my temple down through my arms and chest. All around me I heard the feral sounds of the denizens of the Alligator Farm. The shrieks of birds awakened by our intrusion into their sanctuary mixed with the grunts and cries of larger, more dangerous animals.

  Afraid my tormenter would return, I rolled away from the fence. Pain coursed through my body with each movement, but I kept rolling over the marshy ground until I banged into a tree. I lay there holding my breath, praying he wouldn’t return to put me out of my misery.

  My body worked against me, and I lost consciousness again. I awoke confused, wondering where I was. My head throbbed, white spots danced before my eyes. The sounds of the swamp brought all the painful memories back to me. I heard unnerving slithering nearby, the swishing of underbrush, a bubbling of water.

  It took all my will power to raise my head, to concentrate on the shadows in the swamp edging closer and closer. Staring into the darkness, my vision shifted in and out of focus but I saw a beam of light tracking toward me. He was returning to finish me off.

  I lay still hoping he wouldn’t see me by the tree. The flashlight beam swept the ground in front of me lighting up a small section of my world. Peering into the night, trying desperately not to make a sound, I saw multiple pairs of red eyes reflected in the passing light.

  Urgent steps scurried in my direction, while ahead of me the swishing of powerful strokes sliced through the water. Dazed and shocked, I drifted into unconsciousness, unable to face the approaching beast—either the two-legged or four-legged variety.

  A sound, perhaps a word, suddenly split the air, and in the haze enveloping me I struggled to decipher it. Again it reverberated, rising above the pounding in my head. A single word rang out, and filtered through into my battered brain.

  “Quint.”

  The voice belonged to my brother, summoning me. Andrew, is it really you? I wanted to touch the dolphin charm hanging around my n
eck, rub it like a talisman, pray it would whisk me away from danger. But I couldn’t move.

  Something clamped down on my arm, yanking me roughly across the ground. The pain became unbearable and I groaned. For a moment, an image from the feeding frenzy returned to me. I saw much too clearly the open jaws of a twelve-foot alligator snapping over the raw meat, swallowing it whole. But this time the massive jaws were biting into my arm, pulling me deeper into the nightmare waters.

  Mercifully, I lost consciousness again.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  In my nightmare, I saw myself dragged naked through the streets of St. Augustine. With one leg roped to the rear bumper of a pick-up truck driven by Bat Marrano, I skidded and scraped along the cobblestone lanes of the ancient city.

  The old Klansman leaned out of the pick-up’s window and asked, “How you feeling there, hoss?”

  Eyes open, head pounding. Still alive? I remembered being eaten by the alligators. Then the nightmare ride, and now Bat Marrano wanted to know how I felt. Squinting at a blurry shape floating above me, I shook my head to clear my fuzzy vision. Bad idea. Spasms of pain burst through my sinus cavity into my right temple.

  “Oh, shit.” I closed my eyes, praying for sleep to return.

  “Easy there.”

  The voice was familiar, but in my woozy condition recognition hung just out of reach. I doubted Bat Marrano had returned from the grave to haunt me. Still, my pummeled brain wouldn’t make the connection.

  “I’ll go find the nurse and let her know you’ve awakened from your nap.”

  Nap? This clown had a real sense of humor. I groaned again, raising a hand to my head to tenderly finger a knot the size of a small plum beside my right ear. Gawd, my skull felt shattered.

  “Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Mitchell,” said a cheery voice.

  I turned toward a large, round-faced woman with coppery-red hair pulled into a small bun on the back of her head. “It’s good to be back,” I managed to say.