by Tim Dorsey
Suddenly high beams blazed the bluff. The man shielded his eyes.
Serge raced up in the truck and hit the brakes. He killed the engine but left the lights on, and jumped out the driver’s door. “Don’t move!”
The poacher recognized the park ranger vehicle. “I’m so sorry. I know it was wrong. I don’t know why I did it.”
“Throw the bag over here.”
The man did.
Serge bent down and unzipped it. Carefully opened a towel.
“What is it?” asked Coleman.
“Unfortunately, what I suspected.” He zipped it closed. “Gator head.” Serge stepped up to the man. “Let me see your hands.”
The man held them out.
“Pretty smooth, no calluses, nice nails.” Serge looked up. “And that haircut. You work in an office, don’t you?”
The man nodded.
“I could have let you off with a warning if you took the tail,” said Serge. “Then you’re at least feeding your family.”
“I just wanted a trophy,” said the man. “There were so many of them, I figured, what’s the harm?”
Serge stepped closer. “What’s the harm in killing something just to kill it?”
“I’ll pay a fine. I’ll even pay it right now, and extra for your time.”
“Some people would call that a bribe, if we were real park rangers.”
The poacher stopped in confusion. “You’re not park rangers?”
“More like ‘society rangers,’ ” said Serge.
“What about the truck?”
“We ‘borrowed’ it.”
“You mean you stole it,” the man said with rebounding confidence. He quickly reached in the bed of his truck and came up with a .357 Magnum. “Now you don’t move!” The man made a slow, wide circle around the pair until he arrived at the ranger’s pickup. He kept the gun on them as he reached through the driver’s window and grabbed the keys.
“Are you for fucking real?” the poacher yelled at Serge. “A loser like you threatening someone important like me?” He swung the gun in the general direction of Deep Hole. “I’m going to go back down there and shoot ten of those goddamn things in your honor. But first I’m going to tie you up, and tomorrow they’ll find you with the stolen pickup and all the dead alligators and—you can figure out the rest.”
Coleman began trembling, then blubbering.
“Shut up!” screamed the poacher. With a backhand delivery, he clocked Coleman upside the head with the butt of his pistol.
Coleman went down, blood streaming, crying full volume.
Serge raised his eyebrows. “Alligators are one thing, but you just attacked a gentle, defenseless animal.”
“Gee, I feel terrible.”
“I was only going to teach you a lesson,” said Serge, “but the curriculum just changed.”
“Teach me a lesson? Study carefully.” He reached down and cracked Coleman again in the jaw.
When the poacher looked up again, the tables had turned.
“Did you hear a bell?” asked Serge, aiming the pistol he’d pulled from under his shirt. “That means school’s in session.”
Chapter Seventeen
One A.M.
A Crown Vic skidded into the parking lot of a low-rent apartment building on Bee Ridge Road. Window a/c units rattled and dripped in the night heat. The doors had frosted jalousie glass.
Three agents ran up stairs to the second floor.
White knocked extra hard. “Police!”
No answer.
More knocking.
More silence.
Lowe took off his jacket and rolled his hand up in one of the sleeves.
“What are you doing?” asked White.
“Busting one of the glass slats to stick my hand in.”
“Knock it off.” White banged the door again.
This time, glass slats creaked open—on the next apartment’s door.
White sidestepped to the neighboring unit. “Excuse me, have you seen the guy who lives here?”
Dilated eyes peeked through a dirty screen between the slats. “What’s Carlos done?”
“Nothing. Just need to talk to him,” said the agent. “Is he home?”
The man shook his head.
“Know where he is now?”
“Not really.” The eyes shifted right. “Likes to tie it on at this bar up 41. Sometimes crashes with friends instead of driving. Said if he wasn’t back tonight, he’d be here in the morning.”
“Why’d he tell you that?”
“He’s the apartment manager. Supposed to snake my toilet.”
“Thanks.”
The slats cranked shut.
1:10 A.M.
Shadows crossed a dry, moonlit lake bed.
Serge dragged the unconscious poacher on a makeshift litter of palm fronds. Coleman trailed with Walmart shopping bags.
“This is far enough.” Serge dropped the litter’s handles. “Give me those bags.”
“What’s the plan for this guy? Throw him in with the gators?”
“Too obvious—and quick.” Serge unwrapped a foot-powered inflation pump. He threw one of the bags back to Coleman. “Grab the rope and tent stakes. Hammer it in over there.”
Coleman pulled his hands out of the sack. “There are two ropes.”
“I’ll be taking the other to the far side of Deep Hole.” Serge attached a valve and began stomping the air pump.
When inflation reached Serge’s required pounds per square inch, he tied off both ropes. “Coleman, your Bic . . .”
Serge finished and tossed the lighter back. “Now grab his wrists.”
They unceremoniously dropped him on rubber matting. Then he was dragged again.
After much work and geometric calculation, Serge and Coleman were on opposite sides of Deep Hole.
“Pull tighter!” Serge called across the water. Then he hammered his own tent stakes and walked back around to rejoin his friend.
“Now what?” said Coleman.
“We wake our guest,” said Serge. “Boy, is he going to be surprised!”
“But how are we going to wake him at this distance. You conked him pretty good.”
Serge reached in another bag and smiled.
“Those things rule!” said Coleman.
Serge stuck a long tube in his mouth.
Seconds later, from the middle of the sinkhole: “Ow! Fuck!” The poacher sprang up into a sitting position and pulled the blow dart from his cheek. Anger quickly changed to other thoughts as he assessed his predicament. “Please!” he yelled to the men on shore. “I’ll give you money! Anything! Just get me out of here!”
“I love a quick student,” said Serge.
“Hurry!” yelled the poacher. “They’re all around!”
“Relax,” said Serge. “You don’t have anything to worry about—yet. That’s the odd thing about gators: You can canoe through hundreds and they’ll leave you alone. They’re not like Moby-Dick, knocking people out of boats . . .”
“Or life rafts,” said Coleman.
“Or life rafts,” repeated Serge. “Like the one you’re in. Just as long as you stay in the raft, they’ll stay where they are . . . Swimming with them on the other hand . . .”—Serge whistled— “. . . Forget it. That’s what they live for.”
The poacher looked over one side of the raft, then the other, his eyes following lengths of braided nylon rope anchored to opposite shores with tent stakes and holding the raft in the exact center of Deep Hole. He looked up at Serge and grabbed his heart. “Okay, you got me good. I get it now. I’m supposed to untie one of the ropes attached to the raft and reel myself to shore with the other.”
“Excellent analysis,” said Serge. “And wrong. I used Coleman’s lighter to melt the knots. I do my best work in nylon.”
“Then what are you going to do to me?”
Serge smiled and raised the tube to his mouth again.
“Ow! Shit!” The poacher pulled a dart from his chest. “What
are these things, dipped in poison?”
“Of course not,” said Serge. “That would be rude. They’re just plain, unadulterated darts.”
“Then why are you shooting at me?”
Serge raised the tube again. “Bad aim. You weren’t the target.” Serge blew. The next dart found its mark.
Hissing.
“You hit the side of my raft! It’s leaking!”
“Just pull the dart out and stick your finger over the hole.”
The man did. “You’re right. It’s working.”
“Like I don’t know my job.” Serge walked a quarter way around the sinkhole and fired another dart.
Hissssssssss . . .
“Your other hand!” yelled Serge.
The man plugged the second leak, arms spread as wide as they could reach across the back of the raft.
Serge continued circling the sinkhole. Another dart.
Hisssssssssss . . .
Serge cupped his hands around his mouth. “Big toe on your right foot.”
Another leak plugged.
Serge almost completed circling the hole when the next dart flew.
“Other foot!”
Serge finished the rounds and reunited with his buddy.
“Reminds me of Twister,” said Coleman.
“They could sell a lot more of those games if they included a raft.”
“Hey!” yelled a voice from the sinkhole. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“My advice?” said Serge. “Don’t fall asleep.”
“Wait! You’re not leaving, are you?”
“Not yet.” Serge walked as close to the shore as he could for accuracy. A final dart flew.
“Ow!” The poacher removed his left hand from the side of the raft and pulled the dart from his neck. Then quickly covered the hissing hole again. “I can’t plug any more leaks.”
“That time I was aiming for you,” said Serge. “And the dart was tipped.”
“With what?” yelled the poacher.
“I ground up some of Coleman’s pills and dissolved them in water. Sedative. But don’t worry: very slow acting. When certain people are under severe stress, they suffer insomnia. It’s not good for your constitution.”
“So you just made sure I’ll fall asleep?”
“But I guarantee you’ll wake up.”
“When?”
“Nature has its own alarm clocks.”
Serge and Coleman began walking away.
“Come back! Don’t go!”
They continued across the lake bed, desperate cries behind them growing softer until they dissipated in the wind.
“Back to the cabin?” said Coleman.
“One more stop for the exit strategy. I need to prepare my Internet audience for tomorrow’s ‘Out.’ Then yes, back to the cabin.”
They climbed the bank and got in the ranger’s pickup. Another bounding ride through the night. Owls and opossums.
“Glad you turned me on to nature,” said Coleman. “I had no idea.”
“That’s why I like to come out here and mellow.”
Chapter Eighteen
The Next Morning
Banging on the window of a Crown Vic.
Three sleeping agents awoke in grogginess.
More banging.
White sat up in the driver’s seat and rubbed his eyes.
Out the windshield was the man they’d met the previous night through a jalousie door.
“He’s back.” The tenant pointed at a taxi parked nearby.
White jumped out of the car, and the others followed up the stairs.
From back in the parking lot: “Tell him I need my toilet snaked.”
Banging again on a second-floor door. “Police.”
This time they heard movement inside. A shin banged a coffee table. Cursing. More movement. Glass slats slowly cranked open.
A gold badge appeared. “Agent White. Need to ask you some questions.”
The shirtless resident undid the chain and opened the door. Then he plopped in a chair and chased three aspirins with gin-flavored hair of the dog.
“You Carlos? The cabdriver?”
He nodded.
“Heard you had a suspicious fare yesterday.”
The driver rubbed his temples. “Please talk quieter.”
White stepped forward and pulled a mug shot from his jacket. “This the guy?”
Carlos squinted. “Definitely.”
“Where’d you drop him? . . .”
Ranger Jane stood next to her pickup. “What a surprise—you were still here when I woke up.”
“You misjudge me by one little incident of disappearing for six years.”
She pointed with a thumb over her shoulder. “Have to get to work. But you will call this time?”
“Absolutely,” said Serge, hoisting his backpack on the cabin’s porch.
“Promise?”
“Why wouldn’t I call?” He came down the steps and gave her a quick peck.
She threw her arms around his neck.
The pickup’s radio squawked.
“Just a sec.” Jane reached in the truck and grabbed the mike.
Coleman stumbled down the porch steps with his own backpack strapped to his stomach.
Serge walked over. “It’s supposed to go on the other side.”
“I know.” Coleman looked down at the teddy bear’s head. “I was having some trouble and it just ended up here.”
“Let me give you a hand . . .”
Jane jumped in the truck and turned the ignition. “Don’t go anywhere before I get back. I still want to talk to you.”
“What’s going on?” asked Serge.
“Something’s come up.” She threw the truck in gear. “Didn’t get the details, but I’ve never heard them so excited.”
The truck patched out.
“Let’s get going,” said Serge, heading into the woods. “That was a lucky clean break, no schmaltzy good-byes.”
“Didn’t she tell you not to leave?”
“Women always say that.” Serge pushed through branches. “But they actually want you to leave. They love that in a man.”
Coleman stepped over a log. “I thought they hated it.”
“They say they hate it, but inside they secretly want a rogue.”
“Are you a rogue?”
“No, but I play one in books.” Serge hacked through more branches. “You show me a guy who does exactly everything a woman wants, and I’ll show you the same guy six months later, standing on the sidewalk, wondering why some asshole’s toothbrush is in her bathroom where his used to be.”
“You know so much about chicks.”
“Except shoes.”
“Shoes?”
“You can’t get away with shoes they don’t like. It’s the one thing, don’t ask me why.”
Coleman looked down. “Where are your favorite sneakers?”
“Hid them in my backpack.” He splashed through shallow algae puddles. “Knew I was going to see Jane, so I bought these approved hiking boots.”
“But you love those sneakers.”
“They’re like a part of my body after all these years. The toes are starting to wear through, but they’re so comfy I just slap on a little duct tape and continue the happiness. But are women happy for you? No. ‘You are not wearing duct tape to a five-star restaurant.’ ”
“We don’t tell them what to wear,” said Coleman
“Except for the special costumes in bed. But they give us that one victory so we don’t stray or use the guest towels.”
“Jesus, the guest towels,” said Coleman. “Remember when you were married to Molly and I went in the bathroom and didn’t know the rule?”
“Been meaning to ask: What the hell did you do to those towels? They looked like evidence a prosecutor holds up at a murder trial.”
“Just washin’.”
Serge sidestepped. “Pile of shit.”
“Thanks,” said Coleman. He bent down and held out a ha
nd. “Look what I almost stepped in.”
Jane raced toward the guard booth at the main entrance into Myakka River State Park.
A dozen marked and unmarked police cars parked every which way, with more still pouring in from the highway. A tour bus arrived, blaring Kiss.
Nearly every ranger was there, too, clustered in various knots with city police, sheriff’s deputies, state agents.
A convertible T-Bird slowed as it approached the entrance. The driver noticed the pandemonium. She stopped on the opposite shoulder and unfolded a road map. A bright red fingernail moved across Sarasota County. But it wasn’t following a road. It traced a squiggly blue line. The driver smiled, re-folded the map and drove off.
Back by the guard booth, a chorus of questions and rumors.
“Everyone quiet down!” yelled White. “Who’s in command at the park?”
“That would be me.” A rugged outdoorsman in a light green parks department shirt stepped forward.
“You the one I talked to on the phone?”
He nodded.
“Where are the witnesses?”
“Over there.” He pointed behind the guard booth at a pair of glowing-pale people in knee-high white socks and the world’s largest binoculars hanging from their necks. “Canadian bird-watchers.”
The agent walked briskly and held up Serge’s mug shot. “Seen this guy?”
“Sure,” said the husband. “We were eating breakfast this morning in the hotel lobby and saw one of your American crime shows on the TV. Then we came out here for the pied-billed grebe and semi-palmated plovers . . .”
“. . . We weren’t even looking for the tufted titmouse,” said the wife. “Let alone a boat-tailed grackle. I took some pictures if you’d like—”
“Pardon me,” interrupted White. “The suspect?”
“Oh, yeah,” said the husband. “Then we were driving back to the interpretive center.”
“I always pay attention to the sides of the road,” said the wife. “Never know what you’ll see. And there they were.”
“The suspects?”
“No, yellow-throated warblers.”
White pursed his lips. “When did you see the suspects?”
She turned to her husband. “Between the warblers and loons?”