As he turned, he realized he was close enough to touch the bank, where weeds were knee-deep. He lunged, got a fistful of grass in both hands and tried to pull himself out. He was too heavy, though, and roots ripped away from the earth, causing him to fall back into the water butt first.
As Squires hit the water, everything was still happening in slow motion. He got a snapshot look at three figures running toward him. It was the Bible-freak Mexican girl and the two white guys, the hippie two steps ahead of the guy named Ford. Ford appeared to have stopped for some reason, maybe to fish something from his pocket, but the girl and the hippie were coming fast. But then Squires didn’t see anything else because he closed his eyes as he fell backward and landed on Fifi, who felt wide and buoyant in the water.
An instant later, Squires endured a watery explosion beneath him. He floundered for a few seconds, then he felt bony hands on his shoulder and realized someone was trying to drag his weight up the bank but wasn’t having much success.
Squires used his fingers to claw at the sand as he crawled out of the water, picturing the gator opening its jaws again to snap off one of his legs, but it didn’t happen because then he heard: WHAP-WHAP!
Two more gunshots.
Several long minutes later, Squires was on his knees, breathing heavily, aware that headlights of an ambulance and two emergency vehicles now illuminated the area like a stage.
He heard men’s voices calling sharp orders, one of them yelling, “Put the weapon on the ground. Step away and show me your hands. Do it now!” Then he heard the same voice, louder, say, “Show me your goddamn hands and walk toward me!”
An asshole cop. It had to be—no one but a cop could mix contempt and authority in quite the same way. But Squires realized they were yelling at the big guy, Ford, not him, which was a relief. It gave him some hope.
The hippie was trying to help Squires to his feet, but Squires yanked his elbow away, saying, “Get your goddamn hands off me!” but then winced when he tried to take a step. He hissed, “Shit,” because the back of his right leg was knotted and hurt like hell because of the pulled hamstring.
The hippie said to him, “Are you okay? Did it bite you? That was damn close, man!”
Squires put some weight on his leg and took a few experimental steps, watching the big guy walk toward a semicircle of cops and EMTs, holding his hands high. Then he listened to Ford say in the distance, “The injured man’s over there, he needs attention right away. An alligator grabbed him, I don’t know how bad. Then it came back after the big guy. That’s why I had to use a weapon.”
It had been a bad night so far, but Squires decided this might be a chance to turn things around. He pushed the hippie away and started toward the cops, limping barefooted, straightening himself, trying to look respectable despite his slimy knee-length shorts and muscle T-shirt.
He waited until he was sure the cops were looking in his direction before saying, “I’m the manager, I own this place. I was hoping you boys would show up. That asshole right there”—he pointed at Ford—“almost got me killed, the way he was banging off rounds from that little pistol of his. Hell, maybe he did kill someone. We should have a look around. Check on the units and make sure one of my tenants isn’t hurt.”
Squires made a point of ignoring Ford, who was staring at him now. For some reason, the scientist had a quizzical expression on his face, not amused, not pissed off, but interested, like Squires was some kind of bug.
It was weird the way the man appeared so relaxed, not the least bit worried, despite the guns the cops had now lowered, which caused Squires to remember that maybe Ford and the hippie were part of some DEA sting. Maybe they were even friends with these cops, who might be playing some kind of game.
Cops did shit like that all the time when they had their sights set on busting an underground steroids lab. Or so Squires had read on the Internet bodybuilder forums. It was law enforcement’s way of sticking their noses where they didn’t belong.
When one of the cops said to Squires, “Stop right there, no closer,” Squires did, then listened to the man ask, “What’s your name?”
Squires told him, deciding suddenly it was better to be friendly if Ford was DEA, which is why he added, “But I got no hard feelings against the dude. Maybe he was just trying to help me save that poor drunk over there—”
Squires looked toward the bank, where EMTs were already working on Carlson. There wasn’t a chilie or a chula around now, he noticed. They’d all disappeared except for the weird little Jesus freak, who was pestering the EMTs about the old drunk, probably getting in their way.
Behind him, Squires heard the hippie call to the cops, “Why the hell do you have your guns out? Big tough guys—you’re afraid of a couple of unarmed men and a little kid?”
The hippie said it in an irritated, cop-hater tone, which, to Squires, was more proof that these guys were working undercover for the feds.
Squires used the opening as an excuse to snap at the hippie, saying, “Shut your mouth, these guys know what they’re doing. Let them do their damn jobs!” which might earn him some brownie points with the cops.
Squires hoped so. He felt a welling chemical anxiety inside his head, probably caused by steroids mixing with adrenaline, no doubt the result of that goddamn gator coming so close to biting his ass off. Plus, there was the not-so-small matter of the dead Mexican girl’s body somewhere on the bottom of the lake.
Christ, when he remembered the dead body, Squires felt like he might vomit again, he was so nervous.
The bodybuilder stood there, shifting from his bad leg to his good leg, trying to appear as calm as the nerdy scientist. He watched carefully as the cops talked to Ford in a low voice, and then he felt another jolt when Ford not only lowered his hands but then shook hands with someone who stepped out of the shadows. Another cop, maybe, although the man wasn’t wearing a uniform.
As the two uniforms holstered their weapons, Squires thought, Oh shit, and took a look around. The hippie was walking toward the cops, a pissed-off expression on his face until he saw that the cops had put their guns away, which caused the hippie to relax a little. It gave the skinny dude time to reassess, which is probably why he turned his attention toward Squires.
“What kind of lost soul are you?” the hippie asked, walking toward him. “What do you mean, we helped you save that man? You didn’t do a damn thing but interfere! We just saved your life, and this is how you act?”
The hippie was talking loud enough for the cops to hear if they wanted, but they appeared to be busy with Ford.
Squires decided it was better to deal with the hippie privately before someone started paying attention. So he limped toward the dude, who looked ridiculous, in Squires’s opinion, with his droopy surfer shorts, his skinny little muscles and his ribs showing.
When he was close enough, Squires said to him, “Look, I don’t want any more trouble here. You play nice, I’ll play nice. How’s that sound to you?”
A confused expression appeared on the hippie’s face as he replied, “If that’s supposed to mean something, man, I don’t follow. What the hell you talking about?”
Squires told him, “I’m willing to cooperate,” his voice low now. “I know who you are. I think I know why you’re here. I’ll help set the bust up, if that’s the way you want to play it. You think those cops wouldn’t like to take down a major supplier? Hell yes, they would. One word from me, it could happen.”
Squires was thinking of giving the feds Laziro Victorino, the gangbanger who sold dope on the side, which seemed like a smart way to kill two birds with one stone. Plus, the V-man had shot those snuff films, too, which was a hell of a lot bigger deal than busting a small steroids operation like his.
Maybe the hippie would admit he was DEA, maybe he wouldn’t. Squires was watching the man’s reaction to see.
The expression on the hippie’s face changed from confusion to mild concern. “Who’ve you been talking to? Did you bully your tenants into giv
ing information about me? Turned them into narcs?”
When Squires didn’t answer immediately, the hippie almost lost it. “That sucks, man! It really sucks. There’s nothing lower than a damn narc, in my opinion. These people come here with zero money, they need to make a buck, so what’s it matter to you? That’s really small-time bullshit—and I just helped save your ass. You could be dying right now! Getting your bad-karma ticket punched for hell. Instead, you’re threatening me!”
It took Squires a moment to realize what the hippie was saying. He put the words together with all those crisp twenties in the hippie’s billfold and started smiling. Squires couldn’t help himself. The damn hippie didn’t work for the DEA. The dude was worried about getting busted himself!
Suddenly, Squires felt back in control. Well ... sort of. He still had his girlfriend, Frankie, to worry about, and that gangbanger Victorino. The V-man was scary, but Frankie scared him more. There was no telling the amount of crap the woman would dump on him once she’d heard the cops had been snooping around the lake.
The lake. What lay on the bottom of that lake was Squires’s biggest worry. It caused him to look toward the water, where the mangrove trees looked yellow in the bright ambulance lights, the water black as asphalt. What if they wanted to recover the alligator’s body and decided to drag the pond?
Squires’s smile faded for an instant but then returned. Nope, they wouldn’t need to drag the pond. Because now Squires noticed two cops, one of them lying on the bank, trying to get a rope around something that Squires realized was the gator’s tail.
Good! Fifi was dead—the fat pig deserved it, after attacking him. Shit, after all the times he’d fed her chunks of pig, once a whole yearling deer? And then the animal turns on him!
The scientist probably couldn’t shoot worth a shit, but he’d finally gotten lucky with his little lady’s pistol. True, Squires had been counting on the gator to get rid of the dead girl’s body, and maybe Fifi already had, which struck him as an encouraging possibility.
At first it did, anyway—until he thought it through.
What if the cops took the gator to the Wildlife people? What if the Wildlife cops opened Fifi’s belly to have a look?
Damn it!
Squires hadn’t thought of that and he felt sick again. What if the gator had eaten the Mexican girl’s body? Or even a few pieces? The cops would come storming back here with search warrants and handcuffs, and that would be the end of him.
Jesus Christ, he couldn’t let that happen. Not with the Bible-freak girl still around to testify that she’d seen him drag that heavy sack to the water. If it wasn’t for her, it would be easy enough to play dumb and let the cops blame the V-man. Or any one of the hundreds of other drunken Mexicans who lived in the area. That would be the natural direction to go. Wetbacks killed wettails, right? It happened all the time.
Squires took a look around. The girl had disappeared. Where? She had been kneeling by Carlson. Didn’t seem the least bit concerned that the cops could ask for her ID, find out she was an illegal and take her skinny ass into custody. Not just illegal but underage at that, which meant she’d probably end up in some state orphanage.
Stupid little Mexican.
Squires felt pressure building in his head again as he fumed about the girl, a nobody wettail who could have him jailed if she decided, maybe even send him to the electric chair. It made him furious to think that one little Mexican had so much power over him.
Squires became even more determined to fulfill his fantasy ...
A voice interrupted. “Why were you staring at that child? What’s going on in the twisted brain of yours?”
Squires realized the hippie was talking to him. He turned, surprised, and a little pissed off. He studied the hippie, seeing the seriousness in the guy’s Jesus-looking eyes, also seeing how scrawny the dude was, easy enough to snap the man’s body in two if he wanted.
“She’s a chick, not a child, you dumbass,” Squires said to him, and then enjoyed the guy’s reaction.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” the hippie said, but in a sort of testing way.
“Bullshit, I don’t. You ever seen a boy with pretty little knockers so firm they could poke your damn eye out?”
The hippie took a step toward him. “Why would you even say something so disgusting?”
Squires was loving the look of outrage. “Because it’s true,” he told the guy. “Tonight, that little girl and me had a nice conversation while she was in the trailer taking herself a bath. That’s some tight little ass she’s got for a wettail that young.”
The hippie said, “Wettail?” then started walking toward Squires, the dude’s eyes a little crazy. “You lay a hand on that girl, I’ll see you in prison. You stay away from her or I’ll . . .”
“Or you’ll what? Try and scratch my eyes out?” Squires used a Screw you smile to make the guy madder, hoping the dude would take a swing at him while there were plenty of witnesses right there watching.
“Have an illegal Mexican girl squeal to the cops?”
The look of frustration on the hippie’s face was an awesome thing to see. “Go ahead, tell the cops I was watching the girl take a bath. Let’s see how long it takes for them to ship your little pal’s ass back to shithole Mexico.”
Squires flipped his middle finger at the dude, turned and made a quick trip to his double-wide, where he hid the cash he had stolen from the hippie and the hippie’s asshole friend.
He stuck the money under the false bottom of a drawer, with stacks of twenties, fifties and hundreds he and Frankie had amassed from selling Gator Juice. Probably more than fifty thousand there.
Frankie would know the exact amount. Harris Squires seldom had the patience to count it.
An hour later, with all the lights and cameras and Florida Wildlife vehicles arriving, Harris was thinking that killing an alligator was a bigger deal than killing a person.
He had overheard one of the cops telling a reporter that unless it was a life-or-death situation, harming or harassing a gator could mean a year in jail and up to a four-thousand-dollar fine.
Good. He hoped they took Ford away in handcuffs.
It didn’t look like it was going to happen, though, the way the cops had been treating the bastard. They’d hauled the drunk, Carlson, away in an ambulance, but not before Carlson had told them that Ford and the hippie had saved his life. Carlson was probably the only witness the nerd needed, but the little Bible-freak girl had seen the whole thing, too. Not that she’d stuck around long after the ambulance left.
Where was she? Squires was getting nervous, thinking that maybe the girl would grab her things and disappear from Red Citrus. Or maybe the cops had taken her away to question her privately.
Damn it! That was a possibility. Could be she was telling them right now what she’d seen Squires doing the night before.
No telling how long before the little brat talked, if it happened. It was something he would have to deal with later, though, because what Squires was doing right now was sitting in the backseat of a squad car, answering questions. There were two cops, a chunky guy in uniform and a Latin-looking woman wearing a white blouse tucked into a dark skirt, a regular professional ball breaker. Squires knew it the moment he set eyes on her.
The woman cop, whose name was Specter, was making notes as Squires told her his version of what had happened. In his version, he had been the hero, not Ford, which didn’t get a response from the woman, and that worried him. Had they put him in the squad car to ask about the gator? Or to question him about what he had dumped into the pond the night before? Or maybe, just maybe, one of the nosy cops had taken a peek into his double-wide trailer and seen the steroids kitchen with its propane tanks and chemical jars everywhere.
Squires was feeling twitchy as the woman finally sat back to comment instead of just asking questions. She turned toward the backseat and said, “It’s strange—the man the alligator attacked? The victim had no recollection o
f you being involved in any way, Mr. Squires. Dr. Ford and Dr. Tomlinson both tell stories that are very different from yours. I’m wondering why that is.”
The hippie was a doctor, too?
Jesus Christ, Squires thought, there must be colleges out there giving diplomas away to any idiot who can fill out the forms.
Squires told the woman, “Let me tell you about that guy, Carlson. He’s lived here for more than two years. He’s a drunk and a paint huffer. He’s out of his mind most the time. You know what a paint huffer is?”
The woman wrote something on a pad before she replied, “We’ve got another problem. Do you have any idea what that problem might be?”
Squires could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He looked out the window, seeing a tow truck in the bright lights, where a Wildlife cop was taking video as the crane winched Fifi slowly off the ground, all twelve or thirteen feet of her.
Squires was wondering if the back door of the squad car had locked automatically. If not, maybe the smartest thing he could do right now was make a run for it. Hide out for the night, then call Frankie and have her take him to the hunting camp, a place where he could hide and think things over in peace.
Squires put his hand on the door handle, thought about it another few seconds, then changed his mind. Once Frankie heard what had happened, she’d flip out. Hell, the woman would probably turn him over to the cops herself. Besides, how far would he get with a pulled hamstring?
Squires rubbed at the back of his leg and said, “All I know is, if I don’t get some ice on my leg, I’m not going to be able to walk tomorrow. How screwed up is that? I help save the life of one of my drunken tenants and I end up crippled for a week. I’m a professional athlete, which I don’t expect you to know. I’m training for the Mr. South Florida, which is in Clearwater Beach, this June, so an injury like a pulled hammie can be pretty serious if I don’t take care of it.”
The woman cop said, “Just a few more questions, Mr. Squires. There’s something else I want to ask you about, this problem I mentioned—”
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