The Tank

by Rick Chesler

  It turned around rather than continuing toward the wall. Parker pushed himself up to a sitting position and was moving to stand when the powerful predator attacked him again. This time, Parker was better prepared, though, and he jabbed his adversary in the chest with the tip of his splintered walking stick. The cat reared back with a hiss that passed foul-smelling breath across Parker’s nostrils.

  Parker feinted with the pole, causing the panther to back up, its head low to the ground while its hindquarters were raised. He made the transition to his feet, keeping the pole pointed at the panther while taking a few steps back.

  Once in standoff mode again, he took a deep breath and assessed his condition with a quick downward glance. His left pant leg was shredded from the knee down, flapping open to reveal a severe gash running the entire length of his shin. From what he could tell, his torso was unaffected, but he could feel his T-shirt clinging to sticky wetness at his right shoulder. He was hurt, but not nearly as bad as what had happened to Brandon. So far, anyway. The cat still growled at him, facing him down from across the octagon. He was moving toward the escape ladder when Kane’s voice boomed out from the platform.

  “Two minutes.”

  “You can do it, Parker,” his girlfriend called. “Don’t get cut up for nothing. Less than two minutes.”

  When he reached the ladder, he stood near it but didn’t climb up. The panther began walking slowly toward him. Parker held his arms up and out, shaking the stick while yelling, “Get back! Back, panther!”

  It didn’t retreat, nor did it speed up.

  “One minute!”

  The Florida panther, apparently satisfied it had made its point, sat back on its haunches and began licking itself. Parker stood at the foot of the ladder, stick in hand, still not letting his guard down until an airhorn blew, signaling the end of the match. Then, with a last glance at the big cat, Parker climbed up to the platform, where Kane raised his arm up.

  “Winner!’

  It was plain to see that Parker’s victory came at a price. Blood ran freely down his split shin, and an open gash was visible high on his chest where the shoulder joined. Kane lowered his arm and spoke to him in a low tone. “You should let us patch you up.”

  Parker nodded. “That was a rush.”

  TWENTY

  The next day, Heather Winters pulled her patrol truck up to a small Mexican restaurant in Homestead. Barely 11 O’clock, Heather was ready for lunch, having been on duty since six that morning. She always found it odd that this Mexican place served such authentic food. South Florida was well known for Cuban cuisine, but Mexican not so much. Yet this place had been here for over a decade and built up quite a reputation for unbeatable south-of-the-border fare. She parked in the small lot, made sure her vehicle was locked, and then entered the establishment through a screen door.

  Inside, the place wasn’t crowded at all because it had opened not too long ago. She smiled at the few customers seated at the tables—all locals—while she made her way to the order counter. It was framed with photographs showing the devastation of Hurricane Andrew in 1992, as well as a few historical photos depicting the city when it only had a few buildings in the midst of an even larger tract of Everglades wilderness. In the kitchen behind the order counter she saw two men and a woman—all actually Mexican, not Cuban, she knew—working to prepare food. The woman greeted Heather at the counter with a smile.

  “Good day, Heather. The usual for you?”

  Heather nodded. “Please. Extra hot sauce.”

  “Oh, need a little kick, do we?” she laughed.

  “Got to keep it interesting.”

  “We can do that! Take a seat, dear, I’ll bring it out when it’s ready.”

  Heather thanked her and made her way to the dining area, where covered picnic tables were set up end to end. She took a seat at one adjacent to the group of locals, who greeted her warmly even though she was an acquaintance and not a friend. She was a Flamingo local, not really Homestead, but since she’d be spending a lot more time here now that she was on terrestrial patrol, she made an effort to socialize. Her uniform and badge afforded her with a certain measure of respect, but that didn’t mean they liked her as a person. She hoped to change that.

  “How are y’all doing this morning?”

  A couple of the men tipped their hats, and one of their wives responded with, “Not bad, thanks. You came to the right place for lunch.”

  Heather nodded. “I agree. How is everything around town? I’m new to the patrol here, I’m used to working a boat out of Flamingo, where I live, but they have me working Homestead now. Do you have any concerns you’d like to make me aware of? Problem boat ramps, fishing bridges, trespassing hunters, anything like that?”

  The group of seniors nodded, but it soon became clear that it was more out of general appreciation for the offer than having any concerns to report. The things they did mention, Heather was already well aware of from her briefing at the department.

  The lady from the counter brought Heather’s plate out—chicken enchiladas—and the conversation drifted to small talk while Heather dug into her meal. Not bad, though, she thought. I introduced myself, made myself available… She had almost finished her food when most of the party announced they had to get going. One of them stayed behind though, telling her friends she’d catch up to them at this afternoon’s bridge game. Then she turned to Heather.

  “You know, Ranger, there is something that I hear has been going on lately, but I don’t know if maybe it’s really a matter for the local police, or…”

  Heather set her fork down and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “What is it? If it’s not something we handle, I can probably tell you who does.”

  The woman leaned in closer, Heather smelling the hairspray wafting from her gray curls. “It’s the strangest thing… Homestead is pretty quiet for the most part, you know? Sure, there’s a downtown, we have our fair share of ruffians and hooligans like any small city, but this is just plain strange. If it’s true. Mind you, I’m going off hearsay.”

  Heather looked at her watch. While she wanted to make a good impression with the locals, working her patrol came first, and it was time to get back to it. “Okay, well if you—”

  The woman, sensing she was being politely dismissed, got right to the point. “The ladies I play bridge with, we all live nearby in different neighborhoods, so we compare notes on the goings-on around town…”

  Heather nodded, continuing to make eye contact with her to show she was listening while getting up to throw away her now empty paper plate. That done, she returned to the table but remained standing to indicate she needed to be on her way.

  “…and two of them mentioned gatherings with young people—I mean adults in their twenties and thirties—gathering to stage some sort of fights with wild animals.”

  Heather sat back down at the table. “What kind of wild animals?”

  “Alligators. My friend Helena said her boyfriend’s son told him about it. They get into a—I don’t know what, exactly, but some type of fighting ring—and then they take bets. But they move around, it’s not always in the same place. Like one of those rave parties where the address is a secret until the day of the event.”

  Heather laughed good-naturedly. “You don’t look like you go to a lot of raves!”

  She smiled in return. “No, well in my day I was into Elvis, you know. Real rock and roll. But I have grandkids and so I hear these things.”

  “This actually is something I’d like very much to look into. Can you give me any more information—anything that might lead me to contact information for anyone involved with these animal fights?”

  The old woman took a moment to return the wave of a customer walking by and then resumed eye contact with Heather. “The only thing I’ve heard that could possibly be of help is that supposedly a gator wrangler truck was seen at one of these events.”

  Heather frowned a bit. “There are a lot of gator removal services around here, ma’am. A
ny idea which one?”

  The woman stared off into space for a moment and then shook her head. “Nope. I’m sorry, but like I said, I only know what little I heard. I was hoping you might know more, to be honest. Maybe you can let me know if you find anything out? You will stop by again for lunch?”

  “You bet. Have a good day. It’s time for me to get back out there.”

  #

  Heather drove her patrol truck onto Highway 41, a more remote section of which cut through the Everglades from the east coast of the state at Homestead, to the Gulf coast side by Naples. She picked this drive because it felt wild to her, affording her a chance to really see the Everglades as much as possible without leaving her vehicle. She also picked it because it offered access points popular with hunters and fishermen. There were legal places to launch boats and pull over, but also illegal ones. And of course, Heather knew well, illegal activity could take place anywhere, especially at night, but people did surprising things even in broad daylight.

  She forced her thoughts to the road as a truck, headlights on as the signs recommended, bore down on her from the opposite direction. With only one lane in either direction and a narrow shoulder on her side that sloped quickly off into a weedy canal bordered by thick woodland habitat, there was little room for driver error. She was used to it, but there was danger in complacency, and she knew to pay attention. The two vehicles passed without incident, and then there was only open, tree-shrouded road ahead of her. She listened to the occasional din of her patrol radio, other units occasionally calling in to dispatch to report their positions and activities. All was pretty quiet in her neck of the woods.

  Until a maroon pickup truck came into view. It was parked off to the shoulder, down in a grassy ditch. She wasn’t immediately suspicious. Many people stopped occasionally for some roadside emergency, perceived or otherwise. Could be car trouble, could be a crying baby that needs soothing, could be just a tourist who stopped to snap some nature photos.

  Or, it could be something else. Like a twenty-something guy doing something with a large box…

  Heather squinted into the distance while picking up her radio transmitter. She informed dispatch of her location and that she’d be making a stop to check out a vehicle pulled over to the shoulder exhibiting possibly suspicious activity. She was slowing down in preparation to make an orderly stop and pull off onto the shoulder, when her eyes nearly bugged out of her head.

  A golden cat—a big cat—trotted out of the cage. The man stood his ground from it, observing.

  It can’t be, but that looks like a…a Florida panther?

  Heather experienced a spike of adrenaline even before she accelerated. This wasn’t going to be a routine stop. Maybe this guy had a permit to be working with this cat, but it was her duty to check. The Florida panther was the rarest of the rare, sort of the emblematic species of terrestrial duty. She didn’t ever expect to encounter one, much less only days into her new routine. A stop involving one—even a routine permit check that comes back authorized—would be a feather in her brand new terrestrial cap.

  She reached up and activated the dash cam video seconds before the panther bolted for the woods. Next, she flipped on her lights and siren as she veered off the road at a speed that was higher than normal for pulling over, but still controlled. As she skidded to a stop, the man turned and ran for his vehicle’s driver side, where the door was still open, the engine still idling.

  She couldn’t believe her eyes. He wasn’t simply hustling to go get his permits to present, was he? But she didn’t see any kind of research organization emblem emblazoned on the side of the truck. Usually, a local university might be involved in this kind of release, if not Fish & Game itself, or maybe the federal rangers with Everglades National Park. But the truck did have some sort of logo… She glanced at it as she pulled her patrol vehicle to a stop: A green painted alligator head, with a scripted word on top and bottom: Gator Boyz.

  She flashed on the woman at the Mexican place…didn’t she say something about a gator wrangler being involved in the animal fighting ring? But there was no time to dwell on that now, because this guy was closing the door and flooring it, leaving the empty cage behind on the ground in his haste to get away.

  Heather yelled through her vehicle’s mounted loudspeaker: “Driver, pull over now!”

  But the man screeched into a U-turn and fishtailed into the lane heading back the way Heather had come. The animal person in Heather made her look over at the woods—to make sure the panther was safe, that it wasn’t lying there hurt, that it wasn’t about to run out into the highway, which, Panther Xing signs aside, still killed one now and then. But thankfully, she saw no sign of it. She could comb the woods a little later to be sure it wasn’t lying injured just out of sight, but right now, she was in hot pursuit.

  Or she wanted to be, anyway. But after a distracting glance at the cage—maybe that would hold some clues to what happened here?—she was about to pull out after the pickup when not one but two large work trucks barreled past, forcing her to stop and wait. Meanwhile, she had no doubt, her suspect was speeding toward town. Once he got off the straight shot of the highway, he could disappear in any direction.

  While Heather waited for the trucks to roll slowly past, she radioed dispatch to send patrol units—including sheriffs—in the northbound direction on Highway 41. Then she pulled out onto the road, using the wrong way as a passing lane, and sped by the pair of trucks. She slammed a fist into the steering wheel when she could not see the pickup, even though she had a clear view of the road for a long, straight distance. The panther man was gone, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try to catch up. The highway had no turnoffs, other than a single rest stop between here and the Homestead exit, and that had no outlet.

  Unless the guy was willing to try off-road, she reflected, but there was little opportunity for that. Most of the area was simply too wet, a confusing tract of boggy swampland that would swallow any vehicle unfortunate enough to roll off the road.

  She sped down the highway, gaze shifting left and right, not trusting that he wouldn’t try to flip a quick U-turn and escape her notice by going back the other way. As she drove on, though, the road still empty ahead, it became apparent that she wasn’t going to catch this guy. Maybe the sheriffs would come across him. Meanwhile, the cage was still back there along with possibly an injured panther.

  Reluctantly, Heather slowed and made the U-turn.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Breathing heavily, Kane looked back up toward the highway. Satisfied he was out of sight from the corridor, he killed his truck’s engine and doused the headlights. That Fish & Game ranger had seen him releasing the panther! He’d used this highway to release animals before—never a panther, but sometimes alligators and once a snake, before he’d started bringing them to the wildlife center—but this was the first time he’d ever seen any kind of law enforcement while doing it.

  Now what? He made a mental note to be more careful releasing animals in the future, but that didn’t help him right now. He thought it likely that if the ranger had pursued him, that she—he’d gotten a quick enough look to see that the officer was a female, probably in her thirties—would likely have radioed for backup. Kane leaned back into the headrest, exhaling heavily. He was in a situation now, and he had to get out of it if he didn’t want to go back to prison. He had a fake ID, but it wouldn’t stand the scrutiny of being booked for a fairly serious offense like messing around with critically endangered species.

  The way he saw it, he had two main choices: stay put with the truck hidden in a stand of high sawgrass, and hope they didn’t see him. Or, he could take his chances on the highway and hope he could make it the few miles back into town. He was sure the ranger would have a general description of his vehicle, but if she had gotten his license plate… Kane shook his head as he thought about it. He’d have to get rid of this truck altogether, but he was getting ahead of himself. He had things to do right now. The vehicle, how could he
disguise it? Taking the plate off would be too suspicious. He opened the door and got out when he realized it. Duh!

  The Gator Boyz logo was a magnetic stick-on! Actually, he’d sprung for two of them, one for each side, wanting to be professional. He peeled them off and tossed them into the watery ground. No more driving around with those on, even after he got back to town. He’d just have to forgo a little advertising, the price to pay for anonymity. Which reminded him…the soil here was very waterlogged. He checked his tires to make sure they weren’t sinking. So far, it looked okay, but he frowned as he looked up to the sky. Gray, dark clouds, flashes of heat lightning in the distance. If it started to rain, the truck would get bogged down here in no time.

  He got back into the cab and closed the door but left the windows down so he could hear approaching vehicles or sirens. Time to take a hard look at things, he told himself. Perhaps it was time to move on? He’d been in Florida for a couple of years now. The move had served its purpose as far as allowing him to lay low following his prison break, but it’s not like he’d planned to stay here forever, in the swamp. He missed the beach and his old surfing life, but he knew he could never return to that. Still, he had some money now, from working, and especially, from the matches. He thought about the toolbox he had stuffed full of cash hidden under his bed. That would get him out of here, but a few more matches and he’d be really set. Maybe he could find his way to the Bahamas, or the Virgin Islands, somewhere like that. A foreign, tropical country with nice beaches.

  He nodded to himself as it began to rain. A few more tank matches, that’s it.

  Kane stepped out of the truck and crept through the high grass until he could see the highway. With the ground becoming saturated with water by the second, it was only a matter of time before his truck got stuck. At the same time, he didn’t want to drive out into a police roadblock or anything like that, so let’s just have a look-see…