The Tank

by Rick Chesler

  And he did. Two minutes of careful and deliberate plodding later, he stepped onto the bottom rung of the ladder and hauled himself out of the tank, a thin rivulet of blood draining from his thigh bandage and disappearing into his new calf wound.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Heather pretended to cheer with enthusiasm as Parker stood on the platform, hand held high by Lyle while he was pronounced a winner.

  “That’ll do it for tonight, people!” Lyle announced, and then things turned back to a regular party, with some people leaving, but most hanging around to socialize. Heather weighed her options. Now was her chance to get out of here and relay what she knew to her boss, but on the other hand, she wanted to see what happened to the sharks. How long would they leave this tank set up here like this? She knew it had to be portable, though its construction was admirably sturdy and rugged. She decided to split the difference of the two options and hang around to see what she could learn, but to obtain her phone now.

  She moved through the crowd, beer can still in hand to blend in, until she found Cody talking to a pretty woman about his age. She figured he wouldn’t like being interrupted and so would want to get rid of her quickly by returning her phone. She turned out to be right, and a minute later, she was holding her phone in her hand. She knew better than to try to use it immediately to take pictures, though.

  Instead, she lingered around for a decent amount of time—enough so as not to seem overeager to leave, but not so long that she would be questioned or noticed for loitering well after the event had ended. She had just taken another sip of water from the beer can and was considering making her exit when she heard a male voice behind her.

  “Hey there, you enjoy the matches?”

  Heather turned to see a man about her age standing there in jeans and a tank top, a mustache his only facial hair. His face was a little rough looking and framed by dark wavy hair while a lit cigarette dangled from his lips. She’d seen him earlier. He’d said hello to her as she passed by, but that was about it. “Yeah, pretty crazy stuff, right?”

  The man agreed and then introduced himself. “Name’s Danny. Hey listen, I actually need to get going—night shift tonight—but listen, here’s my card. I wrote my personal cell number on the back. Or if you ever need some HVAC work done, I guess…” He looked up at her with a smile.

  Heather returned the smile and took the card, deciding that any contacts she could make here would likely benefit her investigation. “I’m Jenna. Great to meet you.” She bid him a good night and watched as he ambled off to his vehicle, a battered work truck piled with air conditioning ducts in the back. After he had driven off, she took a look around and decided it was now safe to move on.

  She passed near to Lyle and Boyd and heard the two discussing tank breakdown. Her ears perked up when she heard Lyle say that he and Cody would wrap the sharks in saltwater-soaked towels (she flashed on the California beach towel she’d founding floating in the shallow water of the ramp in Flamingo), and Boyd and his friend from the screen business would collapse the tank and transport it to his house.

  Heather casually sauntered away and straggled out through the now open gate, mixing in with others who were also leaving. She got into her car, started it, turned on the lights, and sat there idling for a minute. When all of the vehicles ahead of her had cleared out, Heather put the truck into gear and drove slowly toward the road, in the same direction as the cars that had left before her. But when she was out of sight of the tank, she pulled her vehicle off to the side in a stand of trees and killed the lights, leaving the engine to idle so that she’d be ready to roll, and with her window down so that she could hear anyone approaching.

  She was a little nervous about what she had planned, but at the same time, she thought, feeling for her service pistol in a concealed sheath in between the seats, nothing ventured nothing gained. While she waited, she put in the few full names and descriptions she’d gotten so far through mingling at the event—Lyle Johnson, Boyd Beck, Cody Wilhelm—and asked dispatch to have them run through the database to see what came back. Warrants, arrest records, etc. Maybe she’d get lucky. By the time she’d sent the information by secure email, most of the spectator vehicles had driven past her on the way out to the road, leaving what she hoped were only the match organizers. She could hear them around the corner, shouting instructions to one another as they prepared to drain the tank.

  This was it!

  They drained the water out first, so that the sharks could be covered with towels and moved. She wondered if they planned to use them again for another match, but didn’t think so based on what Lyle had said. She intended to follow them and find out, though. Wherever they took them, she wanted to know. She heard the water stop rushing, and then it was quiet for a few minutes until she heard some whooping and hollering accompanied by loud splashing. From the sound of things, they were inside the now nearly drained tank, rounding up the sharks for transport.

  About fifteen minutes after that, she heard a truck engine starting. Heather sat up straight in her vehicle, double-checking that all lights were off, that she was sufficiently concealed. Good to go, she hunkered down in her seat, waiting to observe who would drive out from the tank area. A single vehicle drove out, and although it was too dark to see its color, she could tell by the shape of it that it was not the screen van they’d used to transport to the tank. She’d seen that parked near the tank and had seen the guy named Boyd pull some tools from it in between the two matches tonight.

  This was a pickup truck, with two men in the cab. She was sure it had to be Lyle and Cody, probably with the sharks in the back, though she couldn’t be sure about that just yet. The truck rolled slowly—so very slowly, it seemed—past her, and she worried they would see her truck and come to investigate. But that fear was unfounded as they continued past her hidden location out toward the main road.

  Heather looked back toward the gate, waiting to see if anyone else would emerge. When no one did after thirty seconds, she put her truck into drive and rolled quietly toward the road. She hoped Lyle’s truck wouldn’t be out of sight by the time she got there, but at the same time, she didn’t want to accelerate for fear of making too much noise.

  She reached the road and was relieved to see tail lights headed away from her off to her right. She waited until the truck was out of sight around the first curve in the road—a two-lane blacktop with thick trees off to the right side—and then she turned her lights on and turned onto the road after the pickup. Her quarry wasn’t driving excessively fast; she guessed he was right around the speed limit of forty-five mph, perhaps a little under.

  Traffic was light at this time of night as she headed after them. She pursued the truck from a distance until they stopped at the first light, marking the edge of town. She didn’t want to have to pull up behind them, but if she stopped back too far, it would draw suspicion, so she drove normally, slowing to a stop a few feet behind the pickup. At least now she could get a look into the back and see what they were carrying, she thought.

  The two men—it looked like Lyle behind the wheel—were talking to one another animatedly and she relaxed long enough to concentrate on their cargo. Four torpedo-shaped bundles, wrapped in towels. Looking closely, she could see a tail swishing back and forth.

  The sharks!

  This was definitely them. Now she just had to follow them and see where they took the fish. She almost forgot to get a look at the plate, to make sure it was the same pickup as before, but she remembered right as the light turned green. She eyeballed the rear of the truck as it pulled away. No license plate.

  That meant it was the same truck. She accelerated and continued following the live shark transporters. The lack of other vehicles on the road concerned her, since it made her stand out that much more. No sooner had she entertained this thought than suddenly, the pickup truck in front of her slowed down, and Lyle’s arm stuck out the window and began motioning.

  He was waving her on, asking her to pass him. Not
an unusual thing to do, she thought, willing herself to stay calm. They were transporting a sensitive load, after all, and going slow. He probably just figures you want to pass since you’ve been following him and he’s going slow. The lanes were narrow and the road was dark, with tall trees and vegetation on either side. His arm moved faster. If she didn’t pass, it would be really weird, threatening, even, and there would likely be a confrontation. So she put her foot down on the pedal and veered out into the other lane.

  She turned her head away as she passed to avoid being recognized, as if looking out the window at something while giving them an acknowledging wave. When she passed them, she merged back into the right-hand lane and sped up a bit, as if she had been just waiting to speed off into the night. So now what? She racked her brain, searching for a viable course of action. Her suspects were behind her now, following her. She continued to keep her speed up, tensing as another car passed in the opposite direction. She breathed a little easier when Lyle’s headlights disappeared from her rearview, but knew she still had her work cut out for her. She had to do something, and fast.

  When she spotted a deeper shoulder up ahead on the right, she decided to take a chance. She slowed down and pulled off the road, dousing her lights.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Heather pulled all the way up to the tree line until some of the lower branches overhung her vehicle. She would have to hope they wouldn’t see her as they drove by. If they did, and they stopped to ask her what she was doing, she’d say she was okay, just pulled over to take a phone call, thanks for asking, and hope they didn’t see her clearly.

  She needn’t have worried, however, because as she sat there beneath the foliage, leaning back in the seat so as to present a lower profile, Lyle and Cody drove past her at their sedate pace. They didn’t slow, flash their lights, or turn around. She would proceed on the assumption they didn’t see her, or if they did notice the vehicle, that it was someone else’s parked car.

  She started the engine but decided to keep her lights off. If headlights suddenly appeared in their rearview, they might wonder where they came from, since they’d been travelling on this road for a while with only one vehicle behind them, and they’d let that one pass. Heather made sure no one was coming in either direction and then pulled back out onto the road and accelerated. She caught up with the pickup truck and slowed down. Hopefully, they wouldn’t see her with her lights out, but she couldn’t be sure.

  She hung back as far as possible while still keeping the pickup in sight. What troubled her was that traffic was growing denser. Cars were passing regularly in the opposite direction now as they approached the outskirts of Homestead. When a car came up behind her, she knew she had to turn her lights on or risk being hit, so she put on the parking lights only, hoping that wouldn’t spook Lyle up ahead in the pickup. She didn’t notice any change in their behavior, but a red light waited ahead and she would have to stop right behind them. She looked down at her lap and shielded her face with a hand. Then the light changed, and they continued down the street, now with stoplights and intersections at every block. They had entered the city.

  Upon reaching the next light, Heather turned on her lights since she was now attracting more attention for not having them on. This time, however, she could see that her suspects were on edge. Cody kept turning around to look at her, but she doubted with her lights on against the darkness that he could really see her face. But they must have been suspicious, or worried about who she was, at any rate, because when the light turned green, they shot ahead like a racecar with a checkered flag.

  The sudden acceleration caught Heather off guard, and even though she stepped on the gas, the maroon pickup was already far ahead of her, zooming up to the next light. She did not want to lose them, but at the same time, traffic became heavier and she was not trained in this kind of driving. She wished she had her patrol vehicle radio so that she could call for police assistance; she could use her cell, but she didn’t normally use it for that, and if she took the time to use it, she’d lose her target vehicle.

  She allowed herself a glimmer of hope as the shark truck had to slow for a red light, but then that hope was dashed as the light turned green before they had to stop. In a move that was out of the blue to Heather, the pickup turned left through the intersection—a dangerous move since a left arrow was required to legally do that, and now the light was regular green. The pickup skidded through the intersection, tires screeching and leaving rubber behind on the blacktop. Heather looked both ways to see if any other vehicles were coming. She was about to chase after them when she saw something fall out of the truck bed into the middle of the intersection. Her jaw dropped as she realized what it was: one of the sharks had slipped out of the truck bed during the wild turn.

  She saw it thrashing on the concrete as she stomped on the accelerator pedal. She felt bad for the shark, but there was nothing she could do for it even if she stopped. The best thing she could do was to catch these perpetrators so that they couldn’t do this again. She sped through the intersection in pursuit of the maroon pickup and spotted it merging into the left-hand lane of a major city boulevard. The good news was that there was real traffic here—they would not be able to speed without attracting attention—but the bad news was that the increased number of vehicles made it harder for her to keep track of them.

  Up ahead, she saw the pickup change lanes again. It weaved back and forth from one lane to the next, apparently trying to evade their pursuer, but, Heather noted, the frequent motion gave her the chance to spot the blur of color as it moved between lanes. She switched into a middle lane and stayed there, deciding it was better to not have to concentrate on her own driving as much and be able to scan for the pickup.

  She stayed with them for a few miles, long enough to settle into a routine and begin to wonder where it was that they were heading. She wondered if she shouldn’t have followed the vehicle that right now was transporting the tank itself. Perhaps that would have offered more clues as to how this operation is run and from where. But she was a Fish & Game ranger, and right now, she was literally following the fish—three reef sharks wrapped in wet towels in the back of the pickup still changing lanes far too often up ahead. Not long after that she passed a sign indicating a major highway onramp was up ahead on the right, and sure enough—true to her fears—the maroon pickup changed two lanes over to the right. They were planning on using the highway. Whether it was because that’s where they needed to go or they were using it as an evasive tactic, she couldn’t know, but either way, it represented a challenge. It wouldn’t be terribly crowded at this hour, so there would be higher speeds with more lanes and more options as far as places to exit.

  Heather shifted over a lane, waited for a truck to pass and then shifted again into the exit lane. She was aware that her suspects could use the off-ramp to fake her out, to start turning onto it and then swerve back into the slow lane at the last second. But as she watched, they turned off the highway and accelerated, even though the onramp had a low-speed limit sign and a sharp roundabout turn.

  They were getting onto the highway.

  Heather took a deep breath and also took the onramp, slower than they did, but she knew she’d be able to see them. She wasn’t prepared to see another shark tumbling across the pavement. She tried to steer clear but didn’t have the lead time, and instead felt her tires bump over it. Another shark dead, she thought. Another life taken. Even though it wasn’t human, it still bothered her, made her want to catch these guys even more. She pressed down on the gas pedal, shooting out into the merge lane—it was not crowded—but there were enough other vehicles to hide behind as well as having to watch out for.

  Up ahead, she saw a compact car swerve dangerously out of control to avoid Kane’s pickup as it overtook them. Maybe I should stand down. A little voice in her head told her that it wasn’t worth causing an accident to follow these guys. The last thing she needed was a second vehicular accident in as many days, too. Director Steve
ns obviously had some patience with her, but even he had his limits. She knew who the suspects driving the truck were now, for one thing. She could match their names (the ones they use with friends, anyway) with their faces, and had already learned enough about their operation to be able to continue monitoring it, or to lead a law enforcement strike team to it when the time was right.

  Not only that, but they were now fleeing and had lost half of the sharks. Basically, she forced herself to admit, she had been unable to tail them without being seen, which meant they would alter their planned course of action. Instead of taking the sharks wherever they were going to take them, which is what Heather wanted to see, instead, they were now going in whichever direction they that afforded them with the best avenue of escape.

  A horn honking snapped her from her strategizing just in time to hit the brakes in order not to rear-end the car in front of her, which had stopped in reaction to a near miss up ahead involving another car. What was happening? Heather craned her neck out the window, and to her horror saw a sedan flipped up on its side, wheels still spinning, a white airbag billowing part way out of the passenger-side window, which was the one up in the air. Already a man from the car in front of her was out of his car and running over to help. She was about to join him when she let her gaze travel a little ahead of the good Samaritan and saw the maroon pickup, stopped, not crashed but stopped like several other vehicles who had all almost collided in a big pile-up.

  Heather gripped the steering wheel hard while cautioning herself not to go help, because to do so would allow Lyle and Cody to see her, to possibly recognize her. She didn’t want all the work she’d done on this case to be for nothing, to have to tell her supervisor how she had gleaned some information but had compromised her undercover status in the process.