Electric Barracuda (21 page)

A minute later, Lowe hung up.

“What is it?” asked White.

“One of the cab companies called back,” said Lowe, checking his notes. “Driver had a weird fare. Big tip not to talk.”

“From the gambling ship dock?”

“No, train museum.”

White jumped up and grabbed his jacket. “Where’d he drop them?”

“Don’t know.”

White’s process of putting his arms through the sleeves slowed. “How can they not know?”

“Some drivers take fares off the meter—and the logbook,” said Lowe. “But this guy was so shook he told a colleague in a bar.”

“Did they call him?” asked White.

Lowe nodded. “No answer. Apparently pretty drunk in that lounge.”

“What about a home address?”

Lowe held up his notes.

White grabbed his keys. “Let’s roll.”

Midnight

Coleman grabbed the dashboard of the bouncing pickup as his head kept hitting the ceiling. “I remember this from somewhere.”

“Ten hours ago.”

“That’s right. Deep Hole.” His head swung toward Serge. “Wait a minute. We’re not going back out there . . .
at night
.”

“You’ve already sucked the tree.”

They neared the end of a so-called road. Serge cut the headlights and slowly idled toward the bluff overlooking the lake bed. Another pickup was already there.

“Truck’s empty,” said Coleman. “But who else would be wandering around here at this hour?”

Serge opened his door. “I have a pretty good idea.”

They crept to the edge of the bluff and crouched in weeds. Serge scanned the plateau with goggles.

“Are those real night goggles?” asked Coleman.

Serge kept scanning. “No, they’re from a kid’s toy spy kit.”

“How do they work?”

“They don’t. Actually make it darker. I can’t see shit.” He took them off. “Oh no!” He grabbed Coleman by the hair. “Get down!”

“What is it?”

Serge crawled backward. “I’ll explain as we go. But right now we have to get our truck out of sight . . .”

The pair kept their heads low, waiting inside Jane’s palmetto-concealed pickup. But not for long.

Soon, a head rose from the other side of the bluff, then the rest of the man as he climbed over the lip and walked toward his truck. A gym bag in one hand. Something else in the other that he set in the back of the pickup.

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.”