Electric Barracuda (20 page)

Jane laughed. “I knew these two rangers who got in a feud because one wouldn’t share a panther specimen.”

Coleman stopped. “You mean I can make money selling poo?”

“That would be bad etiquette,” said Serge. “And most of what you’d find is common. It would have to be an extremely rare sample.”

“What if I took some of my own and said I found it?”

“Could lead to a breakthrough,” said Serge. “Teams of scientists would extrapolate the profile of a slow-reflexed urban bigfoot with the diet of a mud-fish and the roaming patterns of Axl Rose.”

Walking resumed.

“Serge, I see some shit!”

“Easy, Coleman.”

Jane nodded. “Now, that’s a boar.”

“So where’s this hole?” asked Coleman.

“Over there,” said Serge.

“I don’t see it.”

“Because right now the water level is even with the ground we’re walking on, and it’s still too far away.”

“You mean
there
?”

“Exactly.”

“So it’s got a big bank around the edge?”

“That’s not a bank.”

“What is it?”

“Gators.”

“
Those
are the gators? Holy crap, we’re still a football field away and they’re freakin’ huge. And everywhere!” Coleman stopped and stared ahead, then back at the pickup truck up on the bluff, now farther away than the sinkhole. Serge grabbed his shoulders just before he could take off.

“But I don’t want to go!”

“It’s for your own development,” said Serge. “And I promise it’s safe. Just watch as we get closer. But walk slow and don’t do anything weird.”

Sure enough, when they got within a rock’s throw, numerous gators got up.

“Fuck me!” said Coleman.

“Reasonable response,” said Serge. “First time you see the big ones high-walking up close, it can get a bit hairy. Keep watching . . .”

Gators continued strolling unrushed to the edge of the water, then slipped under the surface. As the trio grew closer, more and more casually went for a swim, until the rest finally splashed in as a group. But there were always a few.

“What about those last three?” asked Coleman.

“Granddaddies,” said Jane. “They’re not afraid of people as much as the others because they’re not afraid of anything. But they’ll still go in.”

The trio walked closer. A pair of gators got up at a slow, too-cool-for-school pace and disappeared. That left just one.

“He’s not going in,” said Coleman.

“He will,” said Jane.

They walked even closer. “Still not going in.”

“That’s strange,” said the ranger.

A few more steps.

“Jesus Christ!” said Coleman. “Its head’s cut off! Look at the blood!”

“Shut up, Coleman!” Then Serge looked toward Jane, who’d carved a little distance from the guys for privacy, her back toward them, staring off at nothing.

Chapter Sixteen

Cyberspace

S
erge’s Blog. Star Date 584.948.

Welcome back, gang! Sharpen those number two pencils! Today’s lesson: Fugitive Geography!

Nothing more important than knowing your police jurisdictions . . . and exploiting a weakness.

Look no farther than the Everglades.

It’s all about county lines.

The swamp at the bottom of Florida is split down the middle. The eastern half lies in Miami-Dade County; western chunk in Monroe, named for our fifth president. And there’s the weakness! Because 99 percent of Monroe lives in the Florida Keys. But the remaining one percent is scattered across the mainland swamp on the gulf side—the
wrong
side—of the state, separated by almost a hundred miles from the rest of the county.

Today, national park rangers and law enforcement from neighboring departments generally handle whatever comes up in mainland Monroe. But back eighty years ago, it was lawless.

Literally.

No police at all. And if cops
were
needed, the closest officer was nearly three hours away in Key Largo . . . File that thought, because it gets even more exciting!

Now, there’s but a single road through the swamp where this jurisdictional glitch really comes into play. Remember our last lesson? That’s right, the Loop Road!

Guess who figured this out? Right again: Al Capone!

In the middle of Prohibition, Scarface sent his men just over the Monroe line to build an all-appetite entertainment lodge smack-dab in the middle of the Everglades—speakeasy, brothel, gambling house—at an equally convenient driving distance from both coasts.

Miami police could only stand at their own county line and watch helplessly a few hundred feet away as rambunctious crowds descended each weekend.

But as I’ve personally experienced, police don’t quit that easily, and from time to time cops tried coming up from the Keys for a raid. Except Capone had informants on the payroll to tip him off.

And a plan . . .

That Night

Myakka River State Park, cabin number three.

Serge and Jane sat quietly next to each other on the edge of the bed.

Staring at Coleman.

He slammed a beer, got up from his chair on the far side of the room and went to the fridge.

Coleman sat back down and popped another Pabst. He noticed them looking.

“What?”

“Coleman, why don’t you go outside.”

“That’s okay. I like it better in here.” He chugged.

“Coleman, Jane and I sort of haven’t seen each other in a while.”

“No problem.” He drained the can and crumpled it. “You can go ahead and talk. I won’t interrupt.”

“Coleman, you’re not—”

“One minute.” Another trip to the fridge.

Serge sighed and got off the bed. He intercepted Coleman before he could sit back down.

“What is it?”

Serge whispered in his ear.

“
Ohhhh
, I get it now.”

“Thanks.”

“But it’s scary outside.”

“Coleman!”

“Can I just stand in the corner and face the wall?”

“No!” Serge grabbed him by the arm, marched him to the cabin door and opened it.

“Damn,” said Coleman. “I’ve never seen the night so dark.” His head jerked. “What was that sound?”

“Just nature.” Serge pushed him a step onto the porch. “Get into it.”

“But, Serge, I see eyes in those trees! And some more over there!”

“Time to make new friends.”

Serge slammed the door.

Knock, knock, knock 
. . .

Serge closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Knock, knock
. . . “Pssst! Serge, it’s me, Coleman.”

The door opened. Serge stuck the rest of the six-pack in Coleman’s stomach. The door slammed.

Serge turned and smiled at Jane. “Now where were we? . . .”

Outside, Coleman tentatively squatted down on the porch’s top step and cracked a beer. His head swung left. “There’s that sound again.” Hands shook as he lit a joint. “And those eyes . . .” He darted off the porch and ran behind the north end of the cabin. He peeked back around the corner. “Eyes still there.” He retreated and took a big hit. When the smoke cleared: “More eyes here, too.” He slithered along the side of the cabin, his back pasted against the wall. “The scary sound again . . .”

Inside: Serge and Jane slammed into each other, ripping clothes and tumbling onto the bed.

Serge kicked off his shoes, hitting the fireplace mantel. “Can you leave the ranger shirt on? Unbuttoned, of course.”

“Only if I can be on top.”

“Tough sell.”

They were immediately deep into the act, panting, non-verbal noise. Sliding all over each other from sweat. “Serge?” Not stopping her rhythm.

He caught his breath. “What?”

“I think I just saw Coleman’s head go by the window.”

“He wouldn’t spy.”

“I know. It was the back of his head . . . Now he’s going by that other window . . .”

“He has his methods.”

Jane refocused her attention and accelerated.

“Good God!” Serge’s head arched back, eyelids twitching.

She got a mischievous grin. “So you like that?”

“It’s near the top of my day.”

She rammed down extra hard, enjoying the control as Serge seized fistfuls of the sheets to keep his arms from flopping.

Another violent thrust, and another. “Why are your eyes closed?” she asked with another sly grin. “Are you thinking about other park rangers?”

“No.” Serge gritted his teeth. “Other
parks
. . . Bahia Honda, Cape Florida, John Pennekamp, Lignumvitae Key, Alafia River . . . Don’t stop! . . . Oscar Sherer, Wekiwa Springs . . .”

A screaming went by the window. Then another window. And another. Then back by the first again.

“What’s Coleman doing?” asked Jane.

“Running in circles around the cabin and screaming.”

“I realize that.”

“Spend enough time with him and you won’t even notice. Like living near a busy highway.” Serge raised his head. “You’re slowing down.”

“Sorry . . .”

Halfway through, Serge used a full nelson from Florida State Wrestling and flipped her into a submission hold.

“Give up?” said Serge.

“I’ll never give up!”

“Then take
that!
. . .”

Shrieking.

“. . . and
that!
. . .”

An octave higher.

She countered with a Dusty Rhodes elbow, and onto the floor they spilled. Screaming from the windows.

Finally, they were done. Spent, shot, wrecked. One of those spectacular, simultaneous finishes that had them both seeing galaxies and nebulae.

Jane lay back on the pillows, pulling wet, matted hair off her face. “I forgot how good you were.”

Serge stared at the ceiling from his own pillow. “My compliments to the chef.”

Jane raised her head. “Does something seem wrong?”

“Not from over here.”

“No, I mean . . . I can’t quite nail it down.”

“It’ll come to you.”

She snapped her fingers. “Coleman stopped screaming . . . It’s quiet out there.”

Serge raised his own head. “Too quiet.”

“You think he’s all right?”

“That’s relative.” Serge got up, and Jane followed him to the door. He opened it.

They stared for a baffled moment.

“What in the fuck’s going on?” said Jane.

“Coleman!” yelled Serge. “Why are you sucking on that tree?”

Coleman held up a hand for them to wait a moment. Surrounding him were squirrels and birds and bunnies, all watching attentively. Coleman finished sucking, took his mouth off the trunk and exhaled a large cloud at the stars. “I made a bong from this tree.”

“You what?”

“I was running around screaming, righteously baked, when it hit me. Just like you said: I needed to get into it.” He put his mouth on the tree again. Another exhale. “So I found harmony with mother earth and saw where a woodpecker had already done some work, and I said to myself, ‘I know what I can use that for.’ Then I got out my pocketknife.”

“Unbelievable,” said Jane.

“Jane and I are done inside,” Serge said from the doorway. “Want to come back in?”

“No, I like it out here.” Another toke off the tree. “Nature’s cool.”

An hour later, Serge silently closed the cabin door and tiptoed down the steps. Coleman was asleep at the base of the tree. A light tapping on his cheeks. “Wake up.” Harder tapping.

“Wha—?” Coleman shook the fog from his head. “What is it?”

“Jane’s finally asleep.” He raised a hand. “I got the keys to her pickup.”

“Where are we going?”

Serge led him toward the truck. “First, the twenty-four-hour Walmart.”

“I thought you liked Home Depot.”

“I do, but they don’t have sporting goods.”

Sarasota

Exit 205. Holiday Inn Express.

Three state agents ate Mexican takeout and watched
Forensic Files
.

A cell phone rang.

“Agent Lowe . . . Yes, I remember . . . What! You’re kidding! . . . Where? . . .” The other agents stopped eating. “. . . Let me grab a pen . . .”