Alligator Park (18 page)

Fargo takes a deep breath.

“You know, gators don’t hunt
in packs, like wolves or lions. They don’t have the intelligence to do that. If
you do see several in a group it’s because they’re opportunistic, looking to
chime in on an easy meal. Out here, I’d say there might have been two or maybe three.
And to that girl, in the dark, alone, it probably seemed like more.”

“Exactly what I thought,” Bolt
says.

“But that doesn’t mean she’s
lying,” I interject. “I’ve taken courses in psychology and she’s probably been
so traumatized, she really believes what she thinks she saw.”

“I’ll leave that to the
experts,” Bolt says.

A trooper approaches with a
black plastic evidence bag. It appears to contain a round object the size of a soccer
ball. He opens the bag, shows the contents to the detective. Bolt recoils. The
trooper closes the bag.

“Now we have a body, or
what’s left of it,” Bolt says.

He turns to the trooper.

“Take this to the lab and get
a DNA confirmation.”

The trooper nods then strolls
away.

“Mind if I look around?”
Fargo asks.

“Help yourself. As far as I’m
concerned this is an unfortunate accident, unless the D.A. wants to make something
out of it. But I don’t think she will.”

“Shouldn’t those gators be
trapped?” I ask. “They’ve tasted human flesh. They could kill again.”

“There’s got to be, what, ten
thousand gators in that lake?” Bolt says, looking at Fargo.

“Yeah, that’s about right.”

“What are you going to do,
trap a couple, look down their throats for signs of human flesh, then trap
another pair, and so on, until you find the right ones? That only works if
they’re in a pond, and there’s only one or two.”

“What about—”

“—the public? Good point.
I’ll get the park service to put up a couple of signs. The locals already know
the danger, but those tourists, those pain-in-the-ass tourists that think the
entire state of Florida is a theme park. You know the ones. The ones that feed
the alligators like they’re pets. Yeah, we don’t want any of those folks getting
injured do we,” he says, laughing.

Fargo wanders over to the
Camaro and stoops down. I excuse myself from the detective and join Fargo. He
studies the ground then lightly runs his finger over some tracks in the sand.

“Those police cars destroyed
most of the tracks. They should have quarantined the area.”

Fargo checks out the inside
of the Camaro and then wanders over to the tree, looking up at the branches. He’s
totally engaged in whatever he’s doing so I use the opportunity to stroll down
to the lake. No one seems to notice me so I wade into the water, up to my knees.
I open one of the specimen jars and scoop up some of the algae-laden water. I
tightly close the lid then place it into the insulated bag. I take out another
jar and scoop up some mud from the bottom. As I look up, I notice a crime-scene
photographer taking my picture.

“I’m not with them,” I say.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re here,
that makes you part of the investigation.” And then she takes another picture.

“Who sees these pictures?” I ask.

“Only the D.A. and her
staff,” the photographer says, snapping a third picture.

“Not the press?”

“They’re sealed, until the
case is closed.”

“Then what?”

“Then they become part of the
public record.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means anyone can
request them under ‘The Freedom of Information Act.’”

“Even the press?”

“Anyone.”

Damn. That’s the last thing I
need, a picture of me collecting water samples splattered across every newspaper
and on every TV news program in the country. Someone from GWI might recognize
me and figure out what I’m up to. I turn my back to the photographer and wade
into deeper water, sneaking the specimen jar back into the bag. I peek back at
her and see her wandering away. It was a close call. But fortunately this is a
local issue and those pictures will probably never make the national news. Next
time I’ll have to be more careful.

“Hey, get out of there,” I
hear, from an unknown source.

“Now! Get out of there,” he shouts,
and comes running to the edge of the water.

It’s a State Trooper, and
he’s flailing his hands wildly. I turn and start walking toward the shoreline.

“What’s the matter with you?”
he says, “There are man-eating gators out there and you’re going for a swim?”

Man-eating gators? I hadn’t
considered that. How dumb. Somehow the presence of all those policemen made me
feel safe. As if the alligators wouldn’t even consider coming around with all
that activity on the shore. But we’re dealing with a couple of rogue gators
here. They could be sick, or crazy, or desperate. Who knows? I felt really
stupid.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I
thought it was safe.”

“You’re damn lucky one of
those gators didn’t have you for lunch.”

“I won’t do it again.”

“You’re from up north, aren’t
you?”

“Philadelphia.”

“Yeah, figured so,” he says.

As I approach the trooper, I casually
nudge the lunch bag behind my back with my elbow, trying to make it less
conspicuous. It’s not unknown for crime scene investigators to confiscate
everything in sight, even if their use by the D.A. is of questionable value. It
then occurs to me the idea of using a lunch bag is paying off in a way I never
imagined. It’s so mundane, no one even seems to notice it.

When I reach the bank, the trooper
strolls away shaking his head from side to side. I hear him mumble something
like “idiot” under his breath. I deserve it. I was well versed in the dangers
of city life; how I should stay out of certain neighborhoods and avoid certain
streets or risk being mugged. But living here, out in the country, where the
law of survival played by different rules, I was a neophyte. I learned a lesson
today that will probably save my life someday.

I see Fargo stooping down at
the water’s edge, away from all the activity. He appears to be studying
something in the sand. I stroll over and stand right in front of him.

“What’s up,” I say, trying to
make conversation.

“You’re standing on
evidence,” he says, gazing at my toes digging into the sand. I step back.

“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling the
blood rush to my face in embarrassment.

“It’s okay. I’m done.”

Fargo stands up, walks past
me, and then approaches Detective Bolt.

“Do you still want me to hang
around?” he asks.

“I think we have it under
control. I’ll ride back with one of the other officers.”

“Call me if you need anything
else.”

“Will do, and thanks for
coming. One of these days we’ve got to deputize you.”

“No need,” Fargo says.

If you wouldn’t be such a
stubborn bastard and take the oath, we could pay you for these outings, at the
standard rate. Don’t you realize the state allows us to use “expert advisors”
and pays good money for the privilege?”

“Like I said, no need.”

Fargo turns and makes his way
back to the Jeep and I follow close behind. He unlocks the doors and we both
climb inside. He starts the engine, and then maneuvers the Jeep between the
police cars and back out the road we came in.

We drive a couple of miles
and Fargo hasn’t said a word.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says.

We drive a couple more miles
and he still hasn’t said anything.

“You know something, don’t
you?” I say.

“Kind of.”

“That girl, the one in the
tree. She was telling the truth, wasn’t she.”

“Not exactly.”

“There were more than a
couple of gators weren’t there?”

“There weren’t hundreds.”

“How many then?”

“Based on the tracks, I’d say
twenty, maybe thirty,” he says.

“Why didn’t you tell the
detective?” I ask.

“Because if I tell him, he’ll
tell another, and that guy will tell another, and the next thing you know it’ll
be in the papers.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Because once it’s in the
papers, there’ll be this big uproar about ‘killer alligators’. Then the state
will feel obligated to declare open season on alligators, to appease the
critics. Hunters will be coming in from everywhere and shooting at anything
that moves. I’ve seen it before; it’ll be a bloodbath.”

“Don’t you think the public
should be protected?”

“Of course. But there are
better ways to do it.”

I avoid further confrontation
and spend my time gazing at the many lakes and swamps we pass on our way back.
Perhaps I’ll be lucky and catch a glimpse of some exotic wildlife. But it’s
obvious Fargo is troubled. He’s very quiet and appears to be deep in thought. He
saw something back there, something that concerns him, and he won’t say what it
is. I fight off the temptation to ask him. I’m sure he’ll tell me when he gets
it sorted out in his own mind. I need to give him some space. In time, at his own
pace, I’m confident he’ll share it with me.

As the scenery flies by, I feel myself
getting hungry. Back at the cabin, when Fargo was about to leave, I was in such
a rush I never had a chance to finish breakfast.

“Want to stop for lunch?” I ask.

“I’d rather get back,” he
says.

“You’re not hungry?”

“I am. But we can eat on the
trail.”

“So we’re still going out?”

“Don’t you want to?”

“Of course I do.”

Fargo pulls into his parking
space and we exit the SUV. I dash up the stairs to the porch and see Will relaxing
in one of those wooden recliners, reading his little black book.

“Come on Will, get ready.
We’re going on the airboat.”

“You know, I just feel like
hanging around here,” he says. “Why don’t you just go without me?”

“Oh Will, you’ll miss all the
fun.”

“That’s okay. I’ve been in
those things a hundred times. Besides, there’ll be another time.”

Will goes back to reading his
book so I slip past him and enter the cabin. Fargo follows me in.

I head for the kitchen and
scour the cabinets and refrigerator for anything edible. There’s not much left,
but I manage to locate some bread, sliced ham, and American cheese. I place
these on the counter along with some apples and bananas.

“What are you doing?” Fargo
asks.

“Making lunch,” I say.

“I said we’ll eat on the
trail.”

“Yes, I know. I’m bringing it
with us.”

“There’s already food on the
trail.”

Food on the trail? Does he
have provisions stashed in the woods for emergencies? Things like canned tuna,
beans, and maybe even spam. Or maybe he had some of those survival packets that
are meant to be eaten without cooking. I was confused.

“What do you have?” I ask.

“Not sure. It depends on the
season.”

Depends on the season? What’s
that supposed to mean? Now I’m really confused.

“So you don’t want me to make
sandwiches?”

“No. There’s plenty out there.”

It’s almost noon and I’m
getting really hungry, but I take him at his word and place the food back where
I found it. Fargo grabs his backpack and opens the front door.

“Take your time. I’ll be at
the airboat.”

“Can I wear a swimsuit?”

He stares at me for a moment
then shrugs.

“Sure, whatever you want. Bring
a jacket. You might need it later.”

He exits, letting the screen door
slam behind him. I stroll back to the bedroom and change into my swimsuit. Over
that, I put on a tee-shirt to shield myself from the wind. Even though the
Florida sun is strong, at sixty miles per hour, the December air can be chilly.
I finish off my outfit with a baseball cap, allowing my hair to casually drape
over my shoulders and down my back.

I open the lunch bag and remove
the specimen jars filled with water and soil samples and then replace them with
clean jars. I take the filled ones to the kitchen and place them in the
refrigerator to prevent spoilage. I put on a pair of wrap-around sunglasses and
then grab my backpack and lunch bag. This is my first time on a boat and I feel
really elated, like I’m some kind of movie star going out on a yacht.

I slip out the door and sit
in the wooden recliner next to Will.

“We’re leaving now. Why don’t
you come?” I say.

“I’m fine here,” he says.

“It’ll be more fun with you
along.”

“Fargo will take good care of
you. He’s a good guy.”

“Okay, but I’ll miss you.”

“No you won’t. You’ll be
having too much fun.”

“Oh Will,” I say, and then, stand
up.

I notice Will gazing at my
feet.

“You’re not going with flip-flops,
are you?”

“What’s wrong with flip-flops?”

“Wait here,” he says, and
dashes into the cabin. He returns with a pair of deer-skin moccasins, shows
them to me.

“I gave these to my mother a
while back, but she never wore them. She was your size; I want you to have them.
They’re genuine Indian.”

“Oh Will, I couldn’t.”

“Take them!” he says, “Otherwise
they’ll just go to waste. Flip-flops won’t do where you’re going.”

“I’ll get my sneakers.”

“No, don’t wear sneakers
either.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Personally, I don’t care.
But for Fargo, white-man’s shoes disrespect sacred Indian land. They remind us
of the days when soldiers trod over the land and took it for themselves. You
have to be Indian to fully appreciate it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Either you go barefoot, or wear
these,” he says, placing the moccasins into my hands. “It’ll keep Fargo happy.”

“Thanks,” I say, and give him
a hug. I’m about to leave, and then, I remember something.

“About dinner, I’m not sure
when I’ll be back.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make do,”
he says.

I pick up my lunch bag and
backpack and then dash down the stairs, almost tripping over my flip-flops. I race
down the path towards the dock where the airboat is tied up. From a distance, I
can see Fargo at the back of the airboat working on the engine and he appears
to have changed into some type of swimsuit. As I get closer, I see it’s a
breechcloth, a kind of loincloth with flaps on the front and back which reveal
practically everything about a man except his most personal attributes. It’s crudely
fabricated from what appears to be deerskin. I wonder; is he wearing this out
of reverence for his ancestors, to honor the customs of the past? Or is this a
ploy to impress me?

He doesn’t dress like this
when he takes the airboat out on business, but I can totally understand why. His
clients come from varied backgrounds and I have witnessed more than a few who are
crude and boisterous. It’s obvious they lack any sense of propriety or respect
for Native American culture. Given the right provocation, they would deride him
mercilessly about how the Indians were gunned down to make room for the
expanding frontier. How their land was taken and given to white settlers. How
the Indians were herded together and sent off to reservations. As a hired guide,
he would have to submit to these crass remarks passively, or risk losing
business. Not a good option. Yes, it was completely understandable why he would
distance himself from his Native American heritage during normal business
outings.

But if his shameless display
of muscle and skin is a lame attempt to appeal to my sensual fascinations, then
he’s way off base. I’m not really drawn to a man whose sole asset is the size
of his pectorals. The man I want has to be caring, and intelligent, and
thoughtful, and ... and someone who makes me feel like the most beautiful woman
in the world. Not like Logan, that scum of the earth that charmed me with his
wit and intellect then threw me to the dogs at my most vulnerable hour. If I
ever see Logan again I’ll... well, I’ll never see him again. But if I do, I’ll...
I’ll... I don’t know what I’ll do. But that’s a thought for another day.

I watch Fargo pick up an
oversized cooler filled with ice and place it into the airboat. It probably
weighs as much as me yet he lifts it with ease. I find myself mesmerized by his
marvelous anatomy, the rippled abs and firm thighs, and by the way his long
black hair blows carelessly in the wind. My eyes remain fixated on his powerful
body as he moves around the airboat; with a certain grace and beauty that makes
it look like all his movements have been choreographed. He is smooth and
deliberate and wastes no energy unless there is a purpose in it. He looks like
he could swim across the lake in record time and not cause a ripple.

I feel the rush of desire
well up inside of me as I recklessly imagine myself in his arms. But I quickly
snap out of it and remind myself I’m here for only one reason, business, and
that doesn’t include a relationship. It would only slow me down and keep me
from my goals. And it wouldn’t be fair to him either. Supposing we hit it off,
and the relationship blossomed, what then? I just couldn’t picture him thriving
in Philadelphia, among all the sophisticates. And I certainly wouldn’t want to
live down here in the boonies.

Fargo turns suddenly, sees me
staring.

“Ready?” he says.

I’m caught totally off guard.
I feel my face flush.

“Ah... yes, ready,” I say.

Fargo goes back to tinkering
with the engine so I step into the airboat. I make myself comfortable on a
bench-type seat near the front of the airboat which runs from one side of the
boat to the other. I place the backpack, the moccasins, and my lunch bag with
the specimen jars, under the seat and sit facing Fargo. He acts completely
indifferent to me, totally absorbed in what he’s doing, so I decide it’s a good
time to prepare myself for the ride. I reach down, unzip my backpack, and
remove a tube of suntan lotion, my safety net against the relentless Florida
sun. I place my left foot squarely onto the seat-board drawing my knee up
towards me. I squirt some suntan lotion onto my foot and rub it in thoroughly,
making sure I don’t miss any bare skin. I repeat the process with my calf and then
lastly, my thigh.

Out of the corner of my eye I
perceive Fargo staring at me. He’s standing there with a wrench in one hand and
a rag in the other and appears to be fascinated with the way I rub the lotion
into my thigh, in small circular motions, making sure it penetrates to the
depths of every pore, and when it is fully absorbed, pausing to add more. I instinctively
snap my head around and glare at him.

“Is there a problem?” I ask.

“That’s a lot of cream” he
says.

“I’m protecting my skin.”

“It’s so thick, will anything
get through?”

“I don’t want to get burned.”

“It’s not that hot.”

“Not for you,” I say, peering
at his bronze body.

“Neither for you, if you give
it a chance.”

“My skin’s sensitive. I’m not
taking any chances.”

“There’s a difference between
‘taking a chance’ and ‘giving it a chance’, he says.”

“I’ve been burned before.”

“You won’t get burned if you don’t
force it. Let it happen at its own pace, a little at a time, the way nature
intended.”

“I’ll think about it,” I say,
and then switch legs, smearing it with copious amounts of suntan lotion.

Fargo turns his attention to the
engine and I finish what I’m doing. I place the tube back into the backpack and
zip it up.

“How much longer?” I ask.

“I’m done,” he says, and
wipes the grease off his hands with the rag. He hops off the airboat and walks
toward the cabin, then stops suddenly. He turns to face me.

“I suggest you use the
bathroom now. No public restrooms where we’re going.”

I hadn’t thought of that. My
whole life I’ve always been around people, and facilities. I’ve never had to deal
with a situation like this. What if I had to go in the woods? Could I handle
that, with poisonous snakes and spiders lurking under almost every leaf?

I follow Fargo back to the
cabin and take his advice, making sure I don’t find myself in the unfortunate
position of having to relieve myself amongst the horrid creatures hiding in the
swamp. When I exit the cabin, Fargo is already back on the airboat. I dash down
the path and step into the boat. Fargo notices me looking around, trying to
decide where to sit. I didn’t want to be right at the front where I would
receive the full force of the wind.

“The best place to sit is the
middle of the boat, especially if this is your first time,” he says.

I nod in agreement and move
my belongings to a seat near the middle of the boat. Fargo hands me a pair of
industrial strength hearing protectors, the kind you see construction workers
wearing.

“You’re going to need these,”
he says.

I take the hearing protectors
and place them on the seat next to me. Fargo prepares the engine, and as I watch
him standing there, I become cognizant of how incredibly large the fan is. The
blades are as wide as he is tall which would place them at over six feet from
tip-to-tip. I’m not surprised though; it must take a lot of air to push
something the size and weight of this boat through the water at high speeds.

Finally, Fargo places the key
into the ignition and cranks over the engine. Wah, wah, wah, wah, then the
engine springs to life with a loud roar. He pushes on a lever by the side of
the airboat causing the engine to rev up for a moment creating an unbearably
thunderous sound, louder than any motorcycle or hot-rod I have ever heard. I
immediately put on the hearing protectors just as Fargo allows the engine to
return to idle, producing a low-pitched uneven rumble.

“You weren’t kidding about
the noise,” I say.