The Tank Read online

  In the octagon, the crocodile paced slowly from the edge of the tank to the center, and back again.

  “Contestant ready!” Boyd shouted. “Go!”

  He tapped the clock as soon as Parker’s feet hit the water.

  THIRTEEN

  The crocodile still paced, walking toward the edge of the tank before slowly turning around and creeping back to the center, where it would again turn and move back toward the edge, for some reason always the same one. After observing this pattern for a couple of minutes, Parker waited for the giant to reach the center and turn around. Then he crept up on the big croc across the center of the octagon.

  As he neared the animal, he increased his pace. His splashing caused the croc to whirl at the last moment but Parker had already launched himself atop the croc’s back, up high near the base of the head.

  Kane grinned from the sideline. He does have some experience.

  But that didn’t mean Parker couldn’t make a mistake. He reached forward with both hands, trying to grip the mouth and hold it shut. The croc whipped around, throwing Parker off balance and nearly toppling him. In order to regain his balance, he had to extend his left arm far out to the side, and that’s when the crocodile bit him.

  Parker cried out in pain and surprise, but he was drowned out by the collective shouts and gasps of those watching. His arm was firmly in the croc’s jaws, pulling him off balance, but for whatever reason, the croc let go. The whole incident happened in a blink of an eye—the croc lunging with jaws open, clamping down on Parker’s arm, Parker starting to fall over, then the croc letting go and straightening out.

  But when it was over, Parker’s left arm was drenched in his own blood. That didn’t stop him, though; he continued on with his planned attack, resuming his mount atop the croc and encircling his hands around the predator’s closed jaws.

  “Halfway there,” somebody called out as the clock ticked over to five minutes.

  The croc whipped its long tail back and forth but Parker maintained his grip on the animal’s jaws. He scooted up until he could get an even better grip on the jaws. And then he stayed in that position, letting the clock tick by while he held the croc’s mouth shut. Three minutes came and went. Then two, and the crowd began to sense the bloodied Parker was going to make this.

  “You got it, man!”

  “Don’t let go!”

  The croc thrashed about some but Parker would not allow himself to be dislodged, though he did have to change positions some in order to maintain his hold. By the one-minute mark, he had one foot planted on the bottom of the tank and one knee planted on the croc’s neck, his hands still clamping the jaws shut. The croc thrashed about more powerfully, tiring of the hands on its head.

  “Thirty seconds!” Kane called out. In spite of the fact that Parker was a would-be rival, he found himself rooting for the man. Not a lot of people could get into the ring with a ten-foot croc—and live to tell about it.

  But the reptile had one more card to play. It launched into a death roll, twisting the unencumbered rear of its body until the upper half including the head had no choice but to follow. Even so, Parker refused to release his grip on the dangerous maw. Rather than release it and allow it to be used against him yet again, the bartender allowed the scaly opponent to roll right over him. He moved with it, letting it pass over his body as he was pressed underwater, the two opponents rolling over one another not once, but twice—with Parker gasping for breath as his head broke the surface at the top of the first roll—before coming to rest, this time with neither on top of the other.

  They lay side to side, Parker’s hands still pressing closed the long set of jaws, when the bell sounded.

  “Time’s up!” Boyd shouted.

  Yet Parker didn’t move. He couldn’t. The croc, were he to release it, could strike at him. “Little help?” he called up out of the tank.

  Boyd looked at Kane. “That’s okay, right?”

  Kane nodded. “All they have to do is make it to the time.” He and Boyd dropped into the tank and immobilized the croc by rolling it onto its back and sitting on it while Parker released the jaws and stepped away from it. “I’m clear,” he told them, moving to the ladder. He climbed up and out of the tank. Seeing the exit was clear, Kane told Boyd, “On three.” He counted down and both of them let go of the big croc at the same time. They ran to the ladder but the reptile did not follow. It stayed put, swinging its head this way and that, but not walking.

  When Kane and Boyd stood on the platform, they high-fived and looked out at the people watching. “Parker wins!” Boyd held the bartender’s arm up—the one covered in blood, and the crowd cheered.

  “Remember, people,” Kane shouted over the din. “You talk about the tank, you’ll be in the tank.”

  FOURTEEN

  Heather Winters sat out on her porch, enjoying the quiet solitude of the Everglades night. The space was screened in, but there were tears in it here and there, which meant some bugs, including mosquitos, found their way inside with her. She burned candles, plugged in bug zappers, had strips of flypaper tacked to the wall, but this was one of the biggest swamps on the planet and the bugs were pretty much unstoppable.

  That really didn’t bother her too much, though, she reflected as she sipped from a glass of iced tea. The insects just outside the cone of light illuminating her backyard emitted a cacophony of sound that she found soothing. But not soothing enough to make her feel better after a day driving a glorified cop car around Flamingo and Homestead. It was her job and she would do it, but it just didn’t feel right to her. Didn’t they know that? There had to be better rangers than her for that kind of duty. She was good out on the water. Damned good.

  She felt like she made more of a difference out there, is what it was. On land, she was dealing with the after-effects of whatever had already happened out there. People with undersized or out-of-season catches, that kind of thing. Out on the water, she could stop those people before they caught more fish. And as far as land animals went, she’d never been much of a hunter. Her father, rest his soul, had shown her the ins and outs of trapping, but she had no desire to kill animals in absentia, or to mount their heads on her wall or to wear their furs. Animals belonged in nature, and it was her job to make sure they at least got the chance to stay there. But at the same time, the old adage that it takes one to know one holds some truth. Some of her fellow rangers were accomplished hunters in their own right, and not surprisingly, they were good at patrolling the woods. They knew exactly what to look for.

  Which was why she had requested a little help. When she heard tires crunching over crushed coral and saw the twin stabs of headlights through the darkness, she knew Jamey Winn had obliged. Jamey was a retired ranger and long-time Flamingo resident who lived in Heather’s area. Her nearest neighbor was about a quarter mile away, so it wasn’t really correct to call it a neighborhood, but Jamey remembered when the nearest house was twenty miles away.

  He pulled up not in a truck, but a tractor. Heather smiled. You knew you were a Flamingo local when you drove a tractor to get to your neighbors’ house. She knew Jamey grew his own food and in retirement ran a local fruit and vegetable stand that did quite well with the locals and tourists alike.

  Old Man Winn, as the locals called him, shut down his tractor, and climbed down holding a paper sack. He ambled up the path that led to Heather’s porch. She stood to greet him and he handed her the sack. “Fresh for you. The usual veggies plus some dragon fruit. Keep it interesting for you. How you been?”

  She took the sack of produce and gave him a hug. “Mostly good, Jamey. Except at work, they have me driving a truck now.”

  “Pulled you off the water, did they?”

  She motioned for him to have a seat on one of her Adirondack chairs and poured him a glass of iced tea from the pitcher on a small table. He sipped his beverage while she replied.

  “That’s right, I feel like a fish out of water, Jamey.”

  “Maybe that’s how t
hey want you to feel. You’ve been serving for how long now?”

  “Ten years.”

  Jamey nodded. “Ay. Sounds about right.”

  “What sounds about right?”

  “They don’t want you to get too comfortable. Plus, there was your big splash in the news. Maybe got a little too much attention. They don’t like attention. Maybe a little bit, but not too much on any one person.”

  “So they’re pulling me out of the spotlight for a while, is that it?”

  “They’re doing that, but they’re doing something more, too.”

  She looked at him over the rim of her glass. “And what might that be, oh wise one?”

  “They want a more well-rounded ranger.”

  “But I thought specialization was key? For years now, they’ve told me how good I was on the water. When new rangers come on board, they always put them on a specific track…”

  “You’re not a new ranger anymore. You’re a veteran, and you’re here to stay, so they’re ‘taking you to the next level,’ as my grandson would say.” He smiled at the reference.

  Heather appeared concerned. “How is removing me from the water ‘taking me to the next level’?”

  Jamey looked up at the sky, where a three-quarter moon blazed. “The sea and the land are connected, Heather. One big ecosystem. To understand one as completely as possible, you need to understand them both.”

  “Yin and yang, is that it?”

  The old man nodded. “Or maybe they just want to see you sweat.”

  Heather laughed heartily. “You see? That’s what it is!”

  He looked at her with a more serious expression. “Maybe they know that if you can do it, you will be the best possible ranger you can be, someone who truly understands the wilderness you are charged with protecting.”

  She shrugged. “But why they don’t get someone who’s already good at that, and let me be good at what I’m good at?”

  He took a sip of tea and set down the glass. “Yin and yang.”

  Heather’s eyes lit up as she remembered something and she reached into her pocket. She took from it a white piece of plastic with the number 116 written on it in black Sharpie. She handed it to Jamey, who turned it over in his hands, examining it.

  “You know what this is?”

  “It’s an alligator scute tag—one of the newfangled ones, by the looks of it. With electronics. Looks like it busted off. You find the agency that put it on?”

  Heather nodded. “I’m pretty sure it’s from the Wildlife Relocation Center over in Homestead. I’m going to give them a call tomorrow.”

  “Where’d you find it?”

  “Well, I was patrolling the perimeter swamps on the edge of Homestead, near where the airboat ride and alligator show places are.”

  “Ayuh.” Jamey nodded.

  “I took over Jim’s old route. He told me about those dirt access roads, and that it’s a good place to see what’s happening in the swamp, and that people sometimes poach animals there, too. Alligators, snakes, birds…”

  “And you found that tag just laying out there?”

  Heather nodded.

  “People do poach gators. Make handbags and belts out of ‘em. Jerky sometimes, too.”

  “Yes, I know. But the tags come off on their own sometimes, too. I guess a phone call to the Center will clear it up.”

  Jamey nodded. “I expect it will.”

  FIFTEEN

  After two years in the nuisance animal removal business, if Kane had learned anything, it was that he never knew what to expect when he went into work. Every day was at least a little bit different, and when his phone rang, it could be anything. And whatever it was, all of it was a far cry better than where he was supposed to be right now.

  The day after Parker’s victory, Kane’s cell warbled and he picked it up to hear an unfamiliar voice; male, elderly, Hispanic, speaking accented English.

  “Am I speaking with Lyle Johnson?”

  “Yes, sir. Gator Boyz, at your service. Do you have a nuisance animal problem?”

  “Yes, well this is a little different, but Gary over at the mini-golf course tells me you might be able to help. I have an alligator guy already, but he tells me he doesn’t deal with big cats, so I thought I’d see if you can help.”

  Kane sat up from his reclining position on the porch couch. “Did you say big cat? What kind of big cat?” There was only one species of big cat native to Florida, and that was the Florida panther. But it was rare, extremely endangered, with only about 150 of them living wild in the entire state, so he figured the chances of this guy having a problem with one were so slim he must be mistaken. He probably had a large feral house cat on his hands. He had heard of properties being overrun with feral cats, which were basically normal house cats but born in the wild, living without human care. Kane nearly laughed aloud at the thought of a single large fat cat scaring this guy enough to call for help, and he had to cough to disguise it.

  “It’s a panther. Like a puma. A Florida panther.”

  Kane relaxed a bit. The call was intriguing, but from a business standpoint, it did not mean a job for him. “Sir, those are an endangered species and you should report a sighting to the Fish & Wildlife service. They’ll be able to—”

  “I cannot do that.”

  “I can give you the number, hold on…”

  “No, I mean…sir, can I trust you with some private information?”

  Kane paused. This was getting weirder, and he still didn’t see how anything could be in it for him. He should hang up and go find some real work to do. But his curiosity got the better of him and so he said, “Okay. What’s going on?”

  “I… I raise livestock—chickens and goats—on my own rural property on the edge of Homestead. But I have no permit for it. The panther has been eating my animals, but if I call the authorities to help, they will take away my livestock. I need them to feed my family.”

  “Okay, I understand. But I’ve never worked with panthers before, sir.”

  A pause. Then, “Do you know someone who does, who will not report me to the authorities?”

  “No, sir, panthers are supposed to be reported to Fish & Wildlife.”

  “What about you, can you do it? I can pay you cash, and will pay you half of what you ask simply for trying. I have tried many things and failed. Always it comes back.”

  Kane looked around at the empty porch, at his truck in the driveway. At the moment, he had no other work leads to follow. “When’s the last time you saw the panther?”

  “Right now!”

  “It’s there now?”

  “Yes, I’m looking at it right now. It’s up in a tree. I would shoot it but the shots would attract police, and then I would have to explain my livestock.”

  Kane sighed. He felt sorry for this guy. “Listen, I’ll head over there, okay. But no guarantees. I don’t want to take your money if I can’t help you. But I’ll have a look. Try to keep the cat around if you can.”

  #

  Half an hour later, Kane drove onto a wide dirt drive in a residential area. There were lots of mobile homes and trailers, but they had some space between them. He studied the trusty GPS app on his dash-mounted cellphone while slowing the truck to a crawl. Yep…it’s down this road…

  He turned off the car stereo and rolled down his window and listened. All was quiet but for the sound of a power tool operating in the distance. Looking around, he could see that the property was solid ground with real trees, not swampland. It did seem like panther habitat, though Kane would be the first to acknowledge that he was no expert on Florida panthers. But he had heard they frequented areas known as “hardwood hammocks,” which were basically pockets of hardwood trees surrounded by either developed land or swampland. This property was fairly close to that, sandwiched between the city to the east and the Everglades a few miles away to the west.

  He rounded a bend in the road and saw a wooden two-story house up ahead. A single vehicle parked out front, an old SUV. W
hen Kane pulled up next to it, he saw the blood.

  Lots of it, splashed across the dirt, along with pieces of what looked like fur or hide, and pinkish gristle. A cloud of flies alighted as he slammed the truck door shut after stepping out.

  He was about to dial his phone to get the man to come out when he heard his voice. “Thank you for coming! Thank you!”

  Kane pointed to the bloody mess. “You’re welcome. What was this?”

  The potential client, a Hispanic man Kane judged to be about sixty years of age, walked up to Kane and stared at the kill. “One of my best milking goats.” Then he pumped Kane’s hand enthusiastically. “I really appreciate your help. I’m Enrique.”

  “Nice to meet you, Enrique.” Kane wanted to make this quick. He doubted this was going to pan out, but maybe the guy would need an alligator or a snake taken care of at some point in the not-too-distant future, and he would remember that Kane had tried to help him.

  “So have you tried trapping the cat? Anything?”

  “No. Only thing I did was to throw a can of soup at it to get it to leave, and it did, but it always comes back.”

  “Maybe he likes that flavor.”

  Enrique threw his head back and laughed. “You’re a funny guy. If I wasn’t losing so much money from all these dead animals, I’d laugh a lot harder.”

  Kane got down to business. “All right, so show me the area where you said the panther was. Can we walk?”

  Enrique nodded. “Right this way.” He began walking toward the edge of a simple wooden log fence that penned in a few goats. He pointed into the enclosure as they walked around its perimeter. “I used to have more goats. The panther jumps in here and basically picks one out like it’s in a grocery.” He shook his head. “I would try letting them free range so they could at least run, but I’m also afraid I’ll get complaints that way, too.”

  “And it comes here mostly at night, or when?”