Night Moves (Doc Ford)

5




I LIFTED MY HEAD, SNIFFED THE AIR, THEN STOOD ON the balls of my feet and did a slow three-sixty. Yes . . . Tomlinson and I were not alone. To leeward, fifty yards away, a slow sawgrass trail was being tunneled, blades collapsing under the weight of something sizeable. A southwesterly breeze blew noise and odors away from me, but, even in a gale, I would have heard telltale sounds if it had been hikers or an ATV.

No . . . the thing approaching us was alive . . . and big enough, possibly, to be spotted from low altitude.

“Get your shoes on,” I told Tomlinson.

“Huh?”

“You heard me.”

My tone trumped the man’s injuries and his natural aversion to authority. Immediately, he pulled on one red Converse, saying, “Geezus, what’s wrong? Are those cops?”

He meant the plane, which was now descending. A Cessna 182, it looked like, a model I’d flown while logging most of my air hours. The propeller whine was closing the distance, and I could see two people in the cockpit, details shielded by the silver sheen of Plexiglas.

“Maybe Danny radioed someone to keep an eye on us,” Tomlinson suggested.

“Hurry up,” I told him and turned to concentrate on the approaching animal. Sawgrass was still funneling toward us in a slow riverine swath that created switchbacks. The zigzag path was suggestive. Meat eaters follow their noses, casting back and forth as they close in on their quarry. So do big snakes. I picked up a limb I’d been using as a walking stick, stepped off the ledge into the water, and began to circle away, hoping to intercept the animal.

Behind me, over the whine of the approaching Cessna, Tomlinson raised his voice to say, “Hey . . . where you going? Why you think there’s no door on that plane?”

I didn’t reply. I was choosing my footing, trying to move fast while the plane masked my noise. I wasn’t worried about what I would find, despite Dan’s warning—I was intrigued. The list of potential attackers was not particularly long nor formidable: a Florida panther, a gator, a black bear, coyotes, feral hogs, or a hellishly big snake. Those were the most likely candidates, and I wanted to get a look at the thing before it got a look at us.

Tomlinson called, “What’s that guy doing? Is that a camera? Jesus Christ, Doc . . . I think he’s trying to . . .” My friend’s words were lost in the roar of the plane passing overhead. I looked up just long enough to note that he was correct about the missing door. Inside, a male passenger was turning away from us, something in his hands. Yes . . . some kind of optical gizmo, a telephoto lens possibly. A pro photographer or videographer at work, maybe. Why else remove a perfectly good door from a perfectly good airplane?

My eyes didn’t linger. I was angling to the left, using my gloves to part sawgrass as if it were a wall of beaded curtains. If I gauged the distance correctly, maybe I could slip in behind the animal before it spooked. That didn’t strike me as risky. Black bears and coyotes have yet to place man in the food chain, and I could outdistance an alligator, or even a twenty-foot boa constrictor, if I surprised the thing from behind.

A Florida panther, though, was a different story, as I was aware. Surprising a big cat in the wild was risky. Probably riskier now than ever before. After being hunted to near extinction, they had learned to avoid contact with man. But, for reasons unknown, that is changing in the western varietal. Panthers—mountain lions, they are called—have attacked lone runners, hikers, and bikers. And I knew firsthand of an attempted attack on a pair of Florida hunters.

Even so, I wasn’t worried. I’m a biologist and I wanted a closer look. It was a sunny, windy day, so the odds of me surprising a panther were minuscule, and the odds of it attacking me even less.

“Doc! Where the hell are you? That damn plane’s circling back!”

No telling why Tomlinson was so concerned. Through a veil of sawgrass, I saw the plane bank to turn.

I kept moving as the plane pivoted toward us, but I was having no luck. Where the hell was the animal’s trail? I couldn’t find it. Sawgrass, I realized, was as indifferent as seawater when it came to preserving the tracks of an interloper. There was no trail to find. Ahead, a big snake could be lying in ambush. Or a big gator. Not good.

I stopped, did another slow three-sixty, holding my walking stick in both hands. The smart thing to do, I decided, was follow what little remained of my own trail back to the ridge. So I retreated, moving slowly at first, then faster. When the plane roared overhead a second time, I was slogging at top speed so took only a quick look. From my angle, I couldn’t see if the photographer was snapping pictures or not. Was it two crazy hikers that had interested them? Or the animal I had failed to find?

When I stepped into a clearing, only yards from the ridge, one of my questions was answered. The creature I had been tracking was there awaiting my exit. I had been outsmarted, which isn’t unusual, so I don’t know why I was surprised. But I was.

The animal stood on four sturdy legs studying me, yellow-eyed, ears alert, something recently captured in its mouth. I felt a microsecond of concern, then gradual relief. I moved several steps closer . . . stopped . . . then took a few more steps. Then I held out my hand.

—

“TELL ME I’m not hallucinating!” Tomlinson hollered as I sloshed up the ridge, the animal trotting at heel beside me. “You found a . . . dog?”

Yes, I had. “I think he’s a Lab. Or maybe a mixed breed—see the curly hair? He’s been out here lost for a while. Feel him, he’s all ribs and muscle. See all the crud in his coat? No collar, no tags. And something skinned a piece of fur off his tail, plus there’s a chunk missing from his leg. This guy’s had a tough time.”

“A dog’s a good sign, man. My morale was drooping. But finding a dog in the middle of fumbuck . . . Whoa . . . What’s he got in his mouth?” As Tomlinson asked the question, his eyes swerved to the Cessna, which was disappearing toward the west.

I felt a cold nose nudge my hand, so I scratched the dog’s ears. “A snake. But he won’t let me have it. The thing’s been dead a couple of days, from the smell, and part of it’s still wrapped around his neck. He either bit the thing in half or he ate it. So he had a hell of a battle with a boa or a python, maybe a small anaconda. I won’t know until he lets me take a closer look.”

Tomlinson grimaced like he’d just eaten something foul. “A serpent is never a good omen, man. It’s the worst sort of juju—Christ, a boa constrictor, you mean?”

I shrugged and said, “Dan might have mentioned seeing a few in the area.”

“A snake cancels out the good dog mojo. Which makes sense after what just happened. The guy in that plane, he shot at me, man! You didn’t hear me yelling?”

I looked up. “Baloney.”

“No, he had a what’s-you-call-it on a small gun. A scope. You know . . . like with crosshairs? Fired once on his first pass, then he shot maybe twice on the second. I remained motionless, that’s the only reason he missed. You know, like a chameleon blending into the grass.”

“Your powers of psychic cloaking saved you,” I suggested.

“Sarcasm—the shield of the unenlightened,” Tomlinson replied and tugged at his safari shirt. “It’s because of my desert khaki. Same color as the sawgrass.”

Even sober, my friend had a vivid imagination. “If someone had been shooting at you,” I said, “I would’ve heard the shots. A gunshot is a hell of a lot louder than a Cessna passing at two hundred feet. It was someone taking pictures. Now, toss me that first-aid kit. But keep the stuff you need for your feet.”

He was still tracking the plane, which was no bigger than a vulture against the Gulf blue sky. Finally, though, he lobbed the kit to me, saying, “I’m surprised they gave up so easy. Someone’s out to get me, man. I told you.” He nodded at the retriever, which had yet to leave my side. “Like I said, snake’s bad juju.”

My pal was making no sense whatsoever, so I knelt and inspected the dog’s ears and neck, ignoring the carrion stench of the snake in his mouth. He was a fully grown retriever, medium height, a hedge of curly charcoal hair along his back, still a young dog, from his looks, but now oddly stoic after the excitement of being found. I removed several ticks, probed an infected wound above the left leg . . . then discovered why the dog refused to release the snake.

“You’re not going to believe this,” I told Tomlinson.

The man was concentrating on his shoelaces. “Hah! I’m the fool who believes everything, remember?”

Constrictors aren’t poisonous, but their jaws are lined with recurved teeth that angle inward toward the throat. The teeth provide a secure loading system for muscles that convey food to the stomach. Once a boa, python, or an anaconda latches onto its prey, the only escape is to forfeit a chunk of flesh or to kill the snake. The retriever had killed this snake, but the head and fangs were still anchored deep in the baggy fur around his neck, the snake’s upper and lower jaws spread wide. Dragging six feet of boa would have been painful, so the dog was carrying the thing in its mouth. Smart.

“Get over here. You need to keep him calm while I do this. Once you see, you’ll understand.” I had the first-aid bag open, laying out gauze, disinfectant, tweezers, and salve.

“One more shoe. If the bastards come back, I want to be ready.”

I stood to grab a bite of clean air. “You sold drugs too many years, that’s your problem. Guilt isn’t as easy to quit, is it?” Several seconds went by. I looked at him and said, “You did stop selling marijuana . . . right? That’s what you told me six months ago.”

“And it was true—six months ago,” Tomlinson said, getting to his feet, then he looked toward the horizon. “Life is a fluid, not a solid. I probably should have told you and Danny, but it’s something I can’t admit to the cops. That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

“Admit what?”

Tomlinson cleared his throat. “Well . . . two weeks ago, I found out I’ve seriously pissed off a Caribbean importer.”

“I knew it, here we go,” I muttered.

“I wasn’t looking for trouble! How was I to know I was undercutting his prices? We’re only talking a dozen veinte baggies to a few trusted clients. But this particular dealer is very territorial. Turns out we have a customer or two in common.”

“A Colombian,” I said.

“Haitian,” he replied. “A voodoo sacerdotal with zero tolerance when it comes to competitors. Even boutique operators like me, connoisseurs with big hearts and low prices. When a Haitian turns capitalist, trust me, the gloves come off.”

I wasn’t going to ask what sacerdotal meant. It would only encourage more esoteric gibberish.

Tomlinson provided it anyway, adding, “His name’s Kondo Ogbay, which is Swahili—you don’t even want to know what it means. The night you left for Tampa, one of Kondo’s people put an assault fetish on my dinghy. Blue stone and turpentine on a bundle of dried grass, which is obvious enough—the man’s a damn witch doctor. That’s sort of why I almost got electrocuted in your—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” I said. “No more talk until we get the dog fixed up.”

I waited while Tomlinson, making soothing sounds, got down on his knees on the opposite side of the retriever. His confession hadn’t convinced me, and I wanted time to think it through. The gunshots from the Cessna were imaginary. Had to be—how would anyone have known we were out here in the first place? And my friend had missed the significance of the wire used to sabotage Futch’s plane. Tarpon guides in Boca Grande have used Malin’s leader for a century. As do other discerning anglers, including the so-called jig fishermen—but only when not fishing for tarpon.

There was something else Tomlinson didn’t know. I hadn’t gone to Tampa, as I’d told my marina neighbors. I had spent three days in a Central American city where I had added a new enemy to my list. Not just one man. It was an emerging terrorist cell founded by a Muslim cleric.

The cleric had recently disappeared. The bandage on my forearm covered the last evidence of the man’s final moments—a bite wound that was less severe because of the cleric’s missing teeth.

“Good god, the snake bit him and wouldn’t let go!” Tomlinson whispered, when he finally figured out what he was seeing. “Damn head’s the size of my fist.” Then cooed, “Brave doggie . . . yes you are,” before saying to me, “This guy’s a hardass, huh? The snake, too. Neither one would quit—you’ve got to love that.”

“He’s a survivor,” I said, then looked at Tomlinson. “We both have enemies, and we both have reasons not to involve the police. So let’s keep all this to ourselves when we get back. Okay?”

“About Kondo, you mean. Sure.”

“All of it,” I told him, and should have added especially about the plane but didn’t, which would turn out to be a mistake.

We’d be home before sunset, hopefully. Dan Futch was to call Dinkin’s Bay Marina from the air, so, once we made it to the road, our ride would be nearby, only a text away—if we could get a signal.

Tomlinson nodded in agreement, then dismissed it all, looking into the retriever’s eyes. “You’re gonna love living at Doc’s place . . . aren’t you, big fella? Sharks to swim with, pissing in the mangroves . . . and maybe help us find our missing cat—”

“I’m not keeping him,” I interrupted. “I travel too much. And so do you.” I wiped the tweezers with an alcohol pad, then slowly, slowly slid my glove toward the snake’s head. The skull was coffin-shaped and solid on the retriever’s pliant skin, fangs buried at an angle. The pain caused the dog to drop the snake long enough to slap my cheek with his tongue, but he remained steady.

Tomlinson watched, a familiar knowing expression on his face that I find particularly irritating. “Don’t worry, we’ll find a home for him,” I added after backing the skull free. “Maybe use some of your illegal drug money to pay the vet bills first. How’s that sound?”

When a wet tongue whapped me a second time, Tomlinson gave me a What a crazy day! sort of look, then confided to the dog, “He can be an a*shole . . . yes he can! Prudish as a damn arrow . . . and jealous. But that’s not going to stop us from picking out a good name!”