Gator Kill

by Bill Crider

  And the dead alligator? Some sort of warning, like the shots? Or a threat?

  "Tell me about the other things," I said.

  "They weren't as bad as this, not near as bad as this. In fact, I didn't really think that much about 'em, not till I found that dead gator."

  "Name one thing," I said, trying to keep the frustration I was feeling out of my voice. The air was so thick that my clothes weren't drying, and they hung on me like damp wash. There had to be something I could do to get a straight answer, but sounding upset wasn't it.

  "My dog died," Fred said after a second or two.

  I just waited. What could I say to that?

  "He was old. Hell, he must've been eighteen years old. He'd been lookin' poorly for the last year or two, and so I didn't really think anything was funny when he died. Now I wonder if he might've been poisoned, though."

  "But you didn't at first?"

  "Naw. He just died. I didn't see it or anything like that. I just came out one mornin', and there he was in the yard. Not a mark on him. I figured it was just old age, and he just keeled over."

  "OK," I said. "That's one thing. What came next?"

  "I guess it was the phone calls."

  "What phone calls?"

  "That's a hard one to explain," he said. "They was just phone calls."

  "What about the caller? What did he say? Who was he asking for?"

  "That's hard to say. The phone would ring, and we'd answer it, but there wouldn't ever be anybody on the other end, at least not that we could hear. We'd say 'hello' over and over, but there wasn't ever any answer."

  "What time of day did the calls come?"

  "Most anytime. Day or night. Sometimes real late. Sometimes real early. All during the day."

  "They've stopped?"

  "Yeah. They stopped right before the noises started."

  "The noises?" I said. There was a pattern, all right, and I'd bet that Fred had seen it from the beginning.

  "At night. Late," Fred said. "Noises like animals callin' or clankin' noises like somebody was beatin' on an oil drum with a tree limb, or a chain sometimes."

  "Did you ever investigate the noises, try to see who was making them?"

  "Oh, sure, I'd get up, look around for my gun, get some pants on, find my flashlight. But by the time I'd ever get outside, whoever was makin' the noises would be cleared out."

  I looked over at him. "And it never occurred to you that someone might be deliberately harassing you?"

  His old blue eyes were a little watery, but they were guileless. "I thought it was prob'ly kids," he said. "You know how kids are."

  "But you don't think kids killed the alligator," I said.

  "And skinned it like that? That's a professional job. Nope, kids didn't do that."

  I wished I hadn't mentioned the alligator. Now I could smell it again, and it wasn't doing my stomach any good. In fact, along with being shot at, that smell was almost enough to cause me to lose the breakfast I'd eaten.

  "Is there anything else you forgot to tell me? Any more little incidents you forgot to mention?"

  "That's about it. Seems like things are gettin worse, though."

  "At least we're alive," I said.

  Then I thought about that. The shots were probably just a warning, like everything else Fred had finally told me about, all of which were more threatening than actually harmful. Except to the dog and the gator.

  "Fred,” I said, "I took this job because of sentiment and nostalgia, more or less. I didn't need a job, and I haven't done one by my own choice for a long time now. No money's changed hands yet. So I could just get you to give me a ride back to your house where I can get my bag and drive back to Galveston. That would probably be the smart thing for me to do. But I won't."

  I paused and thought about it. "Maybe I won't. I'm about ready for some clean, dry clothes, and I don't think our shooter's out there anymore, so I'm going to let you give me that ride. While we're on the way, you think about how bad you want me to find your gator killer, and then you think about what you still haven't told me about whatever it is that you're involved in. Then I'll let you know whether I'm still on the job."

  I stood up and looked around. No one shot at me.

  Fred got up then and gave me a hurt look. "I didn't know all that other stuff was tied in. I still don't know it."

  "I don't know it, either," I said. "But I'd say it's pretty certain. One or two things, well, that could be explained as random happenings. But everything you've told me about? No way."

  We got in the Jeep. Fred started it and backed down the dam to the trail we'd come in on. He did a quick flip of the wheel and got us started in the right direction, then spun the tires and flung dirt when we took off.

  ~ * ~

  Fred had me throw my wet clothes in the washer. "I'll take care of 'em," he said. "No need to involve Mary in any of this."

  "Yes there is," I said. "You may not think so, but she's in this thing just as much as you are. Whatever it is."

  I was feeling a little better, but not good enough to let him off the hook. I'd been to my room, a very nice one, with a double bed and carpet on the floor, and getting into dry jeans and a dry shirt had improved my outlook and calmed me down. Despite my recent escapade in Galveston, I still wasn't used to being shot at, and it took me a while to get back to what passed for normal in my case.

  "So why don't you tell me what it is," I said.

  "Let's go in the living room," Fred said.

  He led me to a large room that most people would have called a den. It had paneled walls and a hardwood floor, with throw rugs here and there. The rugs were cowhide, some with the hair still on them, and they added to the rustic look of the room, the walls of which were hung with Remington prints and two rifle racks holding two shotguns and a thirty-ought-six. There was a small bookshelf on one wall crammed with Louis L'Amour paperbacks and the Time-Life series of books about the Old West. In the center of the room was a huge leather-covered couch. Fred walked over to it and sat down.

  There were three or four wooden chairs in the room, their bottoms covered with cowhide. I pulled one of them over by the couch so that I could look at Fred while we talked.

  For a good while, he didn't say anything.

  Neither did I. It was cool in there, and I could hear Mary banging around among the pots and pans in the kitchen. It all seemed very safe and normal, and I was willing to wait. For a few minutes, at least.

  It was a little longer than that, and I was beginning to get uncomfortable in the hard-backed chair. I was more used to slumping than sitting up straight.

  "I guess it's the land," Fred finally said. "That's got to be it; I can't think of anything else."

  "The land," I said, just to encourage him.

  "I don't want to sell it, is the thing," he said.

  "Who wants you to?"

  "Hard to say."

  "Now don't start up with that again," I said. "There's got to be somebody, and somebody has a gun."

  "Rifle," Fred said.

  "Right, rifle."

  We looked at each other.

  Fred looked away first, but I didn't feel particularly proud. I didn't feel like I'd won anything.

  "It's mostly a rumor," he said.

  "What kind of rumor?"

  He sighed and leaned back on the couch, putting one leg over the other. "There's a rumor--just a rumor--that the state wants to buy up a big passel of land down here. Now you got to think about that. This land's not good for much except to grow things on, rice mostly, or just to leave in its natural state. This close to Houston, there's not just a whole lot left that is natural."

  "And the state wants the land, right?"

  "That's the rumor."

  "What for? Does the rumor say?"

  "A State Park. Big one."

  "What's wrong with that? Wouldn't it leave the land the way you like it? In its natural state?"

  "Sure it would."

  "So what's wrong with that?"
/>
  "Nothin's wrong with that, if it's true. But it may not be true. What if somebody wants the land for a nuclear power plant or something like that? The whole thing's just a rumor."

  "I'm not sure I get the point of all this anyway," I said. "Who cares what you do with your land?"

  "A lot of folks, since I've let it be known that I won't sell. See, if I don't sell mine, they don't get to sell theirs. Mine's the key to the whole thing, according to the story."

  Now I could see the problem. "And I take it that Zach Holt and Hurley Eckles own land that touches yours and they're tied in to the deal that way."

  "You got it."

  "But they can't be all. There must be others."

  "You want a list?"

  I did.

  5

  My theory was that the state didn't operate under a cloak of secrecy. If the state wanted the land, they'd let it be known. Of course, that wasn't always the case. If the facts became known too soon, the land values would skyrocket, and the speculators would be coming out of the marshes by the boatload.

  And it didn't take much to start a rumor about money in these hard economic times. That was the kind of rumor that everyone would listen to and that everyone would take seriously because everyone would want to believe it. There were people living all around Fred Benton's land, but the nearest town was fifteen miles away, and I was sure that all Fred's neighbors could visualize the potent economic effects of a state park in their backyards. They wouldn't have to strain their imaginations too hard to see the dollar signs, and there would naturally be some resentment if they thought he was holding things back.

  I wasn't sure that was the reason for what was going on, but it was the best I could come up with. Fred wasn't going to help me much more. I should have stuffed my clothes in the bag and gone back to the Island, but now I'd been shot at and I was mad. It was a silly game, but I didn't want whoever had fired that rifle to think I was that easy to get rid of.

  I ate lunch--tuna salad--with Fred and Mary and then drove to the crossroads store where Fred assured me I would find Hurley Eckles. The store was a little over two miles from Fred's house, down graveled roads that wound under huge oak and pecan trees, but it was easy to find.

  It was an old wooden building with a huge stack of worn-out tires beside it. On the faced white paint of the building's side, the words FLATS FIXED had been painted in black letters by some unsteady hand. I'd known a cosmetic surgeon once, a man who specialized in breast enlargements, who'd wanted to use the same slogan. I'd discouraged him.

  Most of the rest of the side of the building was covered with hubcaps of all sizes and descriptions. Some were heavily dented, and some were even rusting. Most of them looked as if they had been hanging there for years, though there were a couple of fairly shiny ones.

  There were two almost new gas pumps in front of the store, and beside them was another hand-painted sign that indicated the price of gas to be around twenty-five cents more per gallon than it was in town. A third sign said that there were TIRES FOR SALE, and I saw a shed built onto the side of the store where the mounting and balancing equipment was kept.

  Two men sat in chairs in front of the store, with the chairs tipped back to lean against the wall. They looked vaguely familiar, and they watched me without curiosity as I pulled up and stopped the Subaru.

  I got out of the car and walked in the store without speaking to them. It was a little cooler inside than out, probably because it was darker. Hurley Eckles didn't go in much for lighting effects. There was nobody in the store.

  I went back outside. There was a big red and white Coke machine beside the two men in the chairs, and I rummaged around in my pocket until I came up with enough change. There were no Big Reds in the machine, so I slipped in the coins and pushed the button for a caffeine-free Coke. There was a clanking noise, and the familiar red-and-white can of a Classic Coke fell into the trough at the bottom of the machine.

  The two men laughed as I looked at the can. "Don't matter which button you push," the one nearest me said. "All we got in that machine's the old Coke. Don't nobody from around here drink any other kind."

  I pulled up the tab on the can and looked the men over. The one who had spoken to me was short and squat and looked a little like a frog. He was wearing an old fedora that might have been gray when it was new but that was now almost green with age and grease and with much creasing and bending. In spite of the heat and humidity, he was wearing a long-sleeved blue workshirt and overalls. The shirt was stained with sweat under the arms. The sun glinted on his wireless glasses. He spit a stream of snuff in the dirt.

  The other man was taller, as far as I could tell with both of them seated, and definitely thinner. He had a foxy face and bad teeth, and his thinning hair was combed in a widow's peak. He looked like the older of the two, but not by much. They were both around fifty, at a guess.

  While I was studying them, they were looking at me. I took a swallow of the Coke and waited for one of them to make the first move.

  It took a while. After I'd almost finished the Coke, the squat one said, "You new to the area?"

  "I'm looking for somebody," I said. There was no trash can to put the empty in, so I held it in my hand.

  "Who might that be?" he asked.

  "Fella named Hurley Eckles."

  "Well, you found him. What might I do for you?"

  The other man didn't say a word, just sat there staring at me. I was beginning to wonder if he could speak at all.

  "My name's Truman Smith," I said. "I was looking at land in this neck of the woods, and I heard you might have some for sale."

  Eckles leaned forward, letting the legs of the chair touch the snuff-stained ground. "I might. I might even sell this here store to the right customer."

  "I'm not looking to get into the retail business," I said. "I'm just interested in land."

  He looked over at my car. The little gray Subaru sat there as if it were slightly ashamed of itself. The dent in the bumper seemed to enlarge even as we watched.

  Then he looked back at me. I was in clean clothes, but the clothes consisted of a pair of faded jeans and an old orange and white UT sweatshirt. I guess I didn't look a lot like a real estate tycoon, and the Casio watch didn't help any. I should have been wearing a Rolex.

  "Just what kind of land you looking to buy?" he said at last.

  "Well, I've been talking to Fred Benton--"

  "That horse turd." Eckles' voice came out hard and flat. He was apparently no more fond of Fred than Fred was of him.

  "Uh . . . horse turd?" I said.

  "I didn't stutter, did I? Horse turd. That's what he is. Always has been."

  "You don't think I can put much faith in his real estate advice then?"

  "Lemme tell you somethin', Mr. . . . Smith, is it?"

  I nodded.

  "Lemme tell you about Mr. Fred Benton. He don't give a damn 'bout anybody but hisself. If he thought he could skin you in a land deal, why he'd do it in a New York minute. He didn't try to sell you any of his own land, did he?"

  I didn't know what to say, so I decided to wing it. "As a matter of fact, he did."

  "Sure he did. Fella, I don't know you very well, so I can't say you're a liar, but I believe you're talkin' through your asshole."

  "Uh…"

  "First place, Fred don't own no land. Ever'body knows that. Second place, if he did own it, he wouldn't sell it. Third place, you look about as much like a real estate speculator as Temp's ass." He glanced at the man beside him who still had nothing to say but who was grinning now. Hurley sent another stream of snuff to the ground.

  "To tell the truth," I said, "I--"

  "To tell the truth, I don't think Temp and I want to talk to you anymore," Hurley said. "Why don't you just get in your funny-lookin' little Jap car and get outta here."

  It was my fault. I'd gone into it like an amateur. It had been too long since I'd done anything like this, and I'd botched it good.

  I didn't think
it would help now to tell him the real reason I was there, considering his feelings about Fred, so I thought I might as well do as he suggested.

  When I got over to the car, I tossed the Coke can in through the open window. Then I got in the car and drove away. As I looked back in the rearview mirror, I could see them sitting there, not moving. And then I realized who they had reminded me of. If Bartles and Jaymes ever came to the Texas swamplands, they'd look just like Hurley and Temp.

  ~ * ~

  It was too soon to go back to Fred's, so I drove around a while, trying to get the feel of the country and see what I could see. There wasn't much, unless you were a fan of trees, which I wasn't, not especially. There were houses here and there, but nothing that looked like a settlement, just the scattered houses of people who hadn't quite given in to the urge that seemed to compel most of us to live in cities, or at least in towns.

  Sometimes it was hard to remember that there were still people like that, people who actually preferred to live alone and apart, to buy their groceries at a store like Hurley's instead of at the supermarket and who probably hadn't driven on a freeway more than once or twice in their lives, if they ever had.

  Of course, even here you could smell the chemical plants on certain days, days when the wind was blowing just right and passed over one of the big plants in Deer Park or Texas City or in any number of other places on the coast. Take a deep breath and you could get a whiff. You might not think about it long, or you might wonder briefly what you'd smelled, but you'd notice it, all right. Out here, though, you could tell yourself that it didn't really matter. And maybe it didn't.

  Then again, maybe it did. It wasn't any of my business, though, and I put the thought out of my mind. Or maybe it was driven out by the sight of the Oldsmobile with a flat tire.

  It was off to the side of the road, half in the ditch, not a good spot to try jacking it up. Unfortunately, there wasn't any other place, and a man in a white shirt and slacks was sweating over the jack handle. He'd put his blue sport coat on the fender of the car while he worked.

  I stopped behind him and got out. "Trouble?" I said.

  It was a stupid remark, and the man gave me the look I deserved. "I guess you could say that," he told me.