Acts of Nature

by Jonathon King

  Only the dull streaks of light seeping through the hole I’d created gave the room any illumination. And I must have been dunking of some kind of cop thing from my past because I rolled first, staying low, and then stayed silent. Finally I slipped the flashlight out and scanned the place: Table and two chairs. Kitchen cupboards and sink against one wall. Two beds, bare mattresses, lined up foot to foot against my wall. There was something like a desk against the third wall, next to the outside door. All the windows were darkened and I used the flashlight beam to help me move to the door but still banged the corner of the table with my thigh and the scraping noise it made as its legs dragged across the floorboards made me shiver. Not a scared shiver, but unsettling, like I’d moved something that had not moved in years. I found the doorknob, stainless and substantial and locked. I twisted out the button, tried it, and when the door still didn’t move I scanned higher and found another heavy-duty deadbolt and snapped it unlocked. It took a couple of yanks to get the door open; the frame was probably warped out here in the humidity and heat. I swung it wide to let the natural light stream in, and the outside air actually smelled fresh compared with what spilled out of the old place. I took a useless look around the deck and then stepped back inside.

  The light did little for the place. There were no pictures, hanging fish trophies, or even a calendar on the walls. There were no magazines on the table, no coffee cups filled with pens on the bare desktop, no dishes in the sink drainer. But mounted on the wall above the kitchenette counter was a blue and white metal box labeled FIRST AID KIT. I slid it off its hooks and went through the contents: rolled bandages, tape, antibiotic cream and a bottle of antiseptic, some sterile gauze pads, and a thermometer. There was even some insect repellant and aspirin. I could probably wait to re-dress Sherry’s wound here, but the aspirin and bug dope I would take back to the canoe. I set them aside and then moved down to what appeared to be a half-size refrigerator at the end of the counter. Inside there were three half-gallon plastic jugs of water, at which I smiled. I took one out, noted that the top was still sealed, and then twisted it off. I still took a precautionary whiff of the contents and then drank in long gulps. I had not realized how dehydrated I’d become from the rowing and the heat that, despite the cloud cover, had drained me. I even contemplated pouring some of the water over my head in the sink but then thought better of the conservation of the gift. Who knew how long we might have to stay here? After another drink I looked again inside the refrigerator and found two old cans of Del Monte sliced peaches and a single wrapped package. Inside the plastic package, surrounded by tinfoil, was a bar of solid chocolate about the size of a man’s wallet. Since the refrigerator was without power, the chocolate was the consistency of warm butter, but I still pulled off a piece from the end and devoured it. The energy is what I needed, sugar to snap some of my dulled synapses back into shape. I took another gulp of water and with a clearer eye looked around the room again. The door to the second room was off-center and to the right. I stepped over to it but my eye picked up the flash of a metal box against the frame at chest level. I used the flashlight again and found myself looking at a digital locking device. I’d seen them many times before. But why the hell does someone have one on a room out in the middle of the Everglades?

  I punched at the top row of buttons, numbered for a combination. No response, though without power I wasn’t expecting it. I examined the door more closely, then gave it a shoulder. Nothing. I put some weight behind the next one. Thing was solid. I knocked at the flat surface with the butt end of my flashlight. The sound was distinctly metal, and then I banged on it a few more times at an angle. By scraping off some paint I could see that someone had taken pains to paint a faux wood design on what was a substantial metal door. My only thought was that something valuable was inside. You don’t build an extra-heavy-duty safe room without something to keep safe inside of it. But the guesses were endless out here: Food? Hunting weapons? I swept the flashlight through the room again. Not a clue. This side of the place was sparse. Too sparse, in fact.

  “Hell with it,” I said out loud and the sound of my own voice went dead in the thick air. I snatched up a water bottle, left the front door open, and stepped out onto the porch and checked my handheld GPS. I figured to go through the brush again and then row the canoe around. I could pull Sherry out next to the deck and then get her inside on the bed. Maybe I’d overlooked some blankets, something to keep her covered. I’d tackle the locked room later. Maybe it was the sugar hitting the back of my head, maybe the sharper image now of Sherry’s leg, still propped and bound in the bow of the canoe without me there to watch her. But suddenly I wanted her inside, somewhere safe. The light was seeping out of the late afternoon sky now and even though the coming darkness would be no more intense than any other time out here, I did not want to be exposed again.

  When I had climbed and slogged and ducked through the beaten hammock to the canoe and spotted Sherry’s head through branches in the distance, I called out her name but the dark blondness of her hair did not move, and it scared me.

  “Sherry!”

  No answer. No movement. I started crashing through some downed poisonwood.

  “Sherry!”

  Her hand came up, palm facing away from me, fingers straight up and stiff, not a sign but a signal and I stopped. I tried to see beyond her, into the bush and the twig mass that I’d dragged the canoe through to its resting spot. I kept my vision low, water height, and then tried to move slowly.

  Ten yards closer and I spotted the nostrils, like moss- covered walnuts resting on an equally dark log. But these were too symmetrical and behind them, maybe a foot, two hooded black marbles shone. It was hard to tell how big he was from where I stood, or whether he was on a solid mass of vegetation or still floating. I have seen gators get up on all fours and charge with amazing speed. But under most circumstances they like to lay quiet, like a spring trap, and snap their prey with a speed and strength that seemingly comes from nowhere. This one might have been stalking Sherry, or her scent, moving at incremental inches until it was at striking distance. My rustlings in the hammock seemed not to have distracted it in the least. Usually, man-made noise, a passing airboat or even shouting and the whacking of boat paddles, caused the animals to whiplash their tails and dive down and away into any nearby water. Usually. What the passing hurricane had done to the flow of nature was unpredictable and I was not going to guess the mood of this monster. Last year a woman jogger who had simply stopped along the edge of the lake in a Broward County park to dip her feet in the water was snatched by a fourteen-footer, pulled into the lake, and dismembered. With gators there was no such thing as predictable.

  I was thinking strategies and to go along with them I picked up a good sturdy limb that had been sheared from an old-growth mahogany above. I set down my supplies and pulled my knife from its scabbard and started hacking strips off one end of the limb, half a dozen downward strokes, the blade so sharp it slid through the two-inch diameter stake like it was putty, and left a glistening, bone-colored point. You could poke ’em. I’d seen the wildlife resource officers for the state maneuver even the nasty ones by poking them with long-handled nooses and then roping them. But I had no such interest. Just a poke in the snout if the thing came forward. Maybe a jab in the throat if he opened that mouth of his. I took hold of the stick like a foolish caveman and moved toward Sherry. When I got next to her she cut her eyes to me and whispered in a raspy voice: “Jesus, Max. What the hell are you going to do with that?”

  Adrenaline had perked her up. She was fully conscious.

  “Hell if I know,” I answered as truthfully as I could and handed her my knife.

  “And what the hell am I going to do with this?”

  The gator snuffled, I swear, and let out a whoof of air that rippled the water in front of him but he did not move.

  My insane reaction was to yell at the top of my lungs and then lunge out at the animal, bringing the broom-length staff of mahogany
down with a sharp swat on the surface of the water. The spray erupted in front of the beast’s face and in response it snapped out with amazing quickness and bit the end of the stick and pulled it from my grasp.

  “Shit,” I said, and reached back into the canoe, fingers searching, and found the long metal staff of Big Bertha that I’d tossed in the boat at the cabin. I whipped the headless golf club out and it whistled past the gator’s nose, and he seemed momentarily awed by the sound. He froze but I did not. I reloaded for a second shot and this time I lunged and stabbed at the thing’s face, jabbing at the nose but missing and unintentionally sticking the end of the metal shaft a good three inches into its eye socket.

  The gator did not roar, did not make any sound at all but spun his huge body away and the slew of his huge tail sent a wave at us, catching me up in the chest as if a ski boat had just peeled by, and when I shook the water from my vision I saw the ass-end of the gator slipping through the greenness headed in the opposite direction.

  We were frozen in silence for a few beats, listening to the rustle in the brush echo away, listening to me breathe in gradually slowing gulps, listening, each of us, to our own heartbeats trip down.

  I finally turned to Sherry and it appeared as if she had not moved since I left her. Her face was sallow; either sweat or water from the gator splash had covered her face. But at the corner of her mouth was a tickle of a grin.

  “I would have just shot the bastard,” she said, and the tickle went to both sides.

  I retrieved the fresh water for her, which she drank carefully and also with one of the aspirin. I then gave her the package of chocolate, which she started to gobble, but thought better and licked more than bit at the mushy bar. I told her about the cabin, that it was intact and that there were some medical supplies but nothing that was going to help much with the pain.

  “Just get me inside, Max. The pain I can deal with.”

  I backed the canoe out and climbed in. There was now a good four to six inches of water in the bottom but I didn’t bother bailing. I could remember the route I’d figured from the treetop and we paddled around to the water entrance of the cabin in less than twenty minutes.

  “How long was that thing lying there watching you?” I finally asked as we got underway. I was still cutting my eyes in either direction, watching for unnatural ripples.

  “Seemed like forever,” Sherry said from the bow. “Probably as long as we were watching him over the past few days.”

  The water and no doubt the chocolate had raised her energy and her humor.

  “Wally?” I said.

  “Same beady eyes,” she said and again the smile had partially returned.

  She whimpered only once when I lifted her out of the canoe and set her on the deck. The splint was holding up. But when I carried her through the entrance of the cabin and lay her down on one of the beds, I came away with a dark bloodstain on my shirt sleeve and right hip. I got out the first aid kit, ignored the scissors and used my own sharp knife to cut away the duct tape and then the old sheet bandages, and finally more of the leg of her sweatpants.

  Her thigh was swollen, maybe from infection, maybe in combination with the tightness of the wrapping. The skin around the wound was puckered and white and I guessed that it was from the constant moisture. Keeping anything dry out here was a struggle. Under these conditions, impossible. I laid the knife next to her and then poured the alcohol onto the wound and used the sterile gauze to clean it. Sherry watched but didn’t make a sound even when I picked up the flap of skin and poured more into the gash. I slathered on the antibacterial cream and then used the other sterile pads to cover and then wrap the thigh with another gauze roll, not as tight as before. She needed antibiotics, probably a straight IV drip, probably a drip with all kinds of fluid to hydrate, fight the sure infection, stop the possibility of gangrene.

  “OK,” I said. “Let’s get your shoes off, make you comfortable.”

  She was already looking around the room.

  “Anything in the back room? Radio? Keys to the helicopter?”

  I pulled off her mud-covered shoes, those funky red Keds with the yellow laces.

  “Haven’t gained entry yet to check it,” I said and used the alcohol-soaked gauze to clean her toes and get a take on their color. I was looking for pinkness, hoping for circulation.

  “Yeah, gained entry,” she said in a mocking tone. “I see the digital lock, Max. What’s up with that?”

  I was concentrating, very carefully poking the pads of her toes with the sharp tip of a corner of the aluminum medicine tube, hoping for reaction, but getting none.

  “You saw the digital lock, right, Max?”

  She couldn’t feel her toes. I needed to get her out of here to a hospital.

  “Yeah,” I said, standing up. “I gotta check that out. Who the hell does that out here, right?”

  FIFTEEN

  Harmon was in his bedroom, going through the closet, his closet, the one he didn’t share with his wife, the one in fact that he forbade her to use. He knew she probably had gone through it in years past, just looking. You don’t keep secrets from your wife for thirty years. She would have looked at his gun collection, the electronics that the company had him keep there for emergency use, maybe even the multiple passports he tucked away in a drawer. But if she had questions about those things, she didn’t bring them up. She knew that he had been in the military and left unsaid any doubts she had now of the legality of his work. It was yet another reason he was always trying to find leverage against the men who employed him. He’d seen colleagues killed and wives left behind without a clue or a safety net. He knew the company would disavow any knowledge of him and see no obligation to take care of his family if something befell him. Harmon was not the kind of man to say, “That just comes with the business.” If that were the case, he wouldn’t still be in this dangerous business, no matter how well it paid. If he went down, his instructions for his wife and all the money he had hidden over the years and the evidence against the oil company would be at her disposal. He took care of his own.

  “Arlene,” he called out to his wife, who was in the kitchen and still pissed at the news that the boss had called. “Where’s that other jacket I had?”

  He checked off his travel list in his head as he touched each item and stuffed it into his bag: the satellite phone, fully charged. The helicopter pilot would have the same model and they would be able to stay in touch regardless of the lack of power or cell towers in the area. His Nikon digital camera, which he’d been instructed to carry in and take detailed photos of any damage and the general disposition of the property, including any lack of foliage coverage, from the air. A couple of two-liter bottles of water because even if this was an easy hour-long drop-in, document, and get back out, he knew the danger of the humidity and the heat of the Everglades from experience. A radio frequency transmitter, routinely used to electronically unlock abandoned or sealed oil rigs and restart their power systems. His Colt revolver with the snub nose, the last one in his collection and an item he never went to work without.

  “I’ve no idea. I thought you wore one on that last trip you guys took,” his wife answered, her voice growing as she approached down the hall.

  “I lost that one,” Harmon said, thinking about the bullet hole in the fabric. He continued sorting through clothes hanging on a rod in the back of the closet.

  “Well, I thought you said this was going to be a quick mission. You can hardly be going somewhere cold if it’s going to be quick,” his wife said, her head looking around the corner of the bedroom door but not entering when his closet was open. Yeah, he thought, she’s been in here.

  “Doesn’t matter if it’s cold, honey,” he said. “You know when I’m on a job I like to have pockets to put things in.” His wife walked away.

  They had done this dance a hundred times. Vietnam, Granada, Nicaragua, Kosovo. When he’d retired and gone private he watched her breathe a sigh of relief but still felt her eye on hi
m as he began to spend more time in his library and running the streets in an old pair of combat boots and generally driving himself and her crazy from inaction. When he started going on week-long “security” trips for the company, missing the kids’ games or some special ceremony, he knew she was unhappy with the shift once again in his priorities. He was not a domestic man. She knew that. “For you and the kids” was always his response when she gained the guts to outright ask why he did what he did. It pays very well, Arlene. I’m a pro. I’m not going to do something stupid and leave you guys hanging, you know that.

  Harmon did not say those words just to mollify. He was a confident man, knew his abilities, even with age. Once set on course he did not believe he could fail. That was his life’s playing card, the source of respect from others, the mind-set that had kept him alive through a dozen missions. He did what he did because his soul needed it. But he was not so dumb as to not provide, just in case. He’d left instructions for his wife, just in case. He covered his ass.

  “Here’s your other jacket,” Arlene said, returning to the door with the short spring coat with the big seamed pockets that gave him easy access and room to maneuver whatever was in them.

  “Thanks, honey,” he said.

  “Bring that one back with you. OK?”

  “Yeah, sure. You can bet on it.”

  SIXTEEN

  “Whoa, check it out,” Marcus said from across the room, and Wayne seemed to be able to tell by the sound of his friend’s voice he wasn’t just shittin’ him. Wayne was staring, really staring, down into what looked to be a pile of oddly angled polished wood. Marcus stepped over some pots and pans and crossed the bare carpet that sat square and clean and seemingly untouched in the middle of the room.