by Sasscer Hill
After we doused ourselves with the bug spray, I pulled on my work gloves. Zanin put the Fluke inside the canvas bag, slung the pack over his shoulder, and grabbed the machete. I’d already seen the gun on his right hip and pressed a palm against my own holster, reassured by the feel of the hard metal inside.
Zanin touched my shoulder. “Let’s do this.”
I nodded. For good measure I shoved a can of bug spray into one of my vest’s large zippered pockets, before following him into the tangle of brush and pines.
“Stay close behind me,” he whispered, slicing the machete through a vine with large, smooth thorns that gleamed in the night light.
“Like glue,” I said, remembering the large reptilian entity that had slid through the muck near the pigpen. “Is there much swamp on the way?”
“Fair amount. But avoidable if you know the path.”
Path? I saw no path, only dark dirt, pine needles, fallen palm fronds, and the indistinct outlines of big, scratchy bushes. Every so often the arms of two plants locked thorns and blocked our way. Zanin’s machete sliced them apart, leaving a strong wet scent like green blood.
Tree frogs and bullfrogs croaked a raucous chorus, providing the musical score for our trek through the jungle. As close as I shadowed Zanin, I was careful not to bump into him when he’d stop to get his bearings. Up small rises, down along the edge of banks with careful steps to avoid a fall into the murky water. After the third set of eyes glowed at me from the slough, I stopped flinching. My boots made sucking noises as we moved through wet spots, but I never took the dreaded drop-step into deep, stagnant water. Zanin knew what he was doing.
About the time I decided I’d been pulled into an endless, Stygian nightmare, dim light became discernible ahead. Moments later, we halted before a fence made of heavy strands of electrified wire. Beyond it lay a cleared field, and in the distance, what looked like the trees and netting I’d seen in Zanin’s photographs. Beyond that, another open field and lights that glowed from a distant building. Valera’s home?
Zanin dropped his canvas bag, rooted through it, and withdrew a heavy set of rubber gloves and rubber-handled wire cutters. He snipped the four strands of wire, and using the rubber gloves, twisted the wire back on itself, leaving us a narrow square to walk through.
We moved quietly across the recently cleared field, careful not to stumble on cut roots or jagged stumps of bushes and trees. I hoped our silhouettes didn’t stand out like black billboards announcing our presence to any eyes that might be watching.
As we approached, it sounded like a thousand crickets were chirping inside the cage. Nearing the steel frame supporting the netting, I could see the fabric’s weave was fine enough to contain insects.
Zanin paused. “Look up. See how the chain link and the netting go right across the top to the other side?”
“Yeah.” As we drew closer, a dull orange glow became visible from inside. “Are those heat lamps?”
“Yeah,” Zanin said, “I think so.”
“The net makes it so dark, I can’t see anything but trees and the lamps. Are they raising birds?” I peered into the dark until a reflection caught my eye.
“Zanin, look at the ground. Is that water?” I tried to keep my voice steady as a spider of doubt crept down my spine. “Valera’s got something in there that needs trees and water. Do you think it’s snakes?”
“I don’t know, but the entrance has to be through the building.”
“We’re not going in there,” I insisted. “Can’t you look through the camera?”
“Yeah, but I want to get closer. Come on.”
We followed the chain link to where it attached to the edge of the cinder-block building. Zanin pulled the Fluke out, cranked it up, and we both stared at the boxlike screen attached to the handle.
“Except for the heat lamps, it’s just vague, muted colors,” he said. “I’m gonna see if I can adjust the temperature lower. If anything’s inside, it’s not putting out enough heat.”
I remembered Jilly asking Zanin how the camera could see something cold-blooded like snakes. Nope, not going in there.
Zanin’s fingers adjusted a control on the camera, and he aimed it at the closest tree inside the fence. We stared at the screen.
A small image stared back. As my eyes adjusted, I made out a number of them sitting on twigs and branches of the tree. Some were moving. “Yuck,” I said. “Frogs.” Then it hit me. “Frog juice! He’s making frog juice!”
“Why would he? You said they already test for that at the track.” But he started shooting pictures with the Fluke.
“Maybe he’s making it for people. We have to get in there,” I said. “I need a couple of those babies to take with us. I want to see if they’re the ones that make dermorphin.”
He grabbed my arm to halt my forward surge. “Wait a minute, Fia. Let’s make sure those frogs aren’t food for something bigger that lives in there.”
I shuddered. “Okay.” I wondered if the creatures could be poisonous. Why hadn’t I read more about them?
Zanin slowly panned the Fluke over the area closest to us, and we didn’t see anything but frogs—no alligators, no pythons. We walked along the fence line to the far end, following its rectangular outline across the narrow end and back down the far side before returning to the cinder-block building. Nothing but frogs and the sound of crickets chirping on the ground inside the pen.
“I guess the frogs eat the crickets,” I said, feeling my lips grimace.
Zanin looked at the time indicator on the camera screen. “We need to get in and get out,” Zanin said.
“Works for me.”
When he saw that a padlock secured the door to Valera’s building, Zanin reached into his bag, pulled out his bolt cutters, and broke the lock. I tensed when he opened the door, fearing the sound of sirens and the flashing of lights. Chirping crickets and darkness continued to rule the night, but a funky smell stopped me in my tracks.
Pausing, we both switched on penlights. I pulled on my work gloves, gritted my teeth, and forged into the building behind Zanin. Shining the tiny lights inside the rectangular space revealed a concrete floor and a long metal worktable that held two plastic gallon jugs of nail polish remover. When we examined the shelves bolted to the walls, we discovered several cardboard boxes containing smooth wooden sticks like tongue depressors. There were about a half dozen cartons packed with two-inch-by-three-inch clear plastic boxes, like those used to store computer flash drives.
The only other items in the room were a box of shop rags and a large trash barrel half filled with discarded rags and sticks. My eyes stung from the reek of acetone coming off the old rags.
Zanin shrugged his shoulders. “What do you think?”
“The sticks,” I said slowly, trying to work it out, “might be used to scrape the wax off the frogs. The tiny plastic boxes could be used to store the wax.”
“And the acetone and rags for cleaning the stuff up?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That sounds about right. Now let’s grab some frogs.”
A screen door in the far wall of the building led into the cage. After Zanin eased the door open, we stepped into the pen. Ambient light filtered through the netting and defined four long rectangles of water. I knelt to shine my penlight on one and felt my knee crunch a cricket. Oh, yuck. I looked at the water.
“Jesus, Zanin, look at these tadpoles. Valera’s got to be raising these things.”
“Then no question there’s money in it for him. You want me to grab a frog?”
Glancing up, I said, “You’ve already got too much stuff to carry. I’ll get them.”
A cricket hopped onto my thigh and I knocked it off, stood up, and stared at the nearest tree. I saw the outline of a frog, and moved my hand toward it very slowly. It started walking away, but was slow. After gently working my gloved fingers around it, I dropped it into one of my vest pockets. It surprised me that these frogs weren’t hoppers and were so easy to catch. I nabbed another on
e, eased him into the same pocket, and closed the zipper.
“Let’s get out of here. It smells gross.”
I could see a flash of white as Zanin smiled. “You know, they say smell is particulate.”
“Thank you for that,” I said, trying not to think about breathing funky particles into my lungs.
We went back through the screen door, moved through the building, and out the front, walking fast across the stubby field. I heard a droning sound and glanced toward it. On the dim horizon of treetops a light grew stronger and larger.
“Plane,” Zanin said. He started running.
I ran, too, glancing over my shoulder, I could see the plane’s lights were about to sweep over us. Was it Valera returning early with the rest of his thugs? Dipping a wing, the plane began a circular path over the field we ran through, probably preparing to land on the cleared field closer to Valera’s house.
We couldn’t run fast enough. The lights swept over us making us as vulnerable as fish in a barrel.
“Damn it,” Zanin said. “No way they didn’t see us.”
We sped forward. I glanced back and saw the lights in the distant house come on. A car engine started up. Headlights flared and bounced quickly across the far field, heading our way. Someone in the plane must have alerted the three men in the house.
We ran hard, stumbling on roots and small stumps, somehow regaining our feet without falling. The electric fence and swampy woods grew closer, but so did the roar of the vehicle’s engine. I stubbed my boot toe hard on something and fell to one knee, stifling a shriek of pain as something sharp pierced me.
Zanin rushed back. “What’s wrong?”
“My leg.”
He shined a penlight. A thin tree stump had pierced my calf.
“Get me off this thing,” I said.
He put out a hand. I pressed my palm against his and pushed myself up with a small scream. The sharp end of a stake protruded from the ground, painted with my blood. I tested my leg, carefully standing on it. Maybe only a flesh wound? It hurt, but my ankle still flexed and my calf held my weight.
“Fia, can you run?”
Instead of answering, I took off toward the swamp. My stride was off, but I moved pretty well and I could hear Zanin right behind me.
With a last look back, I saw the plane touch down in the far field. As it taxied forward, its headlights backlit what looked like a Jeep roaring into our field.
Moonlight reflected off the lines of electric fence outlining the small gap where we’d entered. Behind me, I could hear Zanin gasping for air as we ran toward it. I was probably in better cardiovascular shape than him from galloping, but my leg hurt.
The sound of the Jeep’s engine grew louder. We were almost to the gap when shots rang out. Automatic fire from the careening Jeep went wide, not touching us.
We made it through the gap and into the woods. No way I’d find the path through Valera’s jungle. I slowed to let Zanin pass me. Behind us, I heard the Jeep crunch to a stop. Whoever had the automatic weapon raked the woods with fire, hoping to nail us. Tree bark, twigs, and leaves erupted around me. My heart pounded like it was trying to beat its way out of my chest, but somehow, a bullet never found us.
Zanin didn’t pause, and by the time the next burst of fire strafed the trees we’d shifted to the left and worked deeper into the tangled vegetation. I heard shouting, but the voices didn’t move into the woods. Maybe they were as afraid of this place as I was.
Zanin moved as fast as he could to find the trail. I struggled behind, trying to keep up with my limping run. The pain intensified, and I felt my energy draining. I thought about my dad and tried to let the good memories comfort me. Suddenly I remembered an oldies tune he’d liked and could almost see him on his shedrow, hear him singing along with the radio, “Runnin’ like a dog through the Everglades.”
Then I remembered finding his body. I ran harder.
25
We burst from the twisted, swampy brush, ran through the weedy field, and piled into Zanin’s Tahoe. He cranked the engine, and the SUV’s tires spun, sliding across the grass and vegetation until they grabbed traction on the gravel and dirt of 178th Street.
“I’ve got a first aid kit,” he said as he drove the SUV down the sandy road dimly lit by the quarter moon overhead. “As soon as we get far enough away, I wanna stop and look at your leg.”
“It’s not that bad,” I said, but I could feel his gaze on me. Staring through the windshield, I forced myself into the present, pushing dark thoughts about my father’s last moments into the past.
“We’re stopping anyway.”
I felt a stirring in my vest pocket and the pressure of little feet and legs pushing against my side. “Okay,” I said. “We’ll stop. The sooner the better. I think these frogs just woke up.”
“Are we squeamish?” His smile was barely visible in the moonlight.
“You know, Zanin, they could be poisonous. I think running through the woods scared them, put them in a kind of possum mode. But now that I’m still, they are seriously on the move. They need to meet a box.”
“We’ll find something,” he said.
About a mile farther, he flipped on the Tahoe’s headlights and hit the gas pedal. Moments later, we swung onto Okeechobee Road, where he pulled into the lot of a boat rental and cut the engine. While he grabbed his first aid kit from the backseat, I unlaced my boots and pulled my bloodstained pants leg up to my knee. With the aid of a strong flashlight, we examined my calf.
“You’re lucky,” Zanin said. “It’s a puncture, but not very deep, and it looks like it bled clean.”
“I told you it wasn’t bad,” I said. “But the frogs are driving me crazy. I’m taking this vest off.” I did, and laid it carefully on the seat next to me. It started moving toward Zanin. “You see?”
Ignoring the approaching vest, he grabbed a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the kit. He unscrewed the lid and poured the disinfectant into the hole in my leg.
He might as well have hit me with a flamethrower. “Jeez!” I blinked back tears.
“Sorry. Had to clean it out.”
He had gentle hands for a big guy and when he applied Neosporin, gauze, and Vetrap, I felt better. He put the first aid kit back, and made an impatient sound. The frogs had caused my vest to creep across the seat. It was nudging at his thigh.
He pushed it away. “What’s with these things?”
“Girl frogs,” I said.
“Don’t go there, Fia. Do you mind putting them on the floor?”
I did, and rode back to the house with my feet safely propped on the dashboard.
* * *
Zanin stopped at the end of Patrick’s driveway a little after midnight. He cut the engine and turned to me.
“Fia, thank you for coming with me. I’m sorry about your leg.”
“My leg? We were dodging bullets out there, Zanin. We could be dead meat in the hog pen. My leg is nothing.”
“I know, I know,” he said rubbing a hand against his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Well,” I said, softening, “we got what might be great evidence. If we’re lucky, we can use it to bring this guy down.” I pulled my feet off the dash and folded my legs on the seat.
Zanin stared at me. “Can we maybe get together sometime when it’s not about Valera and dead horses?”
I hadn’t realized how much I’d hoped to put this moment off, but I had to answer. “For right now, I have to say no.” I could feel him withdrawing. “Hear me out, Zanin. I’m going to trust you with something.” Meeting his gaze, I held it. “I’m still working in law enforcement. Undercover. I can’t tell you the details, but right now my life is so crazy, I just can’t…”
“Whoa, you’re a piece of work, Fia.”
I stiffened.
“No, I mean that in a good way.” He rested his fingers on my left leg. “As long as it’s just for ‘right now’ like you said, I can wait.”
“Zanin, I may be pulled out of this area and
sent somewhere else. My life isn’t my own.”
“Let’s just let it play out. That’s all I’m asking. No promises, no strings.”
“Okay,” I said.
Quicker than I had time to think about, he slipped an arm around my waist, pulled me across the seat, and kissed me. He smelled good, all male. His kiss was strong and hungry. I was too startled to respond until his hands started to wander. Gently, I pushed him away. “Easy, big guy.”
We were both short of breath, and the heat in his eyes said he wanted to kiss me again. “Zanin, I’ve got to call it a night.”
He was smiling. “Fine by me, babe. I’ve got something to take home and dream about now.”
I wasn’t going to touch that comment and felt a sudden twinge of guilt as I remembered my surge of desire for Calixto. I wasn’t ready to deal with so many mixed emotions. I grabbed my vest and scooted out of the Tahoe like a thief.
After slipping through the front door into the living room, I walked softly across Rebecca’s turquoise carpet, and tiptoed down the hall to my room. Though 4:00 A.M. was only a few hours away, I was too wired by everything that had happened to sleep. Besides, I had to do something with the frogs.
Someone, probably Rebecca, had stored shoes on the top shelf of the guest bedroom closet. I rolled my desk chair inside, climbed up, and snagged a shoe box. I pulled it down, opened the lid, and found a pair of turquoise sandals with four-inch orange heels.
They screamed Rebecca. I set them on the white carpet and took another look. They wouldn’t even look good on Kate. I grabbed scissors off the desk, punched holes in the box, and found a small glass dish in the kitchen. After adding water, I returned to the bedroom and put the dish in the box. I pulled on my work gloves and unzipped the vest pocket a little. A frog nose pushed through the hole. Oh, yuck.
I gritted my teeth, pulled the first toad out, and plopped him in the box. Quickly, I pushed the lid in place. My work gloves were discolored with a waxy fluid and a bit of frog poop.
Gingerly, I got hold of the second frog, held it under the desk lamp, and studied it. Iridescent blue with purple stripes. The legs were long and thin. Small drops of the sticky liquid seemed to be secreting from glands above the creature’s eyes. Was it dermorphin?
