by Dave Barry
“That thing was expensive,” said Victor. “I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to my parents.”
“Can’t you tell them the truth?” said Matt.
“Not really,” said Victor. “I’m not supposed to use it to spy on neighbors. They were really clear about that when I got it. Plus, I can’t prove the Bevins shot it.”
“Victor,” I said, “do you think the Bevins know where the drone came from?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I mean, I guess they could figure out it was being controlled by somebody nearby. But it doesn’t have my name on it.”
Everybody was quiet for a few seconds, then Matt said, “So what do we do now?”
Victor said, “I’m going to try to figure out what to tell my parents. That thing was really expensive.”
“I mean,” said Matt, “what are we going to do about the Bevins?”
“Maybe we should just leave the Bevins alone,” said Victor.
“Yeah,” I said. “We’re in enough trouble as it is.”
“Seriously?” said Taylor. “You’re just going to let them get away with it? Framing you for stealing? Smuggling endangered animals, and whatever else they’re up to over there? You’re not going to try to stop them?”
“We tried to stop them,” I said. “They shot down the drone. They have guns, Taylor.”
“So call the police.”
“We did that once already, remember?” I said. “The police think the Bevins are the good guys and we’re the criminals.”
Everybody was quiet again. Then Matt said, “This totally sucks.”
Everybody agreed with that, even Taylor.
We sat around a little longer, staring at each other on our screens, but nobody had any brilliant ideas. So we all said good night and hung up. Taylor went back to her room. I locked my window, wishing I’d done that the night before, and went to bed.
I was tired, but I had a hard time falling asleep, and when I finally did I had a dream where I was being chased by a Komodo dragon, except it could talk, and its voice sounded like Principal Arlene “The Stinger” Metzinger, telling me that when she caught up with me she was going to put me in detention forever. I was in a hallway, which I think was in Coral Cove High, and my legs felt super-heavy, so no matter how hard I tried to run, I could barely move. I could hear the Komodo Stinger getting closer and closer because its claws were making a clicking sound on the floor, like click-click-click-click. The clicking was getting louder and louder, CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK, and my legs were getting heavier and heavier, and I knew the Komodo Stinger was going to catch me, and then…
…and then I woke up, covered with sweat. I looked at my phone. It was 3:14 a.m. I realized I had thrown my blanket, sheet, and pillow on the floor.
Then I realized something else.
I could still hear the clicking.
Except it wasn’t really clicking. It was more like tapping. Tap-tap-tap-tap. And it was coming from close by.
Very close by.
Somebody was tapping on my bedroom window.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
The first thing I thought was: Bevin brothers.
They had already come through my bedroom window once. I didn’t know why they would come back, but I figured it wouldn’t be to bring me home-baked cookies.
From my bed, I couldn’t see out the window. My room was dark, so whoever was tapping couldn’t see in, either.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
For a few seconds I just lay in bed, sweating, hoping whoever it was would just go away.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
They weren’t going away.
I sat up and put my feet on the floor. I decided I’d go to the door, open it quickly, and leave. I wasn’t sure what I’d do after that. Probably tell my parents. At the moment I just wanted to get away from whoever was out there. I stood and took a couple of shuffling steps toward the door, my hand reaching out for it in the darkness.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
I admit this is pathetic, but I was afraid to look toward the window. I was actually squinting, like a little kid who thinks that if he closes his eyes, nobody can see him.
I felt around until I found the doorknob. I turned it and opened the door. There was a light on in the hallway, so now whoever was outside could see me. Suddenly the tapping stopped, and I heard a smacking sound, like a hand slapping the window. I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t help myself. I turned toward the window. I was expecting to see a face. Instead, I saw a piece of notebook paper pressed against the glass. On it, handwritten in big black letters, were these words:
I KNOW WHAT THEY ARE DOING.
HELP ME STOP THEM.
I stared at the sign for a second, then stepped into the hall and closed the door. I stared at the door, trying to decide what to do.
Taylor’s door opened. She poked her head out.
“Somebody’s outside your window,” she whispered.
“I know,” I said.
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know. But they’re holding up a note that says they know what the Bevins are doing.”
“Really?” She came out into the hall. Csonka, who had been sleeping in the living room, also wandered in, to see what was going on.
“I think that’s what they mean. The note says ‘I know what they are doing. Help me stop them.’”
“Wow. Who could it be?”
“I have no idea.”
“So let’s find out.”
Before I could say anything, Taylor opened the door and went into my room, followed by Csonka. So unless I wanted to stand in the hall like a total coward, I had to follow my dog and my annoyingly brave little sister.
I looked at the window. The note was gone, but I could see a dark shape out there. I couldn’t see the face.
“Can you tell who that is?” said Taylor.
“No.”
“Only one way to find out.” She went to the window, unlocked it, and slid it open.
“Who’s there?” she said.
“Me,” said the shape, stepping forward and poking his head in. He was a youngish guy, looked like maybe in his mid-twenties. He had longish hair.
“Hi,” he said. “Mind if I come in?”
“Sure,” said Taylor.
“Wait a minute,” I said, but he was already climbing into my room. He was tall and skinny, wearing shorts with a T-shirt that said SNOT HOUSE. Csonka, who is the worst watchdog ever, went right over and starting licking him. Csonka would lick Godzilla.
“Hey there, boy,” said the guy, rubbing Csonka’s head.
“What’s Snot House?” said Taylor. As if that was the big question on everybody’s mind at the moment.
“A band,” said the guy. “They’re really good.”
“Okay, that’s terrific,” I said. “Now who are you and why are you here?”
“My name’s Jon Aibel,” he said. “I’m here to see you. You’re Wyatt Palmer, right?”
“Yes. But who are—”
“And you told the police you saw a Komodo dragon in Frank Bevin’s backyard?”
“How do you know that?”
“I have a police source. So it’s true?”
“It’s true. There’s a Komodo dragon back there. But nobody believes me.”
“I believe you.”
“You do?”
“Yup. What else did you see?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you see any other unusual animals?”
“We saw a python inside the house.”
“No, in the backyard. Did you see any other animals there?”
“Okay, hold it. Before I answer any more of your questions, who are you? Why are you tapping on my window at three a.m.?”
“Fair enough,” he said. “I guess I owe you an explanation.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Believe it or not, until a month ago, I worked for the United States government. I was with the Fish and Wildlife Service. You know
what they do?”
“They deal with fish,” said Taylor. “And wildlife.”
“Ignore her,” I said. “She thinks she’s clever.”
Jon Aibel smiled at Taylor, who blushed, which meant she thought he was cute. I felt a little sorry for him.
“Anyway,” he continued, “among other things, Fish and Wildlife enforces the Endangered Species Act. You know what that is, right?”
Taylor and I nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “So smuggling rare animals is a huge business worldwide. I’m talking literally billions of dollars. And Miami is right in the middle of it. The Miami airport has more incoming animals than any other airport in the country, and a lot of those animals aren’t supposed to be here. Sometimes they’re in big shipments from professional smugglers, going to shady dealers here. Sometimes it’s some amateur nimrod who went to the Amazon rain forest and came home with an iguana stuffed down his pants.”
“His pants?” said Taylor.
“You would not believe what people put in their pants. I’ve seen snapping turtles.”
“Ouch,” I said.
“Exactly. So anyway, a lot of animals come to Miami illegally, and not just through the airport. They come by truck, by car, by boat, whatever, and Fish and Wildlife agents try to stop them. Some of these are special agents. Sometimes they work in plain clothes and go undercover, infiltrate smuggling operations, stuff like that. I was one of those agents.”
“Wow,” said Taylor. She was now officially in love.
“So anyway, there was this dealer in Miami, specializing in herps, and—”
“What’s herps?” I said.
“It’s slang for herpetofauna. Reptiles and amphibians. Collectors call them ‘herps’ for short.”
“Cool,” said Taylor, unnecessarily. He smiled at her, which is of course why she said it.
“So anyway,” he said, “we suspected this dealer was shady, so I started hanging around, pretending to be a rich collector interested in rare herps. Do you know what a black mamba is?”
We shook our heads.
“It’s a venomous African snake. It’s big—it can get to ten feet, even longer. It’s also aggressive, which means trouble because it’s one of the fastest snakes in the world, and one of the most deadly. Its venom is extremely toxic. Two drops can kill you. The venom attacks your nervous system, and if you don’t get treatment fast, you will die a very painful, unpleasant death. In other words, this is one of the most dangerous animals on the planet. So naturally there are people who want one as a pet.”
“Why?” I said.
“Because there’s a certain kind of guy—it’s almost always a guy—who wants to possess deadly animals. The deadlier the better. Every now and then one of these guys gets himself or somebody else killed, but that just makes it more exciting for the rest of them. So anyway, I’m hanging around this herps dealer, pretending to be a rich amateur collector who wants his own personal black mamba. You’re not allowed to possess one in this country unless you’re putting it in a legitimate zoo, or you’re a researcher, somebody with the right qualifications and training. But I let it be known that I’d pay a lot of money to get a mamba, no questions asked.”
“So did they sell you one?” I asked.
“Not the dealer. He said he didn’t have one, although I think he was just being careful because he didn’t know me. But there was this guy named Luis who was always hanging around there, heard I was in the market, and said maybe he could help me out. So I met him at a bar and bought him a few drinks, which turned him into quite a talker. Long story short, he sometimes worked for these high-end smugglers who specialized in rare and dangerous animals, and they happened to be bringing in some black mambas for a big client they had. He said maybe, for the right price, he could get one for me. I think he was planning to steal one from the smugglers and sell it to me, to make some money on the side. So I said sure, get me one. I wasn’t really after Luis. I was after the bigger guys. I figured I could get to them through Luis.”
“So did you?” said Taylor.
He looked at her, but this time he didn’t smile. “We were supposed to meet in Coconut Grove. He was going to give me the snake, and I’d give him the money. But he never showed up. I figured he got cold feet. But two days after that, some boaters found a body floating in Biscayne Bay, near Matheson Hammock. Guess who.”
“It was Luis?” said Taylor.
He nodded. “At first the police thought it was an accidental drowning. But when I found out about it, I asked them to do a blood toxicology test. Guess what they found.”
“Black mamba venom,” I said.
“Bingo.”
“So what do you think happened?”
“At first I thought maybe he messed up handling it and it bit him. But a couple of things bothered me about that. One was: This guy was experienced with snakes. He’d be very careful with a mamba. Another thing was: Why was he in the water? If you get bitten by a snake, even if you’re on a boat, you don’t jump overboard. But the weirdest thing was where he was bitten.”
“Where?” I said.
“On the back of his head.”
“Whoa,” I said. “That’s not an accident.”
“No. It was just above his neck, where his hair would cover the puncture marks. Which is why nobody saw them when they fished him out of the bay. Somehow the guys he worked for must have found out he was going to steal the snake. I think they held him down, had the snake bite him, and threw him overboard. He’d try to swim, but the venom would be attacking his nervous system. He had no chance.”
“Wow,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “These are very bad guys.”
“So what did you do?” said Taylor. “Did you arrest them?”
“At first, Luis didn’t give me any names. I think he wanted to make sure I couldn’t bypass him and buy direct from them. But he did tell me some things, back when we were at the bar. He told me what kinds of animals they’d been bringing in for this big client. And after a couple of drinks, he let slip the client’s name. See if you can guess.”
“Frank Bevin,” I said.
“Bingo.”
“So that’s good, right?” I said. “Now you can arrest the Bevins, or at least investigate them.”
Jon Aibel smiled, but it was not a happy smile. “That’s what I thought,” he said. “I went straight to my superiors, told them what I knew. I thought we’d get a warrant and be raiding the Bevin property within hours. I thought I’d be a hero, maybe get a promotion.” He shook his head. “That’s not what happened.”
“What happened?” I said.
“My boss told me to stop investigating.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t say. I got the feeling that the order came from way above him.”
“But there was a dead guy!” said Taylor.
“That’s what I said. My boss said that was a police matter and I should stay out of it.”
“But you knew why he was dead!” I said. “You knew about the smuggling!”
“I pointed that out, and my boss said that everything was under control—whatever that was supposed to mean—and that I was absolutely under strict orders to stay away from that case.”
“So did you?” I asked.
“For a couple of days. But as far as I could tell, nothing was happening. It was driving me crazy. I mean, a guy was dead, and I felt at least partly responsible. So I went to the police on my own. I told them everything I knew. Guess what happened.”
“What?”
“Instead of investigating, the police went straight to my bosses, and I got suspended from Fish and Wildlife. For insubordination.”
“Seriously?”
“Yup. And I was told that if I talked to anybody else about this, I’d lose my job permanently and get arrested for interfering with an investigation. Except as far as I can tell there is no investigation.”
“But why not?”
“It seems that Frank Be
vin is untouchable. He’s a rich and powerful man, and he has powerful friends, and they’re not going to let anything happen to him. He can do whatever he wants in his compound, even if what he wants to do is collect the most lethal animals on earth in the backyard of a residential neighborhood. If something goes wrong over there, innocent people will be in danger.”
“You mean like if the mamba snakes get out?” said Taylor.
“Yup. Or the Komodo dragon. Or the deathstalker scorpions.”
“The what scorpions?”
“Deathstalker. They’re from North Africa and the Middle East, and they’re as nasty as they sound. You do not want to get stung by one.”
“No,” I agreed.
“Well, according to my late friend Luis, Frank Bevin brought in dozens of them. He also has a bunch of poison dart frogs and Brazilian wandering spiders, both of which are deadly. And then there’s something else he got, something truly weird and scary.”
“Wait,” I said. “Weirder and scarier than deathstalker scorpions?”
“Yup. I thought I knew every kind of animal that ever got smuggled into this town, but I never heard of this. According to Luis, one night the smugglers hired him for a boat transport, only this time they used a bigger boat than usual. They went out into the Gulf Stream and met a freighter, but instead of an animal crate, a big aluminum container was loaded onto their boat. They headed back toward Miami and got to the Bevin house at around two a.m. They had a major hassle getting the container inside the wall. It just barely fit through the gate. By now Luis was really curious about what was inside there. So finally he asked one of the head guys. When the guy told him, Luis could barely believe it.”
“What was it?” I said.
“Siafu.”
“Wow,” said Taylor.
I looked at her. “You know what that is?”
“No,” she admitted.
I looked at Jon Aibel. “What’s a siafu?”
“It’s a kind of ant.”
“The container is full of ants?”
“Yes. African ants. They’re also called driver ants or safari ants.”
“What’s so scary about an ant?” said Taylor.
“Well, if there’s just one, it’s not that scary, although they do have extremely powerful jaws, so even one can give you a pretty painful bite. But the thing about siafu is, there’s never just one. They form the biggest ant colonies in the world—sometimes twenty million ants. Twenty million. And they work together, so they’re like one big creature that has millions of jaws. They’re swarm raiders, which means they go out and hunt for food in a huge mass, like a river of ants. They eat pretty much any animal in their path. Usually that’s other insects, earthworms, rodents, stuff like that. But they’ve been known to kill cattle.”
