Gator Wave

by David F. Berens

  She lunged through the door and slammed it behind her. The old woman banged on the window over Cinnamon’s second-hand couch. “You better, honey, or you’re outta here with the rest of the vagrants.”

  She dug her phone out of the dripping contents of her purse and found that the call was still connected.

  “Troy?” she asked. “Troy, are you still there?”

  On the other end of the line, she could hear him snoring. She smiled and shook her head, disconnecting the call.

  Cinnamon stripped out of the clothes, muddy, soaked, and falling apart—throwing sequins all over the linoleum. She turned on the tap in the bath and let it run for a few minutes until it was hot and not too brown. Thankfully, she found a half a bottle of Pinot Noir that Dante had given her for Christmas. She didn’t bother to get a glass. She eased down into the steaming water, took a long slow drink of the expensive wine and slowly began to relax.

  Her phone buzzed in the other room, but she never heard it, she was asleep against the cold tile.

  24

  A Cowboy, An Assassin, and a Cop

  Rain pounded FDLE Special Agent Ian Bass as he tugged on the ridiculously oversized pants sagging down around his feet. He had cinched up his belt as tight as it would go, but even on the last hole, it wasn’t quite enough to keep the pants from falling if he moved the wrong way. He could also see specks of blood popping up on the sleeves of the uniform from the myriad of cuts and scrapes he had gotten earlier trying to get a closer look at the Cowboy Killer—who had apparently taken up residence at the Islamorada Tennis Club. He had originally thought that was a strange plan, but as he jogged around the building trying not to lose his pants or get too soaked in the sudden downpour, he came to the conclusion that it wasn’t a bad plan at all.

  It was quiet during the off-season, hidden from the road by all but a small driveway, and completely unremarkable in every way—unless someone was looking for him, they might never know he was there. Luckily, Ian Bass had discovered his hideout and was planning to take the dude down. If he could pull this off, it was potentially a career making capture. He’d be promoted for sure and given a better position than that rat hole of a police station under Puckett.

  He parked the Islamorada Sheriff’s Ford Explorer up on the road under a tree with Spanish Moss hanging down in a curtain. There was no way the cowboy would be able to see it from the building.

  The tennis pro shop and the apartment above were quiet and dark. He didn’t see any lights on anywhere except a bare yellow bulb hanging from the back corner of the roof. A swarm of mosquitos clouded the light even in the rain and Ian laughed at the stupid notion that the yellow was invisible to bugs. Maybe there was some science to it, but out here in the middle of nowhere, even the amber glow would draw the little buggers in—and when one finds it, they all come out.

  He stepped up on the veranda on the back of the building, thankful to be out of the rain that was beginning to slow to a hard drizzle. He shone his flashlight (one hand on his belt, to keep his pants up) in the windows of the shop. He saw tennis rackets, tennis clothing, tennis towels, tennis balls, tennis trinkets, tennis magnets, and a few Islamorada logoed items as well … but no Cowboy Killer … or anyone else for that matter.

  The place was deserted. He wondered if maybe he’d spooked the guy when he’d been sloshing around in the swamp nearby almost becoming gator chow. Maybe the murderer had flown the coop. If the rain hadn’t been plinking around so loudly on the tin roof of the back porch, he might’ve heard the snoring coming from the hammock.

  It was, however, just quiet enough for him to hear a car pull in … slowly. Hot dog, he thought. He’s here. I’ll be able to get the jump on him and bring him in. He doused his flashlight and edged around the building so that he could see the car. The driver had turned off his headlights and was coasting into a spot near the building. It was too dark to see the driver, but the car was a dead giveaway—a beige, rental sedan. Nondescript. Chosen to blend in.

  He put his hand on the mic attached to his left shoulder. Backup in the form of Sheriff Paul Puckett was just a quick call away. But knowing the old man, he would take all the credit and use it to win the upcoming election. He eased his hand down and tucked his flashlight back into his belt. He unclipped his gun and when he did, the belt let go and his pants flopped down around his ankles.

  “Jiminy Cricket,” he hissed, kneeling to pull them back up.

  The car pulled past him and stopped, but it didn’t turn off. Ian noticed the plates were from New York. He hadn’t remembered hearing anything about the Cowboy Killer being a Yankee, but then again, maybe it was just a rental car far from home.

  He knelt down and pulled his gun from the holster, careful not to loosen his belt again. Squinting his eyes, he could tell there was someone in the driver’s seat, but the rest of the car appeared to be empty. The engine shut off and the quiet was deafening. Actually, the buzzing and humming and croaking and creaking of the island was deafening. Ian could feel his heart thumping so hard, he was sure if the wildlife hadn’t been so active, the killer would’ve heard it.

  The door opened with a soft squeak and rocked back and forth a couple of times. Ian heard a sound he knew well and it sent his adrenaline into overdrive. A distinctive click. So, the guy has a gun. Well, so do I, thought Ian. Besides the human-shaped targets at the academy, he’d never shot a person before. He really didn’t want to do that anyway. He wanted to bring the Cowboy Killer in alive—it would be a great photo for the front page of newspapers all around Florida. All around the country for that matter.

  He watched as the guy eased around his car, oblivious to the misty rain. His head, still shrouded in shadow, turned back and forth. It was odd behavior, not like someone who was crashing here. It looked more like he was checking to see if anyone was home. Or wait, maybe he knew Ian was coming for him. Somehow he’d gotten tipped off. Maybe he’d seen the Explorer. Crap.

  True to his moniker, he was wearing a hat. But this one wasn’t a cowboy hat. It was some kind of Fedora, like a gangster from the twenties would wear. He must’ve switched hats earlier. The man took two steps toward where Ian was crouching and froze. The killer’s eyes were still silhouetted in the shadows, but it seemed like he was looking right at Ian’s hiding place.

  “I can see you, ya bum,” the man said, his accent more Long Island than Islamorada Island.

  Ian swallowed, but remained still. His gun was pointed at the man, but his hand trembled and he felt a bead of sweat drip down his palm.

  “And I can see you, too.” Ian said, trying hard not to let his voice crack, but failing.

  “Old man says you been spending too much time with his son’s girl.”

  Ian opened his mouth and then his brain registered the words. “I’m … I’m sorry … what was that?”

  The guy laughed, a raspy, throaty sound, like a three-pack-a-day smoker. “Don’t act like ya don’t know. I know your type. What? You found a gun and all the sudden you’re a serial killer? Fuhgeddaboudit. I’m gonna use your own gun—or whoever’s ya stole—to put a bullet in your skull. And then you’re gonna get a little visit with some gators. Capiche?”

  Ian was chilled to the bone at the thought of confronting another alligator, but the man’s words made absolutely no sense at all. This was all wrong. The man he’d seen on the tractor didn’t match up with what he was hearing from this guy. Something wasn’t right here.

  “This gun is police issue,” Ian said, “And you’re not going to be visiting anything but a jail cell. It’s time for the killing to stop, cowboy.”

  Ian couldn’t help but say his last line with a trace of Arnold Schwarzenegger. He was smiling when the man suddenly started walking toward him, raising his arm and firing two times. A quick, and professional pop-pop. The bullets struck the side of the tennis shop, sending white and green splinters flying all around Ian’s head. His ears rang from the loud bang. He stood and took two steps backward, raising his own gun.

 
; With impeccable timing, the ballooning pants he’d borrowed from the Sheriff’s back room, dropped to his knees. He stumbled back and fell to the ground. When his elbow hit the ground, his gun fired. Certain the killer was closing in to finish him off, he crab-walked backward into the shadows, wet gravel and muddy rocks scraping his bare legs. He bumped into a tall lattice wall, covered with pink Bougainvillea. The space between the lattice and the side of the building was just big enough for him to squeeze into. He was completely hidden, but he realized he couldn’t lift his arm up to point his gun … and his pants were at his ankles.

  He fought to control his breathing and waited for the Cowboy Killer—or whoever the hell this guy was—to come by and kill him. The rain stopped and he held his breath to listen. Nothing. No sound at all—except the rattling, wailing, swaying nature all around him.

  He eased himself out of his hiding place, jerked his pants up to his waist, pulling his belt tight, and pointing his gun out into the darkness. He put his back up against the side of the tennis shop and tiptoed around to the corner. He took a quick look out at the parking lot, sure the bullets would ring out again, but nothing happened. He took another look and saw the car, still sitting in the same spot, the driver door still open.

  A few feet away, he saw the man lying face down on the ground. He pulled back around the corner and waited a few seconds. Then, taking a deep breath, willing himself not to pee his pants, he pointed his gun and stepped out into the parking lot. The man was still, not moving at all. Ian crept closer and kicked the man. Nothing. No groans, no moans, no nothing.

  He knelt down and pushed the man over so that he was lying face up. To Ian’s surprise, the man had a single, nearly bloodless bullet hole right between his eyes. But he didn’t shoot the man. Who had? And then he remembered falling and his weapon discharging. Of all the random things to happen, his shot had hit the guy … in the head no less.

  He felt for a pulse. Nada. This guy was stone cold dead. He was suddenly elated. He’d shot the Cowboy Killer! Looking at the man’s face, though, he was quickly filled with dread. Of all the descriptions and sketches and renderings of the famous serial killer, this man fit none of them. He was weasley and gaunt and had no facial hair at all except a thin mustache on his upper lip. Ian reached down into the man’s pockets. In his front left pocket, he had a pair of fingernail clippers and two sticks of wintergreen chewing gum … and that was it. Nothing else. No I.D. No money. No nothing.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked the dead guy.

  He stood up and paced a few times beside the body, considering what to do next. Call the Sheriff? Nope. Call the FDLE? That would be better. Maybe Nick is working tonight and can get me some kind of record on this guy from facial recognition. I might even be able to send pics of his fingerprints and get a hit.

  “Okay, fella,” he said, holstering his gun. “Looks like we need to take a ride back to my place.”

  He hooked his hands under the man’s armpits and dragged him across the lot and up the driveway to the Explorer. He shoved the man into the back and threw a blanket over him. He had his keys in the ignition when he remembered the man’s gun. Might be able to get something on that, too, he thought. He jogged back down the drive and quickly found the man’s gun—a Ruger 22 LR, the last kind of gun he would expect a serial killer to have. Putting all the pieces together from the encounter, Ian decided this guy was some kind of assassin.

  “Everything okay, officer?” a voice drawled out of the dark.

  Ian raised both guns, pointing them in the direction of the voice. “Freeze! Come out with your hands up?”

  “If I freeze, I can’t exactly move to come out,” the voice said, no tinge of humor in it.

  “Just get your butt out here where I can see you.” Ian said, waggling the guns.

  His heart leapt when the dude, the real Cowboy Killer, came out of the shadows. It was the guy he’d seen riding the tractor earlier, and yes, he was wearing the straw cowboy hat.

  “Sorry, officer,” the man said, slurring his words slightly. “I just saw you carrying your friend to your car and thought you might need some help.”

  “Everything is going to be just fine, friend,” Ian said. “Come with me.”

  As he followed the man up the hill, with the guns pointed at his back, he thought he heard him say something under his breath.

  “Dangit.”

  25

  Not A Finger

  Gary John Suskind and Daniel Kane Kotlerson—or rather Dani, because he, or she, was currently wearing a woman’s pink camouflage blouse and pink leopard print tights—trudged through the thick mucky mangroves, just off the Overseas Highway. The moon shone through the trees casting beams of eerie blue light over the swampy water.

  “I literally cannot believe you would drag me out here in this,” Dani said, pushing past a thick vine. Her boots were covered in muck that looked like a dirty Wendy’s Frosty.

  “I can’t believe you would actually wear something like that unless you were on stage,” Gary said, his tone more joking than judgmental.

  “Let’s just find this thing and get out of here,” Dani said. “I do not want to be out here.”

  “Hey, you’re the one that insisted on coming. You could’ve stayed at the apartment, but no, you had to get all dolled up and tag along.”

  “Aww, you think I look nice?”

  Gary smiled, seeing that Dani was pleased with herself. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  “Good,” she said. Then raising an eyebrow she added, “Remember that, because if I ever hear of you boating around with another man again, you won’t think there’s anything nice about me at all.”

  Gary leaned over and pecked Dani’s cheek. “Yes, dear.”

  They both had LED flashlights and swung them around erratically, hoping to see the missing orange kayak. For more than an hour, they waded back and forth, thinking they were covering a lot of ground, but if it had been daylight, they would’ve realized that they were covering the same square acre of land over and over again.

  “I think we’re walking in circles,” Dani said, stopping to catch her breath.

  “No we’re not,” Gary answered unevenly. In actuality, he wasn’t sure where they were going.

  “Do you know where we are?” Dani asked. “Because it seems like we might be lost.”

  “Well, um…”

  “Oh, dear sweet Jesus, we are lost, aren’t we?”

  “I never said that.”

  Dani’s hands began to flail wildly. “We are going to die out here in the middle of this Godforsaken muck-hole and they won’t even find enough of us to bury us properly. Of all the stupid things—”

  “Dani. Quiet.” Gary snapped suddenly.

  “I will not be quiet, thank you very much. Bring another man out on a boat ride and you expect me to be quiet. Uh, no. And now I’m out here, lost, cold, and getting bitten by God knows what disease-ridden insects because you wanted some strange. You did this to me and I will—”

  “Dani! I mean it.” Gary hissed. “I thought I heard something.”

  Dani stopped talking and held her flashlight up under her chin giving her a creepy, horror movie look. “What was it?”

  “I have no idea, now stop talking for one second and listen.”

  “Oh, that is it, mister,” Dani said through gritted teeth. “I’m done. Your tone is offensive and vulgar and I will not stand for it.”

  She turned and started sloshing away from Gary.

  “Dani, stop. Come back here.”

  “Too late, Gary.”

  Gary pointed his flashlight in her direction. “Dani, how do you know that’s the way out of here?”

  She stopped, swung her flashlight side to side. Everything looked exactly the same. They were most definitely lost. She turned around and began walking back.

  “Fine,” she said. “But when we get out of here—”

  Without warning, she fell and went completely underwater. Besides the ripples where she went
down, there was no sign of her. Gary ran over, poking his hand down into the water.

  “Dani?” he called, turning in circles. “Dani, where are you?”

  With a splash, Dani broke the surface and gasped. Gary grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. She coughed and hacked and spat brown water out. Her blonde wig was gone and her black eye liner was streaming down her face.

  “What happened? Are you okay?” Gary asked.

  “I tripped,” she said, looking back behind her. “One of my boots got stuck in the mud and I fell.”

  “Oh, no. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

  “Except for the fact that it’s gone and I’ll have to get new Wellies, yes, I’m fine.”

  “That and your wig, too.”

  Surprised, Dani reached up and found that the wig was indeed missing. Tears began to well in her eyes. Gary pulled her close and hugged her.

  “Baby, I’m so sorry. Let’s just get out of here.” he said. “We’ll deal with this tomorrow.”

  Dani nodded and they turned to go. Gary pointed his flashlight in the direction Dani had been walking. “I think you were right. I think that’s the way back to the road. Just be careful. Let’s try to stay above the water on the way out.”

  Before they took a step, the water bubbled again and a long shape broke the surface. Dani squealed and started to run, but Gary grabbed her arm tight and pulled her back.

  “Hey, it’s okay. Look.”

  He ran the beam of his light along the shape. It was bright orange.

  “It’s your kayak,” Dani said.

  “Well, not my kayak, but yes, it’s the kayak.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Dani said. “Now we can leave here and never come back.”

  “If we can get it out of here,” Gary said. “Here, see if we can turn it over.”

  They reached their hands down under the water and heaved until the kayak tipped over and righted itself. It was hardly sea-worthy with big gashes and cracks up and down the front.