Alligator Pool

Luke Palmer looked at the Mexican beauty seated across from him in the restaurant and wondered what he wanted from her. Maria Sanchez was not only an ace reporter on television station WFMY, Fort Myers, she was also a very sharp lady. Her interview of a panel of journalists about environmental issues confronting South Florida ended with this private dinner. He assumed she chose him because he was the only single man in the group. At this moment, however, he would rather not be under her investigative eye. “So Luke,” Maria said, dark eyes flashing, “what happened to your marriage?” “You’d probably have to ask my ex-wife. I guess the small town life got to her. How about you? Why have you never married?” “Almost did, twice. But the job got in the way. Some men just want their wives to stay home and take care of them.” “And that’s definitely not you.” He smiled his appreciation. She laughed. “No way. There’s someone in New York . . . but long distance romances are difficult.” Luke recognized the invitation, but he left her comment hanging. He still smarted from his divorce two years ago. He motioned for the check and pulled out some bills. “I’d probably better head for the East Coast soon. Need to see a man about a horse in Hialeah.” “A real horse?” Maria asked. “Four legs and a tail, yeah. Friend of mine owns a stable of thoroughbreds.” “Are you buying?” Luke laughed. “No way. He wants me to watch his latest purchase work out.” “How long does the drive take? Surely not more than four hours?” She looked at her watch. Luke felt irritation prickle at the back of his neck. “I like to stop along the road and listen to the night sounds.” Maria raised her eyebrows. “Ah . . . si.” He walked her to the parking lot and extended his hand as she opened the car door. He said, “Thanks for the interview. Thought it went well.” “So did I. Maybe you will come back and I can buy you dinner. I think we have much to talk about.” She lifted her face to his and let her lips move toward his. “Sounds good,” he said and backed away. He waved at the rear of her car, turned, and let out his breath. Maria Sanchez made him uneasy, though he didn’t understand why. Her long, dark hair reflected the light when she tossed her head. He liked that. Clearly, she tried to evoke his interest, yet he hesitated. Was he afraid of how different she was from his ex-wife, Linda, the beautiful, blonde, homecoming queen he couldn’t resist . . . He jerked his mind away as he pulled his ‘84 Dodge pickup south onto I-75 and drove to the connection with Alligator Alley. He remembered the old cross-Florida road before it became an extension of I-75. Now any self-respecting alligator kept its distance from the double-length truck carriers that sped along the superhighway. Like the alligators, he took the Tamiami Trail instead. The drive would be slower, but he had plenty of time. His old college buddy, Roger Perry, probably planned to lure him into political talk, but Luke did not want to run on the Democratic slate in November. Politics just complicated life. He enjoyed the presence of uncontrolled nature as he drove along the highway. The chorus of pig frogs and crickets, the odor of decaying vegetation and mysterious swamp scents freed his spirit. He felt happy to be on this old road where wild marsh grass struggled against the impositions of human hands. He pulled his gaze from the moonlit swamp water just in time to see a large object in the road. He geared down as he braked, skidded to the left, and lurched against the seat belt. He unstrapped himself, leapt from the pickup, and ran to the dark shape. Even with the moonlight, he could see only that the body was human, not an alligator. Back at the truck, he fished through the paper cups, magazines, and camera equipment on the passenger side until he found a flashlight. He turned it on the body and saw a large dark stain below the left shoulder on the denim shirt. The man’s neck was warm, but Luke found no pulse. When he passed the light over him, he saw the left hand lacked two fingers. The tanned face was framed by straight dark hair. Luke squatted on his heels, surveying the landscape. No headlights appeared, but other vehicles were sure to come along soon. Where the hell was his cell phone? Probably back in his darkroom. Experience as a photojournalist at crime scenes told him he shouldn’t move the body. If he had almost run over it, another car surely would. He went to the pickup and pulled a hand mirror from the glove compartment. Then he backed up the truck so the headlights lit the body. He held the mirror up to the man’s mouth. No mist. He felt again for a pulse, this time at the wrist. Nothing. The skin no longer felt warm to the touch. Clearly, the man was dead. He wanted to move the body off the road to keep it intact, but he needed to preserve the scene. He returned to the truck, found the camera with a flash attachment, and photographed the body from three angles. Then the film ran out. “Damn,” he muttered. He slipped the rewound canister into his right pocket, found another roll inside his jacket, reloaded the camera, and clicked two shots from every angle. Then he lifted the man’s shoulders and carefully moved him to the side of the road. He retrieved a tarpaulin from the truck bed and covered the body. Tiny creatures scurried from under the rocks he used to anchor the canvas. Not sure which way to turn, Luke headed east on the Tamiami Trail. Five minutes down the road, he saw a clearing with a huge fiberglass panther in the side yard. He pulled in, ran to the door, and knocked. No one answered. He saw a note taped to the door: “Arturo, I’m at Jolene’s. Waited for you until ten. Ernie.” Luke glanced at his watch. Already eleven-thirty. He backed away from the overhang and looked up at the dark second story. He climbed back in his truck and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He thought of the phone booth just beyond Monument Lake and gunned the motor. Ten minutes later, he dialed 911. An operator connected him to a dispatcher. “I’m calling from the Oasis Visitor Center. I found a man’s body on the Tamiami Trail about twenty miles back. I need someone to meet me there and take care of the evidence.” “What kind of evidence?” “Could be a murder.” The woman’s voice sharpened. “What makes you think so?” “A wound in the back, probably from a bullet--and the body was still warm when I found it.” “Can you tell . . . well . . . is he white or black?” “Not sure. Maybe Hispanic.” The dispatcher asked him for his name, his occupation, his place of residence, and the specific location of the body. Then she asked Luke to describe himself. “Six feet two, one-ninety, blue eyes, sandy brown hair.” “Age?” “Forty-six.” “I’ll alert the officer on duty at the Everglades City Substation. He or the Emergency Medical Unit should be able to meet you in about twenty minutes. Anything else you want them to know?” “I’m driving an ‘84 Dodge pickup, tan, with a dent in the left front fender.” He caught himself up short. She didn’t need to know the truck’s entire history. “The body is on the south side of the road under a green tarp.” The dispatcher switched off without further comment. On his way back, he kept his eyes on the left shoulder, but no mound appeared. The odometer indicated more than twenty miles. He turned around and, within a mile, saw his skid marks toward the middle of the right lane. He stopped, backed up, and pulled off the road, leaving his headlights on. This time he took the flashlight with him. He saw the bloodstained pavement just beyond the skid marks. Rocks from the tarpaulin were scattered at the edge of the road--but no tarp and no body.