P. Parrish - Claw Back

“Thanks.” Louis paused. “What’s your name?”

“Gary. Gary Trujillo.”

“Thanks, Gary.”

The man jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The swamp buggy roared to life. Louis spotted a CB radio mounted on the dash.

“I need to get an APB out on the guys from Lauderdale,” he said. “Can I use your radio?”

Gary pulled sunglasses out of his pocket and slipped them on. “You get a good look at the scumbags?”

“Yeah,” Louis said. He gave Gary a quick description.

Gary keyed the CB, calling someone named Otter. Louis listened as Gary described the two men who had violated their hunting camp and ordered a swamp buggy posse to hunt them down.

“We got it, Tru,” Otter answered and signed off.

Gary put the swamp buggy in gear but before he pulled out he looked at Louis.

“We’ll find the guys who did this to you,” Gary said. “I only want one thing in return.”

“What’s that?”

“No publicity. We just want to be left alone, okay?”

Gary pulled out of the compound. Neither man said anything as Gary expertly maneuvered the buggy over the rutted roads. Louis sat silent, holding his ribs against the bouncing, thinking about what was going to happen if one of Gary’s friends found the two men who had jumped him.

He didn’t care. Marv and his little friend Memo had done something over in Lauderdale that was bad enough to drive them into the stinking bowels of the Everglades. And he knew that when the two dirt bags were caught — and as Louis looked over at Gary’s profile he had no doubt they would be — Louis would get the credit for the collar of two fugitives.

“Gary,” Louis shouted over the engine’s din.

“What?”

“I can try to keep you and Otter out of things, but what if the scumbags talk about you?”

Gary gave him a crooked smile. “Don’t worry. They won’t.”

“Four days, Kincaid,” Mobley said. “Four days and already you’ve managed to get your name in the paper.”

Louis looked beyond Mobley to the window, to the cloudless blue sky with its searing white sun. There was no way he could explain what had really happened out at the hunting camp. It was like something out of a James Dickey novel.

Marv had done exactly what Gary predicted: found the westward road that was paved enough to lull Marv into thinking he was on his way to Immokalee where he’d be able to fill his belly with beer and his head with hopes of making a clean getaway.

But Old Bucket Road was one of those roads Louis had gotten turned around on coming in. He had almost ended up in a ditch of black water and needed to slowly reverse his way out. Sure enough, that was where Otter had found the Jeep, only Marv had been too stupid to try to back up and had driven the Jeep door-high into a gator hole. When Otter and the other men surrounded the Jeep with rifles drawn, Marv and Memo — covered with mosquito welts and fear-sweat — had surrendered without a fight. By the time Gary and Louis arrived, the dirt bags were tied to a tree and Otter had pulled the Jeep from the bog. Louis’s Glock was laying on the driver’s seat.

“Remember our deal,” Gary said. And he and the others were gone in a cloud of noise and gas fumes.

As soon as Louis was able to get radio contact driving back to Fort Myers, he informed the sheriff’s dispatcher that he was en route with two fugitives from Fort Lauderdale. He made sure he used the frequency the local reporters monitored because even though he didn’t really want the publicity he needed it. Needed everyone, not just Mobley, to see this notch his belt.

A WINK news truck was sitting in the sheriff’s lot when Louis shoved the handcuffed Marv and Memo through the station doors. The story about a local PI, working for the sheriff’s department, busting two fugitives who had robbed a 7-Eleven and sent the clerk to the hospital with a ruptured spleen was a big story on slow news day. By morning the papers had the story.

And this morning, when Louis walked in the station on his way to Mobley’s office, for the first time the cops he passed gave him a nod of acceptance.

Louis looked from the window back to Mobley. It was hard not to smile.

“I don’t believe you got me into something like this,” Mobley said, tossing the News-Press to the desk. “Who the fuck is going to believe this crap?”

“Look, sheriff, I told you the truth about what happened, but I don’t think you really want the truth out there,” Louis said. “They’ll ridicule you over this whole lost cat thing and this good PR will go away.”

Mobley ran a hand through his hair and turned his chair toward the window. Louis stayed standing, his gaze drifting to the newspaper. He hadn’t mentioned something else to Mobley, a story he had read in the same paper while he waiting for Mobley to come in. An article on the upcoming EEOC civil trial Lee County was facing in federal court. Worse, there were whispers of a recall election for the sheriff in the wind at O’Sullivan’s.

Mobley spoke without turning his chair. “Goddamn, you’re a pain in my ass.”

“We still got a deal?”

Mobley swung his chair around and gave Louis a long look. “Yeah,” he said. “But now you need to bump these fucking Lauderdale shitheads out of the news cycle before some reporter starts digging deeper. You need to find me that cat.”

“I’m working on it.”

“You got any leads?”

“Maybe,” Louis said. “The hunter told me there was a fellow hanging around the camp. He didn’t get a good look at him but he said he was dark skinned with long black hair.”

“That’s it?”

“No, we found pack of cigarettes at Grace’s crime site and I’m hoping to get prints off the cellophane, but the lab’s taking its time. The cigarettes were purchased on the reservation.”

“No tax stamp.”

“Right.”

“So, you’re linking the smokes with this guy with the long black hair and thinking you might have a Seminole for a perp.”

“There’s another connection,” Louis said. “The Seminoles believe the panther is the Creator’s favorite animal and endowed with special powers — ”

“Spare me the Jungle Book shit,” Mobley said. “What you’re telling me is that you want to take a trip to the rez and ask around about some weirdo who wanders the Glades and might be stealing the panthers, even though the damn cats are sacred to his tribe?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mobley sighed. “Do you know how unwelcome we are there?”

“Yes.”

“And you realize that even if the cat-napper pops out of a teepee with the damn cat on a leash, you have no authority there to arrest him?”

“I know that, too.”

“Then why are you going?”

“I just want to ask some questions,” Louis said. “I believe that if the panthers are as special as I’ve been told, I might get someone to talk to me.”

Mobley was quiet, his eyes drifting to the newspapers before they came back to Louis. “Okay, but I want you to take an Indian with you.”

“Excuse me?” Louis asked.

“I said, I want you to take an Indian with you so you don’t get yourself shot or something,” Mobley said. “I have one down in the traffic division. I’ll call down and get him up here.”

“No thanks, sir.”

“Why the hell not?”

Louis paused, thinking of Katy. He had ignored her advice about the camps and got his ass kicked. Now he was about to ask her to help him go after one of her own people. No way she would help. But there’s was no way could he do this without her.

“I have my own Indian, sir,” Louis said.

The smell wasn’t strong but it was enough to take him back decades. Suddenly, he was eleven years old again and staring at a lion.