Randy White - Night Vision

The man was lying again. Tula knew it. She could picture herself in the man’s vehicle, the two of them parked in some dark place where no one would hear her screams.

Tula switched to Quiche Mayan and continued chanting, “I was born to do this… I am not afraid… I was born to battle evil and smite the devil down…,” as the man shook her so hard that her head snapped back, and then said, “Now! Let’s go! Stop your goddamn jabbering and-”

He didn’t finish. Squires’s words were interrupted by a wild, wailing scream, and he let go of the girl’s arms.

The man turned toward the sound, listening, then said to Tula as he went to the door, “I ain’t done with you, chula. Don’t you go nowhere!”

The screams came from a person who was terrified and in pain, the voice unrecognizable. But Tula knew instantly who the person was-it was Carlson, the old drunk with the good heart. The girl didn’t understand how she knew such things but she did.

Without toweling herself dry, Tula pulled on her jeans, a baggy T-shirt and stepped into her sandals. On the kitchen table, among mole sauce, sodden nachos and an ashtray, was a bottle of tequila. She grabbed the bottle, hesitated, found a flashlight, too, then stuffed a kitchen towel into the back of her pants and went running out the door.

Tula Choimha felt sure and determined, emulating the behavior of the Maiden, who spoke to her now from across the ages. The voice was strong in Tula’s head, instructions from a teenage girl who had lived a life of fearless purity six hundred years ago.

The Maiden’s voice told Tula to be quick, that she could save the life of her friend. And the girl obeyed, as she always did when under the loving direction of the Maiden of Lorraine.

Tula’s patron saint-Joan of Arc.

Focusing on the cries for help, Iran after Tomlinson, not gaining on him, through an area that consisted of maybe forty trailers packed tight into an area bordered by a low wire fence. Beyond the fence was a mangrove lake, where a crowd was gathering. The lake was fringed with coconut palms and a row of garbage dumpsters.

The place had probably been a homey Midwestern retreat back in the seventies, popular with Buckeyes who caravanned south each winter. But now smoldering cooking fires and a sewage stink communicated the demographic change and a modern economic despair.

Over his shoulder, Tomlinson yelled to me, “There’s someone in the water!” which I could already see. At first I thought we had stumbled onto a brawl, that the fight had tumbled into the pond.

But the man’s screams didn’t communicate rage. The sounds he made signaled terror, an alarm frequency that registers in the spine, not the brain. His howling pierced the gabble of men and women who were peeking from their trailers, yelling questions and expletives in Spanish, as a dozen or so of the braver residents-several of them children-ventured as a group, not running, toward the water’s edge.

In his poor Spanish, Tomlinson yelled, “What’s wrong? What’s happening?” as I ran past him, hollering in English, “Call nine-one-one. It’s a gator. A big one,” because I could see details now in the pearl haze of security poles that rimmed the park.

I could see the alligator’s tail, slashing water, an animated grayness edged with bony scutes that had not evolved since the days of stegosaurus. I could see the flailing arms of a man as he battled to stay above the surface of the water.

A likely scenario flashed into my mind: The man had stopped on the bank to urinate, or stare at what might have been a floating log-no one in their right mind would go for a swim in that cesspool-and the gator had snatched him.

It happens-not often in Florida-but it happens, and it had happened to a friend of mine only a few years before on Sanibel Island, where I live and run my small marine-specimen supply company. A good woman named Janie Melsek had been attacked while pruning bushes and she had died even though she had fought to the end, just as the man was fighting now. Even though in shock maybe he sensed that if the gator took him under, he would never surface again.

I hadn’t been there when a twelve-foot gator took Janie into the water. I hadn’t seen what had happened in the following minutes of terror. And things probably wouldn’t have turned out any differently if I had. But maybe, just maybe, it was the memory of Janie that caused me to push through the slow phalanx of onlookers, as I jettisoned billfold, cell phone, then pulled the Kahr pistol from my pocket and lunged feetfirst into the water, unprepared for the knee-deep sludge beneath.

Jumping into the lake was like dropping into a vat of glue. My ankles were anchored instantly in muck, so my momentum caused me to slam forward, bent at the waist, face submerged, until I floundered to the surface and fought my way back to vertical.

The man was near the middle of the lake, only thirty yards away, screaming, “Help me! Grab my hand, I’m dying!” so maybe he’d gotten a look at me as I pried one slow right leg from the mud, losing my shoe, and then struggled to pull my left foot free. To do it, I needed both hands, so I pocketed the pistol and went to work trying to break the suction.

Behind me, someone had a flashlight, and he painted the pond until he found the alligator. I’d been right. It was a big one: four or five hundred pounds of reptile on a feed, creating a froth of lichens and trash that washed past me in waves. It was a male. Had to be. Female gators seldom grow beyond ten feet and two hundred pounds.

The animal had its back arched, head high, and I could see that it had a frail-sized man crossways in its jaws, the man’s buttocks and pelvis locked between rows of teeth that angled into a reptilian grin.

The alligator’s eyes glowed ember orange; the man’s face was a flag of white, and, for an instant, his eyes locked onto mine just before the animal slung its tail and rolled, taking him under, then bringing him back to the surface, the animal’s eyes not so bright now because the angle had changed but the man still sideways in the thing’s mouth.

Because the gator had him by the hips, the roll-a death roll, gator hunters call it-had not snapped his spine.

“ Please. Take my hand!” The man coughed the words, stretching his arm toward me, his voice pleading as if trying to convince me it would be okay.

I wasn’t convinced. I am neither stupid nor particularly brave. But I also know enough about animal behavior to feel sure that I wasn’t being mindlessly heroic. There are certain predators-alligators, sharks and killer bees among them-that, once their sensory apparatus has locked onto a specific target, ancillary targets cease to exist.

I have swam at night among feeding sharks so fixated on a whale carcass that my dive partners and I had nothing to fear. I once watched an Australian croc wrestle a feral hog into the water while an infant blackbuck antelope-a much easier target-drank peacefully within easy reach.

This alligator might worry that I wanted to steal the meal it had taken. But it wouldn’t abandon a meal in its teeth to waste its time attacking me, additional prey.

I hoped.

I ducked beneath the water, dug at the muck until my left shoe popped free and then I surfaced as someone belly flopped into the pond next to me and began thrashing the water, racing toward the gator.

It was Tomlinson.

I pushed off after him, swimming hard, my head up, focusing on the bright, blurry horror ahead. I passed my friend after only a few strokes, watching as the gator turned and began ruddering toward the far shore.

The man’s screams became whistled sobs, similar in pitch to the trumpeting of nearby peacocks, dark shapes that dropped from bushes and sprinted toward the shadows. Behind me, I heard a woman yell in Spanish, “Call for help, someone call the police!” but then heard a male voice hush the woman, saying, “Are you insane? Not the police!”