Anne Duquette - Her Own Ranger

“Josh!”

Alisha spun around at the sound of her partner’s voice, her straight brunette hair swinging below her shoulders. At fifty-five, Josh Gregory was twenty years older than Alisha. He’d quit his studio job to team up with a then-unknown filmmaker-photographer. His faith in her had paid off. He’d become an award-winning writer-producer whose magazine and media documentaries were illustrated with her award-winning photography, both stills and film, and her meticulous research.

Both their names were now internationally recognized, thanks to Alisha’s instincts. Early in their partnership, Alisha zeroed in on one passionate cause: documenting the animals poachers preyed on. Her stories ranged from kidnapped family pets used for medical research to slaughtered rhinos whose tusks were turned into so-called aphrodisiacs, and her investigative work saved animals and often jailed poachers while providing TV specials the networks fought to air. Alisha, who’d never been interested in fame, still couldn’t believe how successful she’d become.

Fortunately, Josh had never doubted it. The older man had seen something in Alisha that others hadn’t. Their relationship—always platonic—had quickly evolved into a dynamic business partnership that had earned them a respected name, healthy bank accounts and world travel. The team of Jamison and Gregory was willing to tackle any subject, any location, from cloudy mountaintops to tropical caverns, for everyone from National Parks and National Geographic to the Disney Channel and Discovery Channel. They often traveled together, Alisha out in the field doing her research and videotaping or photographing, Josh writing the scripts and packaging her work. All in all, they were perfect business partners.

Except when it came to snakes. Indiana Jones had nothing on Josh’s fear of snakes. Any snake photos Alisha took were on the sly. Because of an almost fatal childhood experience with a striking Florida cottonmouth, Josh became hysterical just thinking about snakes. Fortunately for him, this assignment concentrated on the nocturnal Brazilian tapirs.

And here he was now—waving a piece of paper in her face. If he caught her with a live, poisonous reptile in their refrigerator, next to the fresh groceries he’d bartered for last night, there’d be havoc.

“What are you doing back so soon?” she asked guiltily. Both the container and its snake were in danger of forcible ejection from the bungalow, a situation Alisha was determined to prevent. It had taken her hours to find and capture the viper, whose beautiful coloring made it a favorite with poachers and belt-makers. Alisha edged slowly away from the rusting refrigerator.

“I thought you were interviewing the locals one last time,” Josh said.

“I was, but...uh, I decided to tally up my statistics.” That wasn’t exactly a lie. She could count one possible statistic right now—in the fridge. Alisha checked her watch. “I didn’t expect you for another hour.”

“I came back early. We need to talk. Plus I need a drink.”

Alisha refused to give ground. “Let me get it.”

“I’ll get it.”

“Oh, all right, dammit, you caught me. But I swear, Josh, I was just going to submit the slides and captions and maybe a little sidebar, nothing else.” She shrugged lightly. “You know I won’t be able to work for a while on account of my health. I’m just trying to prepare financially...” She tried to disguise her fear that “a while” might become “forever.”

“Alisha, I—”

“Yes, yes, I know how you feel about snakes.” Alisha talked fast, hoping to stave off Josh’s usual phobic outburst. “But we haven’t firmed up our next assignment, and this little critter really needs publicity. Let me cool him down, and I’ll turn him loose just as soon as I—”

“Al, forget about the snake.”

“Forget about the snake?” she echoed incredulously. “What’s wrong?”

“Look!” He waved the paper again. “We’re going home!”

“Home?” she echoed.

“Let me grab a couple of beers, and we’ll celebrate.”

Alisha was astounded. She followed Josh into the tiny bungalow’s main room and sank onto the rickety bamboo lounge. “Our home? As in the good old U.S. of A.? Chicago?”

“No, Al. Florida!” Josh opened the first bottle and warmish foam spilled out. “Which used to be my home.”

“But...you’re from Los Angeles.”

He lifted his beer and took a sip. “I’m originally from Florida, remember? Born there, bred there.”

“So what’s this all about?”

“A trip to the Everglades, courtesy of a friend of mine.”

He shoved the wrinkled sheet of paper her way. A fax. Alisha carefully scanned the letter from the Seminole Tribal Council.

After careful consideration, we have reconsidered our earlier refusal of your request to enter our lands. We hereby grant you permission to photograph, videotape and publicize any indigenous life on our reservation. We extend this invitation only for the next month and apologize for the time you may have lost. The following contact will assist with your goal and can be reached at—

Alisha stopped reading. “Wow. Last year when you wrote the Seminole Tribal Council, they refused because... What was their reason? A tribal member was shot and killed by poachers last summer, and his family didn’t want us involved. They didn’t want to talk about it right?”

“They do now.”

“Those poor people. Why the change of heart?”

“Who cares? Isn’t it great?”

“Josh!”

“I meant it’s probably our last job together for some time and we’re going home to do it!” Josh opened the second beer and held it out to her. “Come on, let’s toast to fast planes, first class and Miami in June.

Alisha took the beer, clinked bottles with Josh and took a sip. Grimacing at the warmth, she set the bottle down.

“Why’d the council members change their minds? And who’s the friend you mentioned?”

“A man named Ray Weaver. His mother’s on the tribal council. His father used to be an old poker buddy from my Florida days. Oh, and Ray’s first cousin is the ranger we’re supposed to contact.”

Alisha stared. Something’s wrong here. Long ago she’d learned not to distrust her instincts. Like now.

“Tell me about this fax.”

“What’s to tell? It came, I read, I made reservations. We leave. End of story.”

“But it’s so strange. Before, we couldn’t buy that assignment in the Everglades. Now the Seminoles are inviting us to make a documentary on their land—and they’re willing to go before the cameras to talk about a painful death? After a whole year? What changed their minds?”

“Wise people, Native Americans. Always admired them.”

“Would you listen to me? According to this fax, I’m supposed to contact some park ranger—your friend’s cousin. But the number they gave me is for your friend—Ray—at work.” She waved the paper at Josh. “Why him? Why not the ranger himself? Why only one month and no longer? Why a deadline? We should check this out before we commit ourselves to anything. I don’t want to push the grieving family into our documentary unless they’re willing. If they keep changing their minds...I have to question it. We could always use newspaper archives to research the death and do our filming on public land.”

“You’d better commit yourself to packing or we’re going to miss the bush plane to our commercial flight. You’ll miss those snake shots, as well.”

“I... Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

“No—but so what if there is? It won’t be our problem. This is our last assignment together, thanks to your lousy health. I’m the one who should be complaining.”