killed anything he’d collected.
He got out of the boat, tied off the stern line, then, still uncertain about what had happened to the frogs,emptied the bucket into the water. The dead frogs floated on the surface and slowly began drifting away.
The night was hot and humid, and a full moon flooded the clearing in which the tour headquarters lay. Still wondering about the frogs, and knowing he was already late getting home, he moved quickly through the darkness, checking the animal cages one last time.
The large terrarium containing the water moccasins was locked, and the other snake tanks were securely fastened shut.
In the alligator enclosure the three large reptiles that comprised the exhibit lay half out of the water, their eyes, glittering in the moonlight, fixed on him. As he approached the fence, two of them raised their heads, making tentative motions forward.
Michael shook his head. “Not tonight, guys. You’ve had plenty to eat. You don’t want to get fat, do you?”
The ’gators bobbed menacingly up and down, but as Michael turned away, they settled back down into the mud. A moment later one of them slithered into the pond, cruising silently just below the surface, only its nostrils and eyes disturbing the stillness of the water.
Michael came to the nutria cages, flicking on his flashlight to check the water and food containers. One of the females, the mother of the pups, whom Michael had named Martha, came over to sniff at him through the wire mesh. Switching the light off and sliding it into his hip pocket, Michael unlocked the cage door and picked the little creature up. She nestled into his hands, and he raised her up to rub her soft fur against his cheek.
“Not so bad, is it, Martha?” he whispered. “Plenty of food and water, and nobody to hurt you. A lot better than being turned into a coat, huh?”
Then, as he held the little rodent close, a new sound drifted out of the night.
A siren, rising in the distance, abruptly silenced the droning of the insects.
Michael froze, listening.
The scream of the siren rose, dropped, then rose again. His pulse quickening, Michael moved away from the nutria cages, closer to the road.
As the wailing grew, he could see the flashing red and blue lights of a police car coming toward him.
His body went rigid, an icy chill passing through him as the car approached.
He realized he was holding his breath, every muscle in his body growing more tense by the second.
The car passed.
The sirens began to fade away.
Slowly, the tension drained from Michael’s body. For the first time he became aware of the pounding in his chest.
Inexplicably, the approach of the police car had terrified him.
Why? He’d done nothing wrong—he’d never been in any trouble with the police in his life.
Yet just now, as the car drew closer, he’d had an unnerving feeling that it was coming for him.
He closed his eyes for a moment, willing the panic away. Slowly, his heartbeat returned to normal and the icy fingers that were clutching his chest retreated.
“Dumb,” he murmured, partly to himself and partly to the little animal he still held in his hands. “Who’d care about a bunch of dead frogs? It’s not like you need a license to hunt them.”
When his voice brought no responding movement from Martha, he looked down at her.
His hands were tight around her throat, and her body hung limp and still.
He stared at the dead animal, a lump rising in his throat. As the panic he’d just quelled rose back up, threatening to overwhelm him, he hurried back to the cage, deposited the nutria inside, and relocked the hasp of the enclosure.
A minute later he was on his motorcycle, racing homeward through the night.
Marty Templar brought the police car to a halt in front of the tiny house Judd Duval occupied on the fringes of the swamp. It was a couple of miles out of Villejeune, set back from the road, approachable from the land side only by a rotting wooden causeway whose
He got out of the boat, tied off the stern line, then, still uncertain about what had happened to the frogs,emptied the bucket into the water. The dead frogs floated on the surface and slowly began drifting away.
The night was hot and humid, and a full moon flooded the clearing in which the tour headquarters lay. Still wondering about the frogs, and knowing he was already late getting home, he moved quickly through the darkness, checking the animal cages one last time.
The large terrarium containing the water moccasins was locked, and the other snake tanks were securely fastened shut.
In the alligator enclosure the three large reptiles that comprised the exhibit lay half out of the water, their eyes, glittering in the moonlight, fixed on him. As he approached the fence, two of them raised their heads, making tentative motions forward.
Michael shook his head. “Not tonight, guys. You’ve had plenty to eat. You don’t want to get fat, do you?”
The ’gators bobbed menacingly up and down, but as Michael turned away, they settled back down into the mud. A moment later one of them slithered into the pond, cruising silently just below the surface, only its nostrils and eyes disturbing the stillness of the water.
Michael came to the nutria cages, flicking on his flashlight to check the water and food containers. One of the females, the mother of the pups, whom Michael had named Martha, came over to sniff at him through the wire mesh. Switching the light off and sliding it into his hip pocket, Michael unlocked the cage door and picked the little creature up. She nestled into his hands, and he raised her up to rub her soft fur against his cheek.
“Not so bad, is it, Martha?” he whispered. “Plenty of food and water, and nobody to hurt you. A lot better than being turned into a coat, huh?”
Then, as he held the little rodent close, a new sound drifted out of the night.
A siren, rising in the distance, abruptly silenced the droning of the insects.
Michael froze, listening.
The scream of the siren rose, dropped, then rose again. His pulse quickening, Michael moved away from the nutria cages, closer to the road.
As the wailing grew, he could see the flashing red and blue lights of a police car coming toward him.
His body went rigid, an icy chill passing through him as the car approached.
He realized he was holding his breath, every muscle in his body growing more tense by the second.
The car passed.
The sirens began to fade away.
Slowly, the tension drained from Michael’s body. For the first time he became aware of the pounding in his chest.
Inexplicably, the approach of the police car had terrified him.
Why? He’d done nothing wrong—he’d never been in any trouble with the police in his life.
Yet just now, as the car drew closer, he’d had an unnerving feeling that it was coming for him.
He closed his eyes for a moment, willing the panic away. Slowly, his heartbeat returned to normal and the icy fingers that were clutching his chest retreated.
“Dumb,” he murmured, partly to himself and partly to the little animal he still held in his hands. “Who’d care about a bunch of dead frogs? It’s not like you need a license to hunt them.”
When his voice brought no responding movement from Martha, he looked down at her.
His hands were tight around her throat, and her body hung limp and still.
He stared at the dead animal, a lump rising in his throat. As the panic he’d just quelled rose back up, threatening to overwhelm him, he hurried back to the cage, deposited the nutria inside, and relocked the hasp of the enclosure.
A minute later he was on his motorcycle, racing homeward through the night.
Marty Templar brought the police car to a halt in front of the tiny house Judd Duval occupied on the fringes of the swamp. It was a couple of miles out of Villejeune, set back from the road, approachable from the land side only by a rotting wooden causeway whose
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