Gator Hole

by Marjorie Doughty

Deputy Amy Donovan puts her life on the line every day as a law enforcement officer, then she realizes that the danger is coming from within the ranks. Gulf shrimp fishermen, a bunch of their do-gooding wives, and the members of a religious cult add spice to a mystery set in a sleepy Florida town.

ISBN 1-59431-152-8 Mystery/ Suspense/ Romance

Cover Art by Maggie Dix



PROLOGUE



Hot, pulsing, terror was so intense from the four men standing near the edge of the ’gator hole it overrode the smell of damp, rotting vegetation and stagnant backwater. The tall man could feel it radiate toward him as he waited on the bank with his captive close to the edge of the dark brown water. He smiled.

A middle-aged Hispanic man, bound and gagged with electrical tape, rolled his dark eyes wildly in all directions, his long black hair flipping as his head moved from side to side. The tall man pushed him to the ground and took a switchblade knife from his pocket, flicked it open, grabbed the man’s bare foot and sliced open the big toe as easily as if he had been cutting a piece of tender steak on a diner plate. Blood spurted onto the ground, then steadied into a drip.

Effortlessly, using his right hand and arm, the tall man grasped the victim around the waist and held him up and over the water at the edge of the gator hole, while using his left hand to hit the water with a long stick.

“We’re waiting for my pet,” he told the four men. “He shouldn’t be too long because he knows he can depend on me for a meal.”

“Jesus,” one of the men breathed into the humid night air.

The tall man, dressed in black jeans and black T-shirt, eyes the color of old pewter in the uncertain moonlight, turned to stare at the man who had spoken.

“Never let me hear you again take the Lord’s name in vain. If you do, you’ll find yourself in a similar position.” He voice was calm and even. “Is that understood. Justice is mine, said the Lord, and I am his emissary.”

The offender gulped audibly and managed a shaky nod.

What appeared to be a dark stationary log stirred and the snout of an eleven-foot alligator started moving, disturbing a leaf on top of the water. Senses aroused, the ’gator started its hungry way toward the gator hole, piloted by the leaf caught in the movement of the water.

The tall man waited patiently, now using both hands to hold the struggling victim over the dark water, apparently without any strain on his muscles. Drops of blood from the victim’s toe silently hit the water, like polluted raindrops.

Suddenly a prehistoric head made its way around the slight bend in the current the leaf still leading the way. The tall man waited until the beast was directly under him and he lowered the bound victim toward the gator’s open mouth. Intensified breathing of the four spectators filled the small clearing. The man smiled as the ’gator made a gulping sound, then grabbed the victim’s bound ankles and started spinning around in the water. It continued twisting as the tall man pitted his strength against that of the ’gator. The victim’s bones snapped and he hung limp, as the gator continued until flesh began to tear loose from the man’s torso. His muffled moans filled the silence until he fainted. For another few seconds the man and beast struggled for the prize. Laughing out loud, the man released his victim and then ’gator, victim and leaf disappeared beneath the dark surface of the water.

“My friends.” His voice was soft, almost gentle. “You have just witnessed what happens to anyone who is a traitor to our organization. I’ve explained that I will not tolerate any disloyalty and he was foolish enough not to believe it. But do not be too concerned for him. The gator is a very considerate diner. He will not eat him immediately but will let him ripen for a day or two.”

One of the men on the bank vomited.





CHAPTER ONE



Palmetto City, Florida

Taylor, County



On a morning in early fall, the sun was gradually burning off the early morning haze over the inlet from the Gulf of Mexico. Local people were already up and moving. School buses blinked their red and yellow way down the unpaved country roads, picking up half-awake children.

In Dorkey’s Diner, newly appointed Deputy Amy Donovan sipped her coffee and studied the greasy breakfast menu. Sergeant Tom Williams, with whom she was working partnered shifts that week, placed his large index finger on a piece of dried egg stuck to the scratched plastic covering the handwritten limited choice of food. The inked writing had run a little where moisture had leaked under the covering, so the reader had to occasionally guess at some of the dishes.

“Look, you don’t have to read the menu, just look at the bits of food stuck to it and make a decision that way. Then you’ll at least know what color food you’ll get.”

Amy laughed and looked around. The place was crowded with mostly local fishermen eating heavy breakfasts of fried or scrambled eggs, biscuits covered with gravy, grits, hash brown potatoes and thick slices of ham with red-eye gravy. They talked, laughed and drank coffee from old chipped mugs.

The aging waitress, Mazie, her ample hips stretching her brown skirt until it was in danger of bursting at the seams, shuffled toward them. Her feet slapped across the floor, in flat brown shoes with portions cut out on the front insides to allow her bunions freedom from pressure. Mazie’s bunions were the subject of much speculation at Dorkey’s. The local people thought she should go into the Guinness Book of Records because her bunions were grotesque in size and shape. The one on the base of her right foot had a knobby growth on the side.

“Mazie, your bunions have bunions,” one fisherman told her. “Maybe we should cut them off and use them for bait?”

Mazie ignored such remarks and told anyone who would listen, “My daddy and momma had bunions, bad bunions, and I ain’t no different. God gave ’em to me and I gotta accept that.”

“Why don’t you have them cut off?” one sympathetic woman asked.

“No way. I ain’t going through all that pain. ’Sides, I ain’t got the time or money. Gotta work. My old man ain’t able to do nothing since he got hurt on that there shrimp boat. Somebody’s gotta pay them bills.”

But when it came to her hair, she had a different viewpoint. Mazie’s hair balanced her feet. It was the work of a local beautician and each week she had it teased, piled high and covered with hair spray until it was rigid as plastic, impossible to brush or comb. It was the color of shiny egg yolks that had been fried sunny side up. Part of her weekly salary and tips went into this creation. When she was low on cash and couldn’t afford the bleach job, dark roots mingled with some gray hair that showed through, but as soon as she had a few dollars, Mazie was off to the hairdresser.

Now she stood in front of Amy and Williams and shifted her weight to the foot that hurt the least. “What’ll you have?”

Amy was watching Dorkey, the only name she had ever heard the owner called, as he filled orders. His big fleshy hands moved with quick precision from years of practice. Not a movement was wasted. Amy was impressed with his efficiency. Dorkey was a bulky man, who filled most of the space in the cooking area. His totally bald head was shiny with sweat that he wiped away with the back of his right arm. Amy breathed deeply, taking in the heavy smell of fried foods and coffee that hung like a curtain about to drop and smother her.

Williams leaned across the small table in the booth and tapped her hand. “Hey, you gonna wake up and order?”