two dirty feds arguing over a deal. My father was with me because, of course, 

we’re in on it together. Maybe a few words got exchanged, and both sides 

wound up dead. Best of all, with no one searching for the real killer, Ellis 

rides off in my father’s truck and whatever prize — he called it a book — 

he thinks is inside.

“I’d like that gun now,” Ellis says, his pistol now aimed at my dad’s face.

Panicking, my dad picks up the gun and tosses it to—

“Don’t!” I call out.

Ellis catches it with his free hand — a hand that I realize is covered by a

plastic glove — but never takes his eyes off me. “You’re smarter than

Timothy,” he says. “You understand why I’m here, Cal.”

Behind me, the car on the road is about a half mile away. But the way Ellis

keeps staring at me — his amber eyes barely blinking even as the headlights

grow brighter — it’s like he doesn’t even care the car’s coming. His uniform

tells me he’s a cop, but that burning obsessed look . . . that odd tattoo on his

hand and how he rubs it over and over . . . and especially the way he keeps

glancing at his dog like it’s the Messiah. I don’t know what he meant when he

said he’s been searching for a century. But I know a zealot when I see one.

“Easy, Benoni,” he murmurs as he finally notices the approaching car, about

a city block away.

For a moment, I’m worried it’s someone he knows. But as Ellis lowers his chin

at the arriving lights and hides both guns behind his back, it’s clear this is a

stranger. And potential witness. For at least the next thirty seconds, Ellis

knows better than to pull the trigger, which means I still have a chance to—

“Don’t be this stupid,” Ellis tells me in a condescending tone.

But I’ve always been stupid. And stubborn. And lots of other things that look

bad on a report card. Right now, that’s the only thing to keep me alive.

Behind me, I hear my dad breathing heavily. Us alive. That’ll keep us alive.

The car’s fifty yards away. In this darkness, its lights barrel at my back like a

freight train and mix with the swirling blue lights that I swear are pulsing at

the exact same speed as my pulse.

“If you flag them down, their deaths will forever be on your conscience,” Ellis

says, already starting to squint.

I believe him. But if I let them pass, “forever” is going to last about twenty

more seconds.

“Calvin,” my dad pleads, tugging on my sleeve. As I turn around, I figure

he’ll be pleading for help. He’s not. His brow furrows, and his eyebrows knit

into an angry glare. He’s pissed. This is my fault, he says with a glance. Go.

Leave. I consider it for a moment. But I’m not listening to him, either. Ellis

has two guns. We have none. Once this car passes, those bullets are going in

both our heads.

I take a step toward Ellis, who’s still too smart to raise his guns. But that

doesn’t mean he’s out of options.

“Benoni, ready!” Ellis commands as the dog prepares to pounce.

I squat slightly, preparing to spring. The crickets squeal in every direction.

The car’s so close, Ellis’s pupils shrink. This is it. On three . . .

One . . . two . . .

I leap as fast as I can. But not at Ellis. At his dog.

“Benoni, attack!” Ellis shouts just as the car blows past us, pelting us with an

air pocket full of dust and gravel.

From the front seat, Benoni leaps like a wolf, all muscle and sharp teeth.

Finally, something goes my way.

I raise my right forearm like Dracula hiding behind his cape. The dog sees it

as a giant bone and opens its jaw. I did six months of K-9 duty. This is the

part that hurts.

Like a metal trap, the dog’s jaw clamps down with all its strength. Its top

teeth sink into my forearm, but its bottom teeth get a mouthful of metal pole

courtesy of the telescoping baton that’s still hidden in place. I see the pain in

the dog’s eyes, but that’s nothing compared with the pain felt by its owner.

“Benoni!” Ellis screams as the dog cries with a high-pitched yelp. Letting go

of my arm, Benoni collapses on its back, whining and bleeding from the

mouth.

“Go . . . move!” I say to my dad, ignoring my own pain, grabbing the

shoulder of his shirt, and darting back toward Timothy’s car. For a moment,

Ellis freezes. It’s a choice between us and checking on his dog. When I was

twelve, I had a beagle named Snoopy 2. It’s no choice at all.

“Benoni, you okay, girl? . . . Y’okay?” Ellis asks, dropping to his knees.

It’s all the distraction we need. I try the door to Timothy’s car (locked, no

luck), then keep running along the shoulder of the road. My dad’s panting,

holding his side. We won’t be able to outrun Ellis and the dog for long.

On our left is the short chain-link fence that separates us from the Everglades

and its alligator population. Directly below us is one of the dozens of canals

that run underneath Alligator Alley. As I said, it’s no choice at all.

“I can’t run,” my father insists.

“That’s fine,” I tell him as I grab the back of his arm and drag him up onto

the ledge of the overpass. “Can you swim?”

17

“Y’think they see us?”

“Shhh . . .” I hiss. For the past fifteen minutes, we’ve been waist-high in

black water, ducking and hiding behind a thick, thorny bush that sits like a

hairy beach ball on the edge of the canal. My shoes and pockets are filled

with mud, and the tall sea grass is so thick, it’s like plowing through a giant

soaked carpet.

We had only a few minutes’ lead time, enough to follow the canal underneath

Alligator Alley, where it forked and split into the wider canals that run parallel

to the road. If we’d gone left, we would’ve gone farther from Ellis. That’s the

only reason I went right.

No question, we were fast. But that doesn’t mean we’re fast enough. Except

for the pulsing blue lights, the night is dark as a coffin. Ellis can’t see us. But

as I crane my neck to peer out, we can’t see him, either.

There’s a hushed splash on our far right. We both turn just in time to hear the

krkk krkk krkk — someone walking through the dried saw grass on the edge

of the canal. The sound gets louder the closer they get. I squint and peer

between the branches, up toward the road. There’s a fast scratching sound —

someone running — then the unmistakable pant — hhh hhh hhh — that’s the

dog. Benoni. The dog’s right above us. By the road. I see her.

My father and I both duck deeper into the water. It’s freezing cold and my

shirt sucks like a jellyfish to my chest. The dog bite didn’t break skin, but my

arm still stings. Behind me, my father’s still holding the wound at his side. We

both know how filthy this water is. But as the panting gets closer, we lower

ourselves without a word.

Up on the embankment, the dog stands there, her pointy ears at full

attention. I squat even lower until the muddy black water reaches my neck,

my chin, my ears. I’ve got my head tilted back, trying to keep everything

submerged. My father does the same — as far underwater as he can get. A

few feet in front of us, there’s a squiggle in the water as a thin indigo snake

skates across the surface. I hold my breath, pretending it’s not there.

“Benoni! Come!” Ellis calls as the dog darts to the right, back the way she

came.

My father doesn’t move. I don’t move. Nothing moves until the krkk krkk krkk

fades in the distance. For a moment, I worry they’re coming back — until,

from the opposite side of the road, I hear the hiccup of an engine, followed by

a huge diesel belch, followed by a final piercing hiss that slashes the night.

My father’s truck — Ellis wants the prize inside even more than he wants us. I

lift my head as the muddy water streams down my neck and face.

“They’re leaving,” I whisper.

Behind me, my dad doesn’t say a word, even as the engine rumbles and

fades. I assume it’s because he’s still terrified . . . still in shock . . . and most

likely way pissed if Ellis drove off with his truck.

“You saved me,” my dad blurts. As I turn around to face him, he’s got tears

in his eyes.

“You did — You saved my life.” He shakes his head over and over. “I thought

you hated me.” He starts sniffling.

I raise my hands from the water and pull him toward the bank. “Listen,

erm . . . Lloyd . . . I appreciate that — I do. But can we please have this talk

later?”

He nods, but the tears are still there. “I just — What you did — You didn’t

have to do that for me.”

Sometimes a speech can make things better. This isn’t one of those times.

“Can we just go back to that cop? Ellis. Who the hell is he?” I ask as we

slosh through the canal, climbing back up toward the road and eyeing the

fence that separates us from the alligators.

“I have no idea.”

“Don’t lie,” I challenge, waiting to see his reaction.

“Cal, I swear to you, I’ve never seen him until tonight. When he pulled me

over, I thought he was giving me a ticket.” His voice is flying — he means it —

but as he says the words, the consequences finally hit. Reaching the top of

the embankment, he looks across the road at my van and Timothy’s car,

where the blue lights are still spinning.

“Motherf—! He stole my truck!” my dad shouts.

“What was in it, anyway? He mentioned a book.”

“D’you know what this—? I’m dead.”

“What book was in the truck, Lloyd?”

“Mary, mother of — I’m dead!” he explodes at full detonation, spit flying

through the air. “We should’ve killed his fu—” He catches himself.

During my short career in law enforcement, I sent eleven people to prison. To

real prison. And when you go to prison — no matter how straitlaced and Dr.

Jekyll you are going in, the monsters within those walls always bring a little

bit more of your own monster out.

My father swallows hard, clearly regretting the outburst. Whatever tears he

had are long gone. “I’m sorry, Cal. I’m not — It’s been a tough few years.”

“Just tell me what’s in the truck, and who you’re so scared of.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Sure it is. Give me the name and we’ll at least know who we’re dealing with

— or at least who Ellis is working against.”

“That’s the thing: When they got in contact, they didn’t give me a name.”

“How could you not—?”

“Last year, I got my second DUI, which got me fired from my company.

Since then, business is more word of mouth these days, y’know? I get a

phone call. They send the paperwork and tell me where to drop it off — in this

case, I was supposed to leave Alligator Alley at Naples and wait for a call. I

know they have a 216 area code. From Cleveland. But that’s it.”

“That’s it? You sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be sure?”

“A minute ago, you were saying, ‘I’m dead! I’m dead!’ Why be afraid of

someone you don’t know?”

My father studies me. I look for his U.S. Navy ring and realize he’s no longer

wearing it.

“Calvin, I may not be the best father . . .”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Great Santini. Though I have to admit, I cannot

wait to see how you finish this sentence.”

“. . . but I’m not a liar.”

“No, Lloyd, you’re just an innocent truck driver. Nothing more than that,

right?”

He tugs his soaking silk shirt away from his chest. From what I can tell, it’s

another Michael Kors.

“You’re giving me too much credit,” my dad says. “I never heard of no

books, and got no idea what could take centuries to find, except for maybe

some old art or something. Ease up, okay?”

“Oh, I’m sorry — usually when I get attacked, potentially framed for murder,

and almost killed, I’m much more cheery and fun.”

“What do you want from me, Calvin?”

“I wanna know what the hell is really going on! You’re fresh out of the

hospital and still got up at four in the morning for this! You’re telling me you

thought it was for three thousand pounds of frozen shrimp!?”

“It’s Miami, Calvin. If they’re calling me instead of a real company — I

figured it was guns or . . . or . . . or something like that.”