Page 10 of Rowe

Gator followed his gaze. A broad ripple moved between the cypress knees near shore, turned against the current, and stopped.

“No,” Gator said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it loud.” Cowboy leaned toward the water.

“Alvin.” The ripple started again. Christopher closed his eyes.

“We are not subcontracting a crime scene to an alligator.”

“He’s not an alligator,” Cowboy said. “He’s a consultant.”

“He ate half a trolling motor,” said Gator.

“He was establishing his rate.”

Gator opened a storage box beneath the center bench and removed a dented metal bucket. The smell arrived before the lid came off. Patrick turned his head.

“What is that?”

“Chicken,” Gator said.

“Chicken died twice.”

“That’s how Alvin likes it.”

Gator hooked a chunk onto a weighted line and tossed it toward the ripple. The water opened without a splash. A long dark back surfaced, ridged and scarred, then vanished. Seconds later the line went taut.

Gator wrapped it once around a cleat.

“Alvin knows this boat. He knows the bucket. He knows not to bite the hand holding the bucket most days.”

“Comforting,” Christopher said.

Gator attached a second line to a leather harness fitted with a waterproof lamp and a small camera.

“Storm washed the beacon off him last month, but the harness still holds. Light won’t show us much. What matters is the line. He can go where we can’t, and if he hits open space behind that slab, we’ll feel the angle change.”

Patrick studied the flexing concrete in the distance.

“And if he tangles?”

“He backs out. Better than you three. Fewer valves.” Cowboy crouched by the rail.

“Hear that, Alvin? Your lack of equipment has finally become a professional asset.”

Gator secured the harness when the animal surfaced beside the boat. Only the head and a strip of armored back showed. The alligator remained still while Gator worked, eyes pale under the morning glare. No one mistook stillness for tameness.

Gator clipped the guideline and pushed the bucket scent toward the tilted slab. Alvin turned.

“If this works,” Christopher said, “I’m retiring.”

“If this works,” Cowboy said, “Alvin gets your pension.”

Alvin crossed the bayou with only his eyes above water. At Gator’s signal Cowboy fed out the guideline. The small float above the harness traced a clean path until it neared the standing slab. Then it stopped.

Gator held up one finger. Wait.