(I)
Big Jaw Swamp, the Everglades
The woman's name didn't matter. Midfifties but holding up well. Blond hair, great tan, and a fitness club bod. A nip and tuck here, a little liposuction there, and a lift or two to buff out some of the wrinkles, she looked like exactly what she was: a rich, Florida divorcee, who, like so many, refused to let go of the vestiges of younger, wilder days.
But the liver wasn't what it used to be, and after a couple of Bloody Marys she was certifiably inebriated. That's when she stumbled and fell off the footbridge, into the swamp.
Don't panic! she panicked. She was a decent swimmer. She splashed around, chin-deep, and finally buoyed herself in a dog paddle. The warm, soupy water did nothing to brace her against the alcohol; if any thing, it worsened the effect. She foundered in the water, seeking some bearings.
God, how could I have gotten so drunk? She'd been walking back to the Flamingo Campgrounds when she'd happened upon the rickety bridge. Drinking all day and now it was getting dark. It's not that deep, she assured herself, tasting brackish water. just swim back to shore…
She found quickly that she was too drunk to call upon her experience as a "decent" swimmer. Dog paddle would have to do. When she looked for the shore, the sign looked back at her.
POSTED: NO SWIMMING! WATCH FOR GATORS.
Oh, shit! Now the adrenaline fluxed with the alcohol, disorienting her. She'd been here all weekend and she hadn't seen a single gator. Don't overreact! she screamed at herself. just GET TO THE SHORE!
A splash!
Her eyes tore to the other side of the swamp, where in crisp moonlight she knew she saw an alligator tail disappearing into the water.
Madness now.
Only instinct was left to propel her but, lo, she was just too drunk. Sheer horror and about a.08 blood alcohol content dragged her down, into sultry wet blackness.
It was true what they said: Her fife did indeed flash before her eyes, and she saw now what a shallow life it had been. Cocktails and yacht clubs and fancy jewelry and a supersharp divorce lawyer. That was pretty much it for the woman about to drown in Big Jaw Swamp.
After the life-flash: more blackness. Her brain was misfiring. Did she hear someone shout? Did she hear a loud clack? Like her name, none of this mattered. Bub bles exploded from her mouth and then she bucked like a fish on a pier as her lungs filled with water and the frenzied thuds of her heart… stopped.-
Now the blackness-hell, perhaps-was all-pervading.
Impressions, then. A splash in reverse. Something tugging at her. Hands? Who knew? She was dead.
The-vomited water. Thrashing, and a coughing fit that threatened to tear her chest out.
"Got her." A voice seemed proud. "Got her back."
"Ya don't say?"
The woman's eyes shot open in the brightest moonlight. She shivered, heaving, on the floor of a flatboat. A longhaired man with a kind face knelt aside, tending to her.
"You all right, lady?"
Her brain refit the scattered jigsaw puzzle that was her consciousness. Drenched, she hacked up more water, and sucked in hard breaths. Eventually, she figured what happened. "My God… you saved my life…"
"Sure enough did, ma'am. Pretty fancy piece of work if I may say so."
More sentience gathered. Providence had given her a second chance! She leaned up and looked around. The longhaired man held her hand. At the other end of the boat, a stockier, bearded man was hauling a limp alligator aboard with a grappling hook. The moonlight crisped the image; she saw a hole in the animal's head-the same animal that would've eaten her. A bullet hole…
What a stroke of luck. God had thrown down a lightning bolt to save her. As she was drowning-and was about to be chopped apart by gator jaws-this pair of poachers had happened by.
"How can I ever repay you?" she sobbed, hugging the longhaired man.
"I'd say you're damn lucky."
"Oh yes, I know! And I'll repay you, I promise."
The bearded one had stacked the dead gator atop of several more. "Lady, you must not know about Big Jaw Swamp. They call it that for a reason."
She nodded absurdly, still partially disbelieving that she was still alive. "Thank you, men. Thank you, thank you…"
"You're a long way off from the campground, a damn sight. And this swampland, Big Jaw? It's been closed to campers for years-too dangerous."
The longhaired one: "That's why we're here."
To poach, of course. "Oh, I understand. And I wouldn't dream of telling anyone what you men were doing out here."
Silence.
The woman looked at both men, who remained stone-faced.
"I'd say you're damn lucky," the longhair repeated, "if it was anyone else that pulled you out, I mean."
"Whuh… what?" she pleaded.
"Nice jewels." Her diamonds were pulled from her fingers. A hand rummaged through the big pocket of her shorts, extracting her soaked cash, ID, and cards. "Um-hmm. ATM card."
Before she could reckon more, her top was torn open. She shrieked, spitting water. Rough hands twisted the six-thousand-dollar pair of implants. "Yeah, she's a looker, all right, for an old one."
"Old one's more seasoned!"
Aghast, she was flipped over on her belly and her shorts were hauled off.
"Please, please!" she tried to reason. "It doesn't have to be like this! I'll do anything you want, and give you
"Um-hmm."
A hand was laid so hard across her buttocks the sound could've been a bullwhip. She shrieked, then shrieked again when that same pinkened buttocks was bitten hard.
"What you gotta understand, lady," the longhaired one said, "is we ain't got time to fuck around. Just some quick fun and we're gone."
"That's fine, believe me," she pleaded more as her spirit turned dark as the water, "that's fine. We canwe can-I'll do anything you want."
The other one sat toward the rear of the boat, near the hulk of fresh-killed gators. "Ain't no fun to poke 'em cold anyways."
They took turns, chortling as they splayed her middle-aged body into shapes she'd never imagined. Gentle lovemaking this was not. The longhair's hand continued to crack her skin like a whip. She yelped as soft flesh was bitten for effect: the buttocks, her nipples, her face.
So this was what providence had saved her for, to bring her back from the dead, for this.
"Yes sir!" the bearded one reveled. "She's a party, all right!"
"Been out in this hot swamp three days. I'll tell ya, this is just what the doctor ordered!"
More revel. The woman was raped again, for posterity, perhaps.
Drained by terror and exhausted, she lay pasty, naked, eyes wide in the next inevitable contemplation.
A Buck knife was put to her throat, her ATM card flashing before her stare. "PIN, lady."
She told him without hesitation.
The bearded one appeared to be urinating over the side. Then he dragged up his overalls. "Three more out there. Guess they smell the old bitch's fear."
"They do that, I heard."
She could hear more gators splashing into the water, homing in on the commotion.
Of course, they'd let her go! They know I have friends at the campgrounds! They won't kill me because they know they can't get away with it!
"I'll punch her ticket, and then we can leave," the longhair said, hoisting a crowbar over her head.
"No," the beard said.
Thank God! she thought. See, they weren't that stupid.
"Throw her in alive. More fun that way."
No! No! No!
Recompense for a life of deceit and shallow sin? Or just some pretty damn bad luck?
Like the woman's name, it didn't matter.
She didn't even have time to scream when she was tossed nude and thrashing into the water. The gators converged.
"We got a full load anyhow," the beard said. "Let's head back."
"Good idea. After all that, I could use a cold beer…"
They watched for a few moments as the woman was hacked apart chunk by suntanned chunk. Then the boat's motor was started and off they went.
"Good goddamn! Life is sure good to us, ain't it?"
.You got that right…"
The longhaired's name was Jonas. The bearded one's was Slydes.
(II)
"It just seems kind of bizarre is all I'm saying," Nora cited, setting out a row of specimen jars along the makeshift table they'd set up in the head shack. They'd already put up their tents at the campsite, and Annabelle had decided the light wasn't ideal for much photography today. Fine with me, Nora thought.
Loren plugged in the small field microscope, clicked the switch several times to make sure it worked. "You're not yourself today, you know?"
Nora winced. "Oh, bullshit, yes, I am!"
"All right, all right, forget I said that. So what is it? What's so bizarre?"
"Well, for one, the army guy. Trent. He's acting weird, isn't he?"
"No."
"Oh, bullshit!" she snapped.
"Hey, you asked." Loren's facial expression seemed a meld of amusement and confusion. "How can he be acting weird, Nora? You don't know him. So how do you know the difference between him acting weird and him acting normal?"
Nora slammed down an empty case. "Oh, blow me! You'd have to be a moron to not see it!"
"Well, I think my 159 IQ might contravene your assessment. What's your IQ, by the way?"
"Oh, blow me!" She huffed over to the next case of equipment. Nora's was 158, and Loren knew that. "Don't forget, buddy, I am your boss. You're my T.A. That stands for teaching assistant. You're still working on your doctoral degree and-oh, how do you like that? I already have mine, which is why I'm the professor and you're my assistant."
Loren laughed. "You do realize I was just joking."
"Yes!"
"So tell me, then. Why, exactly, is it your analysis that Lieutenant Trent is acting weird?"
Nora sighed. He's right. I'm not myself today, and I'm fully aware of that. "I don't know. The scenario, I guess."
"The scenario isn't exactly atypical, Nora," Loren pointed out. "We're zoological experts sent by the college to escort a field excursion, in this case a photographic one. National Geographic no less. That's pretty cool. They didn't ask anybody else in the state to do it. They asked us to do it. Any other time, you'd be so into this you'd be spinning like a top. But no. You're pissed off instead. You claim that Trent's acting weird. Well, I don't think he's acting weird at all. I don't know where you're coming from."
Nora paused a moment, rubbing her eyes. Stop going nuts, she ordered herself. "I think it's weird, Loren. This place. It's army property that the army has abandoned. It's a missile base with no missiles anymore, right?"
"Right," Loren agreed, still trying to contain his smile.
"Yet they got this guy 'Dent-some sort of liaison officer-who comes out here every month to check the island for damage. What's to damage?" She pointed to the wall. "These ugly-ass brick buildings that are empty?"
"All right, I guess that seemed a little strange at first-"
`There! See? You agree!"
"Not really. Trent's an army gofer, an errand boy. And it just happens to be part of his job to keep tabs on army land that's no longer in use. You heard him. He said they get squatters out here sometimes, and college kids partying. It doesn't matter that the army's not using the land for anything right now. These empty buildings belong to the friggin' army, and so do the water purifiers and the generator and whatever else is out here. Trent spot-checks the place to make sure nobody's screwed with his employer's property. Simple. It's a busywork job, and the military is full of stuff like that."
"I think Trent's hiding something," she finally said.
Loren shook his head. "He's not hiding anything, Nora, and that's not really what's bothering you anyway, is it? Either somebody pissed in your granola this morning-and I happen to know you don't eat granolaor you're having some giant PMS, and that can't be the case either because you had that two weeks ago."
Listen to what he's saying, she told herself. Be honest. "All right. You're right."
"So what is it?" and before she could answer, he raised a finger. "Ah, but let me guess. The photographer."
Nora's face felt clamped in a cheese press she was frowning so hard. "Yeah, I guess that's it-that priss photographer, and, yes, I know it sounds juvenile and insecure but she really pisses me off."
"That's no secret, the way you were glaring at her for the entire trip over."
She sat down on a collapsible field stool. "How else am I supposed to feel? You saw the way the pilots were gawking at her. And Trent, too. Nobody ever gawks at me."
"I do." Loren winked, and made a lewd pelvic gesture. "Hubba-hubba. Any time you want to make the smartest babies on earth, let me know."
Nora sighed. "I'm serious, Loren. It's depressing. What do I need to get some notice? A boob job? A platinum-blond wig?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. You're a good-looking woman. In fact, you're the best-looking female polychaetologist in Florida."
Nora didn't hesitate to give him the finger. "Loren, you know damn well I'm the only female polychaetologist in Florida."
"Well…"
She plopped her chin in her hands. "I'm a nerd, Loren."
"Don't feel bad. I'm a nerd, too. I can't get laid in a whorehouse with a fistful of fifties. And you know what? I don't care. Sure, Nora, we're nerds, we're geeks, but you know what else we are?"
"What's that?" she droned.
"We're smarter than everyone else, which makes us-" He cut a toothy grin and pointed at her like a gun. "Superior."
Superior, Nora thought. That was the last thing she felt. I'm thirty years old now and my nickname is still Pipe Cleaner. I'm still a virgin, and in Florida? That makes me more rare than afucking Gutenberg-Bible.-
"Another thing to consider," Loren rambled. He rambled a lot. "Of course, we're smart. Our IQs, in addition to the fund of our general knowledge, probably puts us in the top two percentile of the population, and I mean the advanced-educated population."
Nora winced. "Loren! We're a couple of egghead misfits! We're the sore thumbs of the modern American societal mainstream! We're dorks! If we walk into a singles bar, we don't even know how to pull up a stool and order a drink!"
Loren ignored the judgment, continuing, "Aaaaa- aaand, I might add, with specificity, you and I in all likelihood probably know more about polychaetes than anyone else in North America."
Nora felt like slapping him. "That and six bucks will get you a cup of coffee at Starbucks… maybe."
.You are the queen and I am the king of our field. We're marine zoologists of the first water. It may even be-and I mean no arrogance when I say this-that we may be the best polychaetologists in the world. So. That's something to be happy about, isn't it?"
Now Nora had to laugh. "I appreciate your positivity, Loren."
"Good. Revel in your life! Celebrate your essence of superiority in the void of the soul-dead hoi polloi."
"Whatever," she muttered, and forced herself to her feet. "Let's go find G.I. Joe and the Barbie doll, try to keep this day from turning to total shit."
"Well said!"
They left their cinder block lab, headed back toward the campsite. Nora knew she had to snap out of this mood. There was no reason for it. Midlife crisis and I'm not even middle-aged, she thought. What a ripoff. But was that it, or something else?
The woods pressed in on them as the trail narrowed. "And another thing," she remembered. "That big pot plant."
"What about it?" Loren said, following her up.
"That's pretty weird, isn't it? Something like that, growing here?"
You heard Trent. He told us right off the bat, sometimes kids sneak on the island to make whoopie. Some kid dropped a seed and-presto-it grew."
"Um-hmm, and how convenient an explanation." She glanced over her shoulder at him. "Or maybe I'm right. Maybe Trent really is hiding something."
Loren's chuckling floated forward. "You really have a problem with Trent."
"Think about it." Subconsciously, her eyes roved through the forest's plush vegetation. Searching for spiky plants? "Secluded location, abandoned government land. And the only authority is our buddy Lieutenant Trent. He could have a veritable farm of pot growing out here, and who would know?"
"And it must be pretty good weed, too, because you've obviously had a few bowls already today."
"Oh, kiss my ass, Loren!" she snapped back.
"Drop 'em and I will."
"You wish."
"No, you wish."
"No! You-" But then Nora dropped it. Listen to us!
"I know," Loren said after the contemplative pause. "We sound like a couple of kids in junior high."
"Yep. And you know why, don't you? Because that's about as far as we've evolved socially."
"How wonderfully pathetic!" Loren cheered. "But you're not really serious about Trent, are you? Please. Tell me you're not."
Nora didn't say anything, trudging on down the trail.
They stopped at a marshy pond that stretched off to their right. A reddish brown bird with a white head pecked at the water.
"Fresh, not brackish," Nora noted.
"Looks like a brown noddy, too. Haven't seen one of those for a while."
Their presence seemed to agitate the bird, which then flew off, yacking. Nora pointed to a scurry of tadpoles in the water. "Southern cricket tadpoles?" Nora questioned. "What's that? Gryllus dorsalis?"
Loren stooped to one knee. "Maybe, but look at the flake of the eyes. Probably a Hyla cinera."
Nora squinted. "Yeah, you're right. The Gryllus doesn't get the gold till the tail falls."
Loren stood back up. The oddest stasis seemed to take hold of them.
Finally Nora said, "This is depressing, Loren. We're looking at a pond and identifying the tadpoles by the Latin classification. That's pretty fucked up, isn't it? I mean, really, that's not normal."
Loren scratched his head, cruxed. "Are we really that nerdy?"
Simultaneously, they looked back down, eyed their reflections in the water. Like a carnival mirror, the water made Loren's buckteeth look like horse teeth, and his Adam's apple as big as a popover. Nora stood five four, but in this mirror of water she looked seven feet tall and bent, a big frizz-mopped ball for a head jutting from a stick: a geek scarecrow. The knees on her broomstick legs looked grotesque: Elephant Woman, she thought.
Are we really that nerdy? Nora repeated the grim question in her mind. "Let's get out of here before I friggin' throw up," she said. They crunched away down the trail, silent.
Neither of them noticed the bloated corpse just a few yards past the edge of the pond. Its mouth squirmed vigorously with shining pink worms.
"God, it's hot!" Annabelle remarked, stepping into the campsite. She unslung the expensive Nikon from around her neck, set it down on a rickety picnic table. Humidity had dampened her blond hair, showing roots. She stretched and took a deep breath, flexing her arms over her head. The pose maximized her toned physique, breasts thrusting outward in the blue bikini top. Her flat stomach stretched, rivulets of sweat trickling down. Her coltish legs shone.
Nora frowned. That prissy New York phony is doing that on purpose. Loren's eyes were hijacked.
"I thought you weren't going to take pictures today," Nora recalled.
"Nothing underwater." At the height of her stretch, the edge of one nipple showed. Nora was certain she pretended not to notice, for Loren's benefit. An absolutely unmitigated TEASE!
"The best light would be gone by the time I got set up," Annabelle went on. Eventually she fixed her top. "But I did want to get some front shots of the island interior and the shoreline. Tomorrow morning we'll start the water excursions. You and Loren can make some test dives, scout some areas first."
It sounded like an order to Nora. I'd like to kick her real-hard,- right in the ass…
"And the hunt for the scarlet bristleworm will begin," Loren said. "We probably won't even need our tanks. Snorkeling will do the job."
That sounds great, Loren," Annabelle beamed. Then she started stretching side to side, hands on hips.
Yeah, Nora thought. Real hard…
"Looks like the army's new drug czar," Loren said next. Trent came out of the trail, sweating mightily in his fatigues. He was dragging the marijuana plant, which he'd obviously cut down. "Didn't see anymore, but tomorrow I'll have to check more of the island. I already called this one in."
"Bullshit," Nora said under her breath.
"What are you going to do with it, Lieutenant?" Loren asked.
"Burn it, of course." Then Trent dragged the plant to the other end of the site, began to hack it apart with his knife. It was a substantial plant; once cut up, its pieces formed a pile. Trent began to douse it with lighter fluid.
Loren smiled to Nora. "There goes your theory."
"Don't be an idiot."
"Nora, he's burning the plant with us watching him. What more proof do you need? If he was secretly growing the stuff out here, would he be burning it right in front of us?"
Nora couldn't believe his naivete. "He's doing it for our benefit-like we're stupid enough to fall for that."
"You're a laugh a minute, Nora. You really believe he's growing pot out here in secret?"
"Could be." But Nora felt certain. This little burning session's just for show. "He's probably got hundreds of plants out here, on the most secluded parts of the island. Who would ever find out?"
Loren just shook his head, chuckling.
Flame leaped from the pile, crackling. "Don't stand too close, Lieutenant," Loren called out. "You don't want to get high in the line of duty."
What they smelled more than anything were fumes from the lighter fluid. Trent backed up, watched it burn down.
Nora felt bored silly already. She looked to Loren but caught him staring more at Annabelle as she continued her "twisting" exercises. Trent, too, stole some glances back at her. Queen of the May… in a Calvin Klein bikini. Nora smirked through the thought. I think I know how she got that fancy job at National Geographic.
The plant burned up in minutes; Trent upended a pail of water on the cinders, then sat down at the table, wiping off his hands.
"I've done a lot of strange things in the army, but that's the first time I've ever burned up a pot plant," 'he said.
"I'm sure you were right," Loren added. "Some kid dropped a seed a long time ago and it sprouted. It's been growing there for years, and it's probably the only one out here." Then he elbowed Nora.
"Yeah," Trent said. "Never knew what the big deal was with pot anyway. I tried it a couple times when I was a teenager. All it did was make me hungry and stupid."
When Trent turned around toward Annabelle, Nora elbowed Loren back, and silently mouthed the word Bullshit.
"Isn't it legal for cancer patients, though?" Annabelle said.
Loren replied, citing the latest from the New England Journal of Medicine. "It has been proven to drastically reduce intralobular pressure in the eye as well as negate nausea symptoms in various antitumor therapies…"
Nora let the rest of the conversation drown out.
What is wrong with me? she asked herself. She knew she was a smart, perceptive person-an academician and a credible scientist. Here, though, all of a sudden, she felt as though she didn't fit in. Doesn't matter how smart I am. That's not what the big picture's all about. She bit a nail. I'm not PART of the big picture…
The environment enthralled her: This was her element, a tropical island rung with marine life. It's the blonde, she knew.
Annabelle was just as professional as she, but also vivacious, beautiful, socially magnetizing…
Nora simmered in more envy, eyeing the photographer's pose near the table. Showing off her body, sure, but also part of the crowd, engaging…
Fitting in.
The curvy, limber body radiated vitality, not just sexual, but something deeper. She was a picture of health, charisma, and moreover, acceptance.
And I'm not, Nora realized. I can spout my sour grapes at her all I want but it doesn't change the truth. I'm a virgin curmudgeon, a gawky nerd who's so socially disconnected it's a wonder anyone wants to be around me at all, even Loren. She felt frumpish in the baggy khaki shorts over the drab black one-piece swim suit. I'll probably make a terrific old maid. Now all I have to do is wait about thirty fucking more years-
"-not that I'm in favor of legalization, mind you," Loren was saying, still plugged in and animated in the discussion, "but from the cold scientific standpoint, it's hard to argue with a clinical physical addiction rate of zero, even as opposed to the roughly fifteen percent for alcohol."
"Yeah, but every long-term pot smoker I know," Annabelle offered, "is kind of… a moron."
"Plenty of statistics on that side of the fence too," Loren stated. "Pot smoking goes hand in hand with an incontrovertible reduction in longand short-term memory, thematic apperception. Plus, it remains the leading cause of amotivational syndrome."
"What's that mean?" Trent said.
Nora finally snapped out of it and offered, "It makes you a moron."
"See?" Loren laughed. "The professor speaks! I told you she didn't slip into a coma when we weren't looking."
/eez, Nora thought. I really am the life of the party, huh?
"What about you, Professor? Have you ever smoked it?"
Nora blinked. The question had come from Annabelle. "I… uh…" Then she smirked. "No."
"I think it's a bunch of silly crap," Trent said. "Call me a redneck, but I'll take a can of Bud any day."
"Still big money in it, though," Loren posed. "I'll bet that plant you burned was worth hundreds of dollars on the street."
Nora couldn't resist. She wanted to watch Trent's reaction. "Secluded island like this? Inaccessible?" She feigned a laugh. "Shit, Lieutenant. You could start your own little enterprise out here, and make ten times more than Uncle Sam pays you."
"No, with my luck, it'd be ten times less," Trent replied, "spending the next ten years in an army prison," and then he laughed himself. – - – - – - – - – -
Nora had to admit, her comment didn't seem to jilt him one bit. I guess I'm wrong about everything, she thought.
Then Annabelle shrieked.
Every face jerked toward her. Annabelle shuddered, tensed up, her fists at her bosom.
"What's wrong!" Loren exclaimed.
Annabelle pointed to Trent. "There's-there's-"
"What is that?" Loren said.
Trent snapped, "What the hell's wrong?"
"There's-there's-there's-" Annabelle stammered some more-
'Something on your back," Nora said.
Trent's eyes bugged. "What? A fuckin' tarantula? What?"
Nora saw it easily. Hmm, she wondered, but she didn't want to take any chances. She grabbed one of her scuba flippers, and-
Splap!
She smacked the flipper against Trent's back, but Trent was already jumping up, tearing off the green fatigue shirt. "Jesus! Would somebody tell me what was crawling on my-back?"-
"Not sure," Nora said, and took the shirt. She spread it out on the tabletop.
"It was a spider!" Annabelle. "Maybe poisonous…"
Trent looked outraged. "No way!"
"Loren, did that look arachnoidal to you?" Nora asked.
Loren was checking Trent's back. "No. I didn't see any appendages and the body definitely wasn't bisectional." He slapped Trent on the shoulder. "And, Lieutenant, I'm happy to say you don't have any bite marks."
"Jesus!"
It didn't look like a beetle, and it was too big to be a tick," Loren added.
Nora was examining the shirt. "But it was definitely motile."
Trent was clearly upset. "What's that mean? Speak English!"
"It means it was moving," Nora defined. "And if it didn't have ambulatory appendages, it must be monotaxic."
Trent appeared as though his entire world had become upheaved. Though not overweight, he was in desperate need of some sun, black chest hair matting on white skin. "What are you talking about!"
"Lieutenant, relax, you weren't bitten by anything," Nora reminded him while she and Loren pored over the shirt. "Slugs, limpets, snails, and leeches move by means of what's called a monotaxia 'foot'-"
"The slime pad," Loren simplified.
"-and that's probably what was propelling your little friend here."
"I'll bet it was a leech!" Annabelle continued to overreact.
Trent looked on the verge of vomiting. "Shut up!"
"No, not a leech," Nora informed. "Leeches are just another type of segmented worm-an annelid-and I got a good enough look at this to see that it wasn't segmented."
"And this thing's body wasn't ovated," Loren added. "It was circinated."
Trent and Annabelle stood aside, mystified, as Nora finally found the splatter on the shirt. "There, see?" she said. "It's not insectoid, no exoskeleton."
"Well, I guess that means it wasn't a tick." Trent seemed relieved. "I don't need any of that Rocky Mountain oyster fever."
Nora shook her head, bemused.
"Maybe it was a pebble snail," Loren said. "That's about the only monotaxic animal I can think of that has a circular body."
This was definitely circular, Nora remembered. "It almost looked nodulous or ovumular."
"Actually it did," Loren agreed, "but we both know that's impossible."
Trent sneered. "I think it would be really nice if you would drop the college professor talk, and-"
"Ovumular," Nora specified, "or like an ovum-an egg cell. Some marine worms, for example, as well as many marine creatures, have ova that move about by their own means of locomotion once they leave the female's body. These species are mostly parasites; therefore, once the fertilized ovum has been dispersed, it seeks some other form of animal life in which to nurture itself and grow. And nodulous-like a node. Some of these motile ovum are actually carried around in a self-contained node` that protects it and helps it get to a host."
The prospect of "parasites" and "nodes" didn't overjoy Trent. "How do you know that thing wasn't one of those?"
"Because they're microscopic," Loren said.
Trent and Annabelle leaned over now, to get a closer look.
Whatever had been on the lieutenant's back was now just a viscid splotch. What Nora had seen had been about the size of a large-shelled peanut, but circular, like a hazelnut. And yellow, like butter.
"Here's the skin of whatever it was." She pointed, moving the flattened thing with the tip of her pen.
"And, look." Loren squinted, leaning closer. "It's yellow but has tiny red spots."
"Some kind of epidermal pigmentation," Nora said.
"Another vote for a slug, but…" His thoughts trailed off.
Nora chewed her lip. "I know. I'm not familiar with any species of land slug that's yellow."
"Oh, yuck!" was Annabelle's next contribution. "That big splat is its insides?"
"Yep." Nora was secretly pleased by the photographer's revulsion. "I'm not seeing anything that looks like the remnants of an organ system."
"Jesus," Trent said. "It looks like someone hocked a loogie on my shirt, that's what it looks like."
Then Loren brought a hand to his brow. "Oh, shit, I know what it is! It's a spumarius, Nora. Right after molting."
"A what?" Annabelle looked to him.
"An insect called a froghopper," Nora said. She was a little agitated with herself for not thinking of that first. "The larval form of something in the cicada order."
"They're the same size and the same color," Loren said.
Nora handed Trent back his soiled shirt. "Good job, Loren. The mystery is solved. An immature froghopper."
"Are they poisonous?" Trent asked warily.
"They're-absolutely harmless."
"Not if you're a shirt," Loren said of the mess.
"Christ, this shirt's blown," Trent said.
"I'm sure Uncle Sam will spring for a new one."
"Are you kidding? We have uniform rations in the army. Can you beat that for cheap?" And then Trent walked off, presumably for a clean shirt.
Nora rolled her eyes when she noticed Annabelle's hand on Loren's shoulder as she talked. "Wow, you really know your stuff, Loren. Of all the things it could've been, you identified it in a minute."
"Aw, it was nothing," he chuckled.
Make me puke, Nora thought. Look at her cozying up to him…
Eventually, Annabelle walked off again with her camera. "See you guys later, for dinner," she said.
Which I hope you choke on, Nora thought.
"Well, so much for the big excitement of the day," Loren said. "A friggin' froghopper. Shit, I almost wish it was something interesting, like a rhino beetle or a black widow."
But Nora had already turned toward the woods. "Do you… smell that?"
"Smell what?"
"Something in the air…
"You mean the pot that Trent just burned?"
"No, no." She felt sure. "The breeze is blowing south, and this is coming from the north." It seemed vague but very familiar. "I can swear I smell something cooking. Like hot dogs or hamburgers."
Loren sniffed the air, then shrugged. "Beats me. I don't smell anything."
Must be my imagination, Nora concluded.