Altar of Eden by James Rollins Page B

She responded to the disbelief in his face. “They’re the perfect killing machine. Where tigers and lions rip out the throat of their prey, jaguars kill by crushing their prey’s skull. They have the strongest jaws of any large cat. Evolved, it’s believed, to help jaguars crack through the iron-hard shells of turtles.”
    “If they like turtles, we’ve got plenty of ’em in the bayous. Terrapin, snapping turtles, and all manner of cooters and sliders.”
    “Yes, but they’re small and less abundant than our jaguar will need. With her body mass, she’ll be looking for a dense and easily accessible food supply. She won’t stop until she finds it.”
    Jack suddenly stiffened beside her.
    “What?” she asked.
    He leaned closer to the map and ran his finger along the hand-drawn line. He also searched to both sides of the path. His finger stopped and tapped. A name was written under there: Bayou Cook.
    Jack straightened and glanced to her. “How sharp is a jaguar’s sense of smell?”
    “Extremely sharp. They’re mostly nocturnal hunters, so they have to be able to track prey by scent.”
    “How far do you think they could track a smell?”
    “Hard to say. Depends on the source of the odor, its strength, the wind direction.” She shook her head. “Lots of variables. Could be many miles if the conditions were right.”
    “So if a place gave off a really strong odor and the wind was in the right direction, it could draw the cat. Even from miles away.”
    “Sure. But it would have to be a scent that the cat recognized as a food source.”
    “You said jaguars fed not just on turtles and fish, but also on caiman. The southern cousin of the American alligator.”
    “That’s right.”
    “So if there was a concentrated source for such a meal, a place that really smelled strongly—”
    “It would definitely draw her.”
    Jack ripped the chart from the clips and carried it over to the boat’s pilot. He pointed. “This is where we’re headed. Bayou Cook. Radio the airboats, let them know there’s been a change in plans. We’ll head directly over there.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Jack returned, the map in his hand.
    “What’s at Bayou Cook?” Lorna asked.
    “A tourist site. Draws sightseers year-round, mostly from the cruise ships that dock in New Orleans. You get a swamp tour, an airboat ride, and at the end, a visit to Bayou Cook.”
    “What’s there?”
    Jack stared hard at her, certainty in his eyes. “Uncle Joe’s Alligator Farm.”

Chapter 13
    Uncle Joe had no interest in children, but the camp groups brought in good money.
    He stood on the front porch of his house with a tall, frosted bottle of Budweiser resting on the rail. The scorching day only seemed to grow hotter and damper as the sun faded away. It was like that out here. The first hour after sunset, the heat seemed reluctant to leave, overstaying its welcome. But slowly over the course of the night, it began to drain away, making it easier to breathe.
    He enjoyed that time of night.
    ’Course, the beer helped, too.
    He took a deep swig and stared across the thirty acres of his property. On the far side, a new campsite had been carved out of the neighboring stand of old-growth cypress forest. It was currently occupied by a troop of Boy Scouts from Baton Rouge, booked for the entire week. Campfires flickered among the tents, and strings of lanterns decorated the encampment. Songs echoed through the early evening, accompanied by the honking of bullfrogs and the occasional hoot from an owl or bellow from a bull alligator.
    Between his log home and the campsite stretched the eight pools and pits of the alligator farm. He also had a bobcat exhibit and a shallow pond that held Gipper, a giant snapping turtle. The farm was crisscrossed with elevated walkways and observation decks.
    He looked on with pride. It had cost him over half a million to expand the place from a single pond with a few breeding alligators to this singular attraction of the