Night Vision by Randy Wayne White

say, “Show me your goddamn hands and walk toward me!”
    An asshole cop. It had to be—no one but a cop could mix contempt and authority in quite the same way. But Squires realized they were yelling at the big guy, Ford, not him, which was a relief. It gave him some hope.
    The hippie was trying to help Squires to his feet, but Squires yanked his elbow away, saying, “Get your goddamn hands off me!” but then winced when he tried to take a step. He hissed, “Shit,” because the back of his right leg was knotted and hurt like hell because of the pulled hamstring.
    The hippie said to him, “Are you okay? Did it bite you? That was damn close, man!”
    Squires put some weight on his leg and took a few experimental steps, watching the big guy walk toward a semicircle of cops and EMTs, holding his hands high. Then he listened to Ford say in the distance, “The injured man’s over there, he needs attention right away. An alligator grabbed him, I don’t know how bad. Then it came back after the big guy. That’s why I had to use a weapon.”
    It had been a bad night so far, but Squires decided this might be a chance to turn things around. He pushed the hippie away and started toward the cops, limping barefooted, straightening himself, trying to look respectable despite his slimy knee-length shorts and muscle T-shirt.
    He waited until he was sure the cops were looking in his direction before saying, “I’m the manager, I own this place. I was hoping you boys would show up. That asshole right there”—he pointed at Ford—“almost got me killed, the way he was banging off rounds from that little pistol of his. Hell, maybe he did kill someone. We should have a look around. Check on the units and make sure one of my tenants isn’t hurt.”
    Squires made a point of ignoring Ford, who was staring at him now. For some reason, the scientist had a quizzical expression on his face, not amused, not pissed off, but interested , like Squires was some kind of bug.
    It was weird the way the man appeared so relaxed, not the least bit worried, despite the guns the cops had now lowered, which caused Squires to remember that maybe Ford and the hippie were part of some DEA sting. Maybe they were even friends with these cops, who might be playing some kind of game.
    Cops did shit like that all the time when they had their sights set on busting an underground steroids lab. Or so Squires had read on the Internet bodybuilder forums. It was law enforcement’s way of sticking their noses where they didn’t belong.
    When one of the cops said to Squires, “Stop right there, no closer,” Squires did, then listened to the man ask, “What’s your name?”
    Squires told him, deciding suddenly it was better to be friendly if Ford was DEA, which is why he added, “But I got no hard feelings against the dude. Maybe he was just trying to help me save that poor drunk over there—”
    Squires looked toward the bank, where EMTs were already working on Carlson. There wasn’t a chilie or a chula around now, he noticed. They’d all disappeared except for the weird little Jesus freak, who was pestering the EMTs about the old drunk, probably getting in their way.
    Behind him, Squires heard the hippie call to the cops, “Why the hell do you have your guns out? Big tough guys—you’re afraid of a couple of unarmed men and a little kid?”
    The hippie said it in an irritated, cop-hater tone, which, to Squires, was more proof that these guys were working undercover for the feds.
    Squires used the opening as an excuse to snap at the hippie, saying, “Shut your mouth, these guys know what they’re doing. Let them do their damn jobs!” which might earn him some brownie points with the cops.
    Squires hoped so. He felt a welling chemical anxiety inside his head, probably caused by steroids mixing with adrenaline, no doubt the result of that goddamn gator coming so close to biting his ass off. Plus, there was the not-so-small matter of the dead Mexican