Girl Scouts and Angels.

Saw-grass as evil as the red eyes in Jake's flashlight beam tore at him, shredded his long sleeve shirt. He no longer swatted the mosquitoes, didn't care that his skin ran slick with blood, or that the mud he'd smeared on arms and face weighed a ton. The backpack had offered some mosquito protection, but none against the growing gang of alligators.

The afternoon had begun okay, great even, as he'd launched the airboat. The magazine promised big bucks for a wild panther layout and Jake knew where one of them lived, on a pine crest island in Big Cypress Reserve.

He'd glanced at the bow hunting sign sticking out of the bank where saw-grass met road, and then he shrugged, loaded the boat. He hopped on, revved the engine and listened for sounds other than pure aircraft engine power. Deciding there were none he pulled back on the throttle and laughed, his voice chopped, blended, pureed in the propeller's pull, lost in the wind-sucking scourge. Tall, rust green saw grass that promised to cut and dice a man swayed, played homage to Jake's airboat as it shot across shallow, gator infested water.

Yessir, this is the way to travel. He checked his watch at the half hour mark, eased off the throttle, sat back and shaded his eyes. Any other day he would have had the camera out, captured the pink and white cloud of Roseatte Spoonbills that erupted from open water on his right. Not today. Come for panther and plan to get one.

Now in the dark the day's events blurred, but Jake knew to keep focused. He'd been on foot in the Glades before and gotten out. This time though, was different. He'd lost the camera gear and airboat, had it all stolen from him by three drunken bow hunters.

At first when he'd seen another airboat beached on the panther island he'd almost gone back to the truck, called it a wasted day. Cats were solitary creatures, he thought. But then laughter came toward the boat, cold and harsh on a warm breeze. That needed investigation. Jake followed the sounds through cypress and tangled vine and into a hard ground clearing where three men in camouflage tipped flat sided liquor bottles, danced around a still, black form.

Jake hated them for being there, for hunting and boozing on this island where nature ruled, where he'd kept the panther's home a secret for so long, where he'd almost been welcomed. But these men stumbled, slurred words and yelled, outnumbered him. He took another step, hands gripping the backpack straps. "Hey, whatcha get?"

They turned and smiled as if Jake had been there the whole time, been one of them. They waved him over, stood aside and grinned. Jake's mouth went dry, he swallowed a lump of sick anger, but it came again with his words. "What in hell's the matter with you?" He knelt by the coal black panther, one with a nick in one ear, his almost friend. Jake stroked its silky face, ran a hand down to the neck where an arrow still stuck out of it. He snapped the shaft in half, jumped to his feet.

"Assholes." He reached, grabbed a neck and choked, didn't remember anything until the soft motor sound.

He opened his eyes and saw a small, round face licking his.

That was earlier. Now a rumbling sound brought him back to the night. He spun, shone the flashlight at the water, cringed from even more sets of red eyes. "They won't attack unless I trip." He said it aloud and turned back in the direction he traveled, caught the dark blotch against the open sky again, but not the faint light he'd seen earlier. There. That way. He plodded one step at a time, foot deep water flip flapping, a welcome sound over the mosquitoes' banshee whine. Once there he'd climb a tree for the night, a high one because gators didn't climb and mosquitoes hated a breeze.

Jake didn't see the log. He didn't hear a splash sound, either, or taste the sulfuric water he expected to drown in when the gators rushed him. His hands felt dry earth. He looked up at tree shapes. "Oh God. Thank You. Oh, Lord."

He stood and saw light, heard laughter, not the drunken kind, but bright and happy sounding, the kind angels made.

"The light, the one I saw. Angels made it for me." He shone the flashlight down at his leather boots, noticed the blue jeans slashed every which way, but still intact. Again he shone it at the water, at the eyes, the hissing nostrils. "See? You didn't eat me. Know why? Angels."

It took only minutes to follow the voices, another to walk out of the pine trees. He raised both arms to thank the Lord again, but stumbled and crashed headlong into the clearing. A long wail came from behind, and then another, higher, and more piercing. He shook his head, clambered to the kneeling position, stared into wide fire lit eyes and pointing white fingers.

"The bag is moving. A baby. He's a baby killer."

The minutes that followed seemed like hours where crazed girls huddled and hugged and screamed and ran into pitch black trees and at least two adults scurried into a tent.

Jake shrugged the backpack off, unzipped and reached in, pulled out a baby panther. "It's only a cub. Come back. He won't hurt you."

A head poked out of the tent, and then another. "What's your name?"

"Jake Adams." He wet his dry lips. "The sound you heard was a tape recorder. I use it to lure panthers to my camera. Came on when I fell." He held the cub up, and it licked his face. "Please, we need water and milk."

A man stepped out. "Fine thing you coming here scaring the life out of these poor girl scouts." He turned to the tent and called Miss Elaine, said he believed this Jake Adams and that she should call the girls back. He'd get the water and first aid kit.

He turned to Jake. "Sit. We'll clean your face." Jake nodded, leaned into campfire smoke, petted his baby.

The girl scouts rushed past Miss Elaine. "Oh, he's so cute. Where did you get him? Where's his mother?"

The mother died, Jake said. He knew her.
Wayne Willison.