I downshifted to take the corner.

Im worried about her, Mace. She sure didnt seem right when she was swinging that tire iron at church.

Who would?

There it is, Mace. The blue one. About half way down, on the left.

I slowed, and turned into Emma Jeans driveway. Her cat-shaped mailbox was painted in Siamese colors. The cats black-tipped tail was the flag, which was flipped up straight.

I continued up the drive, noting a gaggle of yard gnomes. The rose bushes needed attention. Only the most dedicated gardeners can grow roses in the Florida heat and mucky soil around Lake Okeechobee. Judging from the mold-spotted leaves and sparse blooms, Emma Jean lacked the necessary dedication.

There was no car in the open, metal-roofed carport. I pulled in and parked. Mama and I got out.

The sun had faded the houses blue paint almost gray. The window curtains were drawn. Her screen door was shut, as was the solid wooden door behind that. Pink and white impatiens wilted in a pot on her porch. Mama leaned over to feel the soil. Shaking her head, she picked up a watering can and poured the contents on the flowers.

I knocked at the door. No answer. I pounded.

Emma Jean? Are you there, darlin? Mama called at the window.

Well, we know she was here fairly recently, I said. If that tail on her mailbox was up yesterday when the mail carrier came, he wouldve taken Emma Jeans outgoing letters and flipped it back down.

Mama glanced out to the cat-shaped mailbox. You know, I didnt even think about that. Theres a reason you were top in your class at college, Mace.

I opened the screen door and tried the knob on the door inside. Locked.

A Siamese cat, live, not the mailbox one, minced its way up the porch steps. It sniffed at Mamas lemon-colored sandal, and then made a beeline to me. Im an animal lover, but Ive never been able to warm up to felines. And dont the cats always know that? In a crowded room, theyll bypass a dozen cat-lovers; ignore every outstretched hand; fail to recognize a chorus of Here, kitty-kittys. Then theyll decide to make friends with me.

The cat entangled itself around my ankles, rubbing against my slacks. I lifted my boot to gently push it away. Meowing, the critter stared up with big blue eyes.

Ill be sneezing in about two seconds, Mama. Did I mention Im also allergic? Im going around to check the back.

The cat leapt off the porch and followed.

I looked in a big kitchen window, where the curtains were tied back. Dirty dishes sat in the sink; an afternoon Himmarshee Times was closed on the table. It had to have been there at least a day, since it was still too early for todays delivery. The silent house looked empty, but undisturbed, like Emma Jean just ran out to do an errand.

Turning from the window, I nearly stumbled over my new best friend. The cat looked up as if to say, Careful, Clumsy.

I scanned the backyard.

Hey, what kind of car does Emma Jean drive? I yelled around to the side garden, where Mama was pinching sooty leaves off the rose bushes.

Its a little one, she shouted back. Something foreign, like a Toyota or a Honda. Why?

Because theres a pickup parked back here, next to her shed. Its white, and it looks old.

I stepped closer. The bed was rusted. It was empty, except for three crushed beer cans. I looked through the drivers window. There wasnt anything personal inside. Just a blue bench seat, upholstered in plastic with the stuffing showing through. Kneeling on the grass, I ran my hand over well-worn rubber tread.

What are you doing down there, Mace? Mama joined me, stepping as delicately as the cat across grass still wet with dew. Beads of water clung to the reinforced toe of her knee-high stocking.

Nothing, really. I trailed my fingers again over the tread before I stood and brushed off my pants. I was just noticing how big the tires are on this old truck.

Bump-bump-bump-bump-bump-bump.

My tires thumped over the wooden bridge at Himmarshee Park. No matter how bad the day, or how much work waits, driving over the little bridge always gives me a boost. Below, dark water swirled. Above, sunlight slanted through the feathery branches of cypress trees. I inhaled, breathing in the woodsy, organic aroma of the swamp.

Newcomers crinkle their noses and complain of the rotten-egg smell. It comes about as bacteria break down dead plants and animals in the water. That allows them to be consumed by other creatures; which in turn are eaten by larger critters. And so it goes.

To me, the muck and mud of the swamp smells like life itself.

I love the outdoors, but even Ill admit there are better spots to be in the summer. The nearest coastal breeze is an hour east. If heat stroke doesnt get you, the mosquitoes will. And park in the full sun, and your car seat will reward you with third-degree burns upon your return. Not surprisingly, our parking lot was nearly empty.

I pulled into the shade of a clump of Sabal palms. Grabbing my purse and two plastic bags full of Ollies chickens, I headed in to work.

The parks office is built of cypress, with tall windows and a wraparound porch. The designer did a good job of making the structure look like it grew up in the woods. But to me, being stuck for too long inside any kind of building anywhere still feels like a trap.

Inside, a phone was affixed to my boss ear. Rhonda drummed the pink-polished fingers of her free hand on the arm of her chair. When she saw me in the doorway, she flexed her hand into a yak-yak-yak sign next to the phone cradled on her shoulder.

Yes, Maam. I will tell Mace you called. Rhondas fingers hovered over the phone, ready to hang up. She leaned back again, listening. No, as I mentioned to you, shes had a bit of family difficulty in recent days. She paused. No, Maam, I dont know what its like to have a panther stalking the pretty red birds that come to your bird feeder.

The New Jerseyite! I signaled frantically, pointing at my chest and shaking my head no, no, no. The last thing I needed was her tale of woe about what I suspected was a neighbors fat cat. If it was a panther, itd be after bigger prey, like her obnoxious poodle.

I was tuckered out, mentally. All I wanted was some peace and quiet to try to make sense of recent events: The come-on by the DVD-peddling pastor. The truck at Emma Jeans. The possible connectionbeyond cigarsbetween Martinez and Big Sal.

I went back outside to the storage room to dump Ollies food in the freezer. Rhonda was just hanging up when I returned.

You owe me. She rubbed at a phone-related crick in her neck. You owe me big.

She stood up to stretch. Not many women are as tall as me, but Rhonda had an inch and a half on me. Nearly six feet, she should be wearing designer clothes instead of government-uniform green. Shes as beautiful as any model, and at least three times as smart.

I know I owe you, Rhonda. Im taking you to dinner at the Speckled Perch when all of this is over.

She sat back down, a smile spreading from her mouth all the way up to her angled cheekbones. The Perch is famous for its fried hush puppies. Blessed with the metabolism of a marathon runner, Rhonda devours the round corn-meal morsels by the dozen.

Ill handle all your unpleasant details for dinner at the Perch, Mace.

Believe me, boss, you dont want that burden right now.

I sat at my desk and attacked some paperwork, separating letters and messages into Soon, Later, and Never piles. A call from a retirement home in Highlands County went into Soon. Sometimes, Ill take an orphaned possum and a few snakes and give a talk for the old people. They get nearly as big a kick as the kids do out of seeing the animals. A request to speak about wildlife at the country club, not exactly my natural audience, I filed in Later. An invitation to attend a fashion-show? Mama must have gotten me on that mailing list. Never.

When Id cleared enough paper to see some of the daily squares on my desk calendar, I stood up and stretched. Id been at it for fifty-five minutes. That was long enough. I needed to breathe some outside air.

Im gonna take a look around the park, then hit the vending machine. Want anything?

Rhonda looked up from a towering pile of permit cards and requisition forms. If that was management, she could have it.

No, thanks. Take your time. I can tell from the way youve been jiggling your leg that youre itching to get outside. Say hi to your animals for me.

Will do.

And, Mace? Rhondas shift to her supervisor tone stopped me with my hand on the doorknob. If you see any visitors, please say hi to them, too. It wouldnt hurt you to be a little friendlier to the parks humans.

Some guy had complained to Rhonda that I was rude to his girlfriend. She was whining about how the brush and the bugs on the nature walk had eaten up her legs. All I said was it was plain stupid to come to the woods in short-shorts and high-heeled sandals, so what did she expect?

Got it, Rhonda. I pulled open the door. I promise not to use the S-word, even when people are stupid.

Outside, I headed straight for the far corner of the park, where I keep the injured and unwanted animals. I could see Ollie on a sloped bank. He was sunbathing, with his body half in and half out of the water. I leaned over the concrete wall that encloses his pond.

Hey, buddy, I called down to the gator. Hows it hangin?

I talk to the animals. A lot. Maddie says its a clear sign I need more friends.

Listen, I just put a dozen plump hens in your freezer. Youre going to be dining fine.

Ollie blinked his good eye.

With a brain a little bigger than a lima bean, hes not much for conversation. I started to push myself away from the wall, when I heard a distant rustle in the brush behind me. Ive spent a lifetime in the woods, and rarely been afraid. But something about that movement didnt sound natural. A wild hog will crash through the undergrowth, not caring who alls around. A deer will pass by, as quiet as a sigh. But the movement I heard sounded different: Sneaky. Stealthy. Big.

Maybe the New Jersey woman was right about that rogue panther.

I turned slowly, straining to hear the sound again so I could try to place it. The woods grow all around the animal area, close enough for the tallest hardwood trees to throw shadows across half of Ollies pond. A mockingbird sang. Dragonflies hummed. Whatever else was out there was silent now. I turned back to the gator.

You didnt hear anything, did you, buddy? My voice sounded unnaturally loud and hearty, like I was trying to sell something.

Ollie wasnt buying. He was so still, he might have been an alligator-hide duffel bag with a head. But he can move plenty fast when hes motivated.

I peered into the dark shade of the woods. Laurel oaks lifted their branches. Air plants nestled in the crooks of the trees. All of it looked ordinary. Yet, I sensed unseen eyes watching me. A clammy rivulet of sweat worked its way past my waistband, rolling down the gully of my lower back.

Then, I heard the rustle again, nearer now. Something was moving toward me through the trees. I backed up, hard against the concrete of Ollies wall.

The rustle got louder. Moving faster. Coming closer.

My heart pounded. Every nerve cell screamed, Run! but I had nowhere to go.

Whatever was in those woods was in front of me. Ollies pond was behind. And I was frozen in between, as motionless as a rabbit in the moment before its predator strikes.

Loud, angry voices suddenly rang out from my left.

And I say its this way!

Is not!

I turned from the woods. A sunburned man with a camera and a woman in a Hawaiian-print shorts-set were arguing at a fork in the trail. The debate: which path to follow for the parking lot.

Id never been so happy to see two human visitors. My slamming heart slowed. My lungs clocked back in on the job. I gulped in a big, shuddery breath.

For the first time, the woods had seemed like a threat, not a comfort. I was afraid. That must be how my sister Marty feels all the time, I thought. I didnt care for it much.

The rustling in the woods was fainter now, moving harmlessly away. Scanning the shadows, I saw nothing but trees and palmetto scrub. Feeling somewhat foolish, I hurried into the bright sun of the clearing.

Hey, there! How you folks doin? I called to the tourists, as friendly as a Wal-Mart greeter. Parkings to the right. But why dont yall have a look at the alligator first? Ever seen one up close?

The woman started tugging on her husbands Hawaiian shirt, dragging him at a run toward Ollies pond. Oh, Hal! An alligator! Get the camera ready, honey!

I joined the visitors at the concrete wall. I could smell coconut-scented suntan cream.

Wheres Bobby, Hal? He really should be here to see this, the woman said.

The last I saw, he was stalking off through the forest to get his Nintendo game out of the car. Hal looked at me and shrugged. Kids. Whatre you going to do?

Judging by the size of his dad, whose flowered shirt could have been the tablecloth for a party of six, Bobby could be big enough to make the sounds Id heard in the woods.

I asked, Would your son normally stay on the nature path? Wed groomed it, clearing away brush, after the woman in the tiny shorts complained her legs got scratched.

Hes thirteen. What do you think? Hals voice had an aggressive edge. Bobbys not so good with rules.

He held up his camera. Id love to get my wife in the picture, too. Is there any way Ev can climb down and get close to the alligator?

Rhondas warning about the S-word ran through my mind.

I dont think thats a good idea, I said evenly. Ollie hasnt been fed today.

Oh, thats something we could do, Hal! Ev took an excited little hop up and down. Alligators are supposed to love marshmallows. A man at the RV camp where were staying says one in the canal will climb right onto shore. The alligator opens his mouth, and the man just tosses in the marshmallows, one after the other.

No S-word. No S-word. No S-word.

I hope your RV neighbors not too attached to his arm, I said. A couple of years ago, fishermen in Lakeland found the body of a man whod been missing for a while. A gator got em. In the same lake, trappers killed a three-hundred-pounder. All the residents had been feeding him. Thats illegal, by the way. They opened the gator up, and there was the poor fishermans forearm. It was still intact, in the alligators stomach.

Ev ran a hand down her own arm, glancing nervously over the wall at Ollie.

Alligators are wild, unpredictable creatures. I could hear the annoyance seeping into my voice, but I plowed ahead. You have to realize, theyre dangerous. Theyre not costumed characters at Walt Disney World, ready to pose for tourist pictures.

We get it, we get it. Hal stuck out his chest. Were not stupid. You dont need to take that high-and-mighty tone with us. You dont have to be rude.

Uh-oh.

Sorry. I backpedaled. I didnt mean to sound nasty. I flashed them a smile that would make Rhonda proud. Its just that people who feed alligators cause a lot of problems, both for the people and the gators. Theyre naturally skittish of humans. But if someone feeds them, they learn to associate people with food. We all looked down at the gator in the pool. Missing one eye and part of a foot hasnt done much to slow Ollie down. And it hasnt done a thing to diminish the power of his jaws and tail. Hes here because he got a little too close for comfort on the eighteenth hole at the new Kissimmee Links country club.

Hal let out a low whistle. Thats a hell of a water hazard.

Did he kill someone? the woman asked.

Not yet.

I recited the facts I knew by heart from my lectures to the kids: Biting strength more fearsome than a lions; eighty razor teeth; a tail that can break a mansor a womansleg.

Then I agreed to take a picture of the two of them leaning against the wall. I climbed onto a step stool I dragged over from the shed. With that and my height, I could angle downward to get Ollie in the background and the stupid couple in the foreground. I took four or five shots from different angles. The visitors left with all their limbs. Everybody was happy.

Being friendly is hard work.