Page 59 of Murder in Calusa Cove
Sweat soaked through the back of Trent’s sleeveless shirt, darkening the faded fabric in patches. His boots were caked in dried mud, and the reek of swamp and something metallic clung to him like a second skin. A thick canvas bag hung from one shoulder, bulging in odd places, and a machete swung lazily from his hip, worn but recently used with tacky blood stuck to its blade. His hair stuck up in damp tufts beneath a battered camo cap, and stubble shadowed his jawline. He looked every inch the backwater wrangler he claimed to be—but there was a jittery energy to him today. His smile came too easily, like a mask worn a beat too late, and his eyes—sharp and restless—flicked from face to face with a wariness that felt out of place, like he already knew he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“Well, well,” Trent said, glancing around. “Didn’t expect company this far out.”
“What the hell are you doing here, Mallor?” Fletcher asked, straightening with visible irritation. His palm rested on his weapon.
“Hunting snakes,” Trent replied, shrugging. “Gotta keep the numbers down, and that stupid Python challenge that’s done every August doesn’t do shit. This spot’s usually crawling.”
Hayes stepped forward. “We’re going to have to ask you to leave. This area’s part of an active investigation.”
“Wow. I knew Dawson was wound tight, but didn’t expect that from you.” Trent held up his free hand. “Besides, I didn’t see any signs, didn’t see any tape. It's just me, trees, and hopefully some snakes.”
“And what’s in the bag?” Chloe asked.
Trent hesitated too long.
Trent shifted the canvas bag on his shoulder. “Just a couple snakes,” he said with a shrug. “It’s what I do, and it’s not illegal as long as I let y’all know what I killed.”
“Yeah?” Dewey’s tone was sharp. “How about you show us?”
Trent’s gaze flicked to Dewey, the easy smile thinning. “You been following me, old man? Because it seems like every time I take a turn out here, there you are, sneaking around doing whatever it is you do.”
“I’m making an honest living taking care of the natural beauty of this place,” Dewey said. “All you do is poach.”
Chloe stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. “Trent, we’ve got an active investigation in this area. I’m going to need to see what’s in the bag.”
Trent hesitated. “I heard you’re on vacation or something. Besides, I don’t think feds have jurisdiction out here in the swamp over snake wrangling.”
Fletcher stepped in then, the badge clipped to his belt catching the light. “Maybe not. But I do, and let’s not pretend you’re a stranger to cutting corners, Trent. You’ve been warned before for inhumane snake kills. And this.” He pointed to the canvas bag. “This looks a lot like you’re planning to sell meat and hides without following the rules.”
Trent’s eyes narrowed. “I raise gators, legally. This isn’t what you think. It’s a python, which doesn’t belong out here. I didn’t kill anything that anyone of you wouldn’t have.”
“You don’t do anything by the rules,” Dewey muttered.
“We need to take a look inside that bag.” Fletcher pointed.
Trent’s jaw clenched. After a beat, he dropped the bag onto the ground with a heavy thud. “Knock yourself out.”
Hayes crouched beside it, flipping the flap back with practiced caution.
The stench hit first—thick, metallic, sour. Chloe stepped back as a dead python slumped out, half-curled and swollen with decay. Its head was crushed, its belly scored with bruising. Next came the alligator skin and meat, mangled and chopped, ready to be sold on the black market.
“That’s not a clean kill,” Fletcher muttered. “And I don’t even want to think about what you’re plans are for that gator meat and hide.” He glanced up. “Why do you do this? You have a gator farm. You sell gator meat. Why do you continue to poach?” He shook his head. “Don’t answer that question. Save it for Dawson.”
“Whatever. It was either me or that gator.” Trent sighed. “I’ll pay the fine. It’s not the end of the freaking world.”
Hayes pushed aside a folded tarp and a coil of damp rope. Then something else shifted—wrapped in stained, singed cloth.
Chloe moved in beside him as Hayes peeled the layers apart.
A flash of red. Blood.
A woman’s torn shirt, the hem scorched, and nestled in the fabric, glinting under the afternoon sun, was a silver wedding band—tarnished, but unmistakable.
Hayes stood, eyes locked on Trent. “Where’d you get this?”
Trent’s face went pale. “I—I didn’t know that was in there. Must’ve gotten tangled up in the brush. I was pulling junk near the waterline, the snake came out of nowhere, and it fought me the whole way. Look at the size of it—twelve feet easy.”
Chloe’s gaze sharpened. “You were pulling debris from near the bend? Near the shallow section? When?”
