Call me Snake.

Everyone does.

            I picked the nickname up in grade school because of Arnie, a pet garter snake I emancipated from my grandma’s basement. The name stuck. So did my love for creepy crawly things. Much to Mother’s horror.

My real name is Lavender. Lavender Clark Jones. I don’t know what Mom was thinking, giving me a name like that. Maybe she had visions of me decked out in billows of lace and crinoline, floating down the aisle on the arm of Lance Millionaire, Industrial Tycoon. Sorry, Mom.

My husband, Jeff Jones, is a Top Ender, growing up in the Northern Territory of Australia. His idea of formal wear is to tuck in his shirttails. He’s a dear, though. And a tad bit crazy. What else do you call a guy who willingly jumps into the mangroves to rescue a giant saltwater crocodile who doesn’t want to be saved? And what do you call a woman who thinks that’s an acceptable way to spend a honeymoon? Guess that makes me a little nuts, too.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m told I clean up pretty well. Still, I’m a lot more comfortable waiting out a downpour in the Venezuelan rainforest while tracking jaguars than I was dressed in the floor-length sequined gown I was forced to wear for the evening’s Beastly Ball, the black tie fundraiser at the Minnesota Valley Zoo. Both scenarios are part of my job description as zookeeper and co-host of Zoofari, the zoo’s very own cable program. The trouble is, when I’m introduced as Lavender Jones, some people think I’m an exotic dancer. No, the name is Snake, just Snake.

“Snake!”

Gary Olson popped his mop of dirty dreadlocks through the doorway of the cramped office I shared with an assortment of frogs, geckos, an arthritic fruit bat named Buster and the other zookeepers who worked on the Tropics Trail.

I looked up from the computer where I was logging in Buster’s feeding schedule. Gary’s face was flushed, eyes snapping with excitement behind rimless glasses. His style screamed hippie, an era of rebellion that seemed out of fashion these days. But what did I know? My last act of adolescent mutiny was lying about my age and having my ears pierced.

A sophomore at the University of Minnesota, Gary was earning college credits as Zoofari’s first intern. Though he was an earnest young man, I wasn’t convinced he had been the best choice of the candidates that had applied, but his eagerness to play gofer for the summer had made him an instant hit with our crew.

“Didn’t you hear?” He held up his Zoofari crew radio in lieu of an explanation, his oversized watchband slipping on his wrist.

I nodded down at the tight lines of my black sequined dress. “Not a lot of room to carry a radio in this get-up.”

 “Jeff—” Gary gulped in a breath, trying to contain his excitement. “Jeff fell in the water with the crocodiles.”

Shit.

I sprang up from my chair, elbowed past Gary and made a mad dash through the exit and into the service tunnel that comprised the inner circle of the Tropics building, part of an elaborate system of access corridors that threaded its way behind the zoo exhibits.

As I picked up speed, the sequined prom dress and hooker heels proved problematic. I managed a fancy toe dance and shuffle past the tapirs’ holding area, nearly colliding with a trashcan before pausing long enough to kick off the shoes and hike up the skirt. Then I went into high gear.

“Wait up!” Gary labored after me, his five-foot-ten, two-hundred-pound frame not designed for quick sprints. “He’s the Crocodile Wrangler. He knows what he’s doing.”

I stifled the urge to stop and cuff him across the ears. Jeff Jones had been wrangling crocodiles since he was twelve, but that didn’t make him impervious to sixty stabbing teeth and a jaw that could snap shut with a pressure of two thousand pounds per square inch. Yesterday Zoofari lost a camera to Sebastian, our fifteen-foot male. The camera, mounted on a crane for an overhead shot, had come in too close and the croc exploded out of the water and demolished it in one chomp.

I darted forward, taking a shortcut through the building’s kitchen. At the stainless-steel counter, a keeper chopping a pail of frozen fish looked up and whistled admiringly as I padded by. Seeing me running through the kitchen wasn’t an unusual sight, but me decked out in a formal gown was.

The kitchen was the nucleus of the service tunnel encircling it, like the hub of a wheel. Crossing through and exiting the opposite door left me at the end of the Tropics Trail. I bolted to the left, toward the main plaza that connected the building with the recently added Australian building and its manufactured billabong that was home to two of the most cantankerous saltwater crocodiles on this planet. I needed to get there before the little beasties ended up adding something besides chicken to their diet.

News reporters had already arrived to cover tonight’s events at the Beastly Ball and I found a media crew from WCCO heading in the same direction I was. Bad news travels fast.

“Mrs. Jones!” An eager young reporter thrust a microphone in my direction. “Do you think your husband is—”

I didn’t slow down.

I barreled into the main plaza, a labyrinth of round tables decked out in white linen tablecloths and china place settings for this evening’s dinner. Beyond the plaza rose a barrier of artificial eucalyptus trees that simulated the declining forests of Australia. A bird’s cry—almost a scream—rose from the free-flight aviary on the other side.

Ignoring the black-and-yellow-striped sawhorse barricade and “keep out” signs, I took a sharp left beneath the stone arch with its aboriginal designs that marked the beginning of the Walkabout Trail. The news crew was right behind me. My lungs sucked in the humid air as the sights and smells of lush tropical vegetation rushed past me. The animal exhibits flew by. Tiger cats. Tree kangaroos. Tasmanian devils.

The path curved and followed the re-creation of an Australian stream flowing into the crocodile’s estuary. Yellow crested cockatoos angled their plumed heads at me as I ran through the free-flight aviary and the mocking laugh of a kookaburra nipped at my heels. Artifice and nature collaborated to produce a realistic slice of the southern hemisphere, all of which resided under a looming roof of metal and glass that protected its inhabitants in an enclosed, climate-controlled environment.

The path softened beneath my feet, mimicking the feel of swampy terrain. A yellow and black sign warned me I was approaching Crocodile Island, home to the largest reptile in the world, Crocodylus porosus, the saltwater crocodile. The path led into a tunnel, which descended into an underwater viewing area that treated me to a fish-eyed view of Jeff’s muscular bare legs dog paddling just beneath the surface of the billabong.

Alive!

At least for the moment. The water turned murky as his thrashing legs churned up the sediment at the bottom. Good camouflage for a marauding croc.

I flew along the last few feet of tunnel as it climbed and turned, stepping out onto the six-foot-wide bridge that crossed over the edge of the pool. Jeff clutched the ledge where a section of the clear thermoplastic barrier, which served as the wall of the bridge, had been removed, his other hand struggling beneath the water. Inside the exhibit at the water’s edge, our croc man, JR Erling, stood vigilant, smacking the water with a long bamboo pole, raising a ruckus in order to distract the agitated saltie who snarled and hissed at yet another intruder into his territory.

Two Zoofari cameras followed Jeff’s actions from separate viewpoints, one at the bridge’s entrance, the other on the trail just behind and above the patch of white sand beach where our other crocodile, Babe, glared at JR, displaying a full rack of pointed teeth and emitting a low guttural hiss to warn him away.

At the head of the exhibit, early comers to the evening’s fundraiser had gathered, flashing pictures with disposable cameras that were gifts for the Beastly Ball’s guests. I could imagine them showing their grandchildren the photos. “And here’s the one where that old croc Sebastian ripped the arm right off Jeff Jones!” A stab of annoyance flashed through me. I’m sure it never occurred to these people to drop their damned cameras and help the man out of the water.

The old croc had clearly had enough. Having killed JR’s bamboo pole several times, he dived under the water and torpedoed straight toward my husband.

 “Three o’clock!” I rushed up to the gaping space in the bridge’s fencing, my heart pounding at the looming shadow beneath the water’s surface.

Without turning, Jeff grabbed my offered hand as I bent low. Partly out of the water on the bridge support struts, he swung himself onto the deck planking just as Sebastian surged out of the water and his powerful jaws snapped shut at Jeff’s feet. A dangling piece of bootlace caught briefly in the croc’s teeth before it sliced neatly off at the eyelet.

Jeff was speechless. We all were. He stood next to me, waterlogged shirt and shorts pasted to his muscular form, rivulets of water dripping from his sandy-colored hair and into the craggy lines of his weathered face. Quickly checking that his foot was still attached, triumph visibly radiated throughout his whole body.

“Whoo-hoo!” He punched the air above his head, eyes glued to the retreating carnivore with admiration.

“Crikey! That was a shocker. He almost got me foot.” His clear blue eyes were as wide as clamshells. “You’re one gutsy sheila, sweetheart!”

My arms flew around his neck as he gave me a water-soaked bear hug and an exultant kiss. I should have reamed him up one side and down the other for taking such a risk, but instead all I could do was hold on, grateful he was alive and in one piece. Jeff’s enthusiasm for life and the world around him was what had attracted me to him in the first place. It was like hugging an ocean wave, but I held on. I kissed him long and hard while cameras flashed around us. Everyone, it seemed, had a camera trained on us, from Zoofari’s two camera operators to the local television network that had followed my sprint down the trail.

“That was too close,” JR called from the enclosure, visibly shaken. He exited through a gate in the eight-foot-tall chain-link fence, scant yards off the bridge path. He still clutched the thick bamboo pole, one end chewed to splinters.

“Did you see Snake?” Jeff beamed. “Leaned over to yank me out without a second thought, right in the line of fire, too!”

“Yeah,” agreed the other with bemusement, “and decked out to the nines as well.”

A ripple of laughter followed. My knock-off designer gown was in shambles, wet, wrinkled, and missing sequins. I let out a sigh of disappointment as I saw the damage. I’d put a lot of work into gussying up for the ball.

JR smiled at me. As tall as Jeff, with a slender, agile build and just a touch of gray in his dark hair, you’d never guess he was looking at the big five-oh next birthday. “Good thing you got here when you did,” he said. “Otherwise, I would have had to jump in and save him.”

It was easy to make light of the narrow escape because nothing serious had happened. Despite my race across the zoo, I knew Jeff could have gotten himself out of this scrape if he’d had to. Yet accidents happen, and I couldn’t help but worry about my husband. Still, I felt some satisfaction as a helpmate, snatching my man literally from the jaws of death.

 “Wow! You guys okay?” Gary Olson wheezed, one hand on his chest as he lumbered up to join us. Incredulous eyes shone behind his glasses. “Man, that was something! You came awfully close to being that croc’s dinner.” Gary edged back from the exposed opening in the bridge’s safety barrier, eyeing the water below. “Those things can’t jump, can they?”

Submerged yet watchful, Sebastian and his mate, Babe, were at the far end of the pool.

Jeff reassured him. “Not as high as this, not enough to smash through the fence and onto the bridge. Now I did capture a croc once that almost jumped straight out of the water into me boat! Nasty ripper he was too.”

Gary turned a shade paler. “Probably good I wasn’t here, then. I’ve never been that good with large animals.” He gave a hapless gesture, swinging my black leather pumps, which he had been nice enough to snag while in hot pursuit of me, by the straps.

JR, who had knelt down to examine the half-hidden plumbing fixture beneath the footbridge, looked over and laughed. “With those shoes, I don’t wonder.”

Embarrassed, Gary handed the shoes to me as though they were contraband. Without anything in his hands, he looped a finger under the metal band of his watch and twisted it around until I thought it would snap.

Gary liked to think of himself as a naturalist, but he was at best a couch adventurer. He idolized Jeff and loved working with the Zoofari crew, but I could never imagine him steering a small boat up a backwater river in the middle of the night to capture crocodiles and relocate them. That’s what Jeff had been doing at Gary’s age. Decidedly unathletic, built on the order of a Teddy bear with gangly arms, the young intern was much more suited to the journalistic path he had set for himself.

Having finished his inspection of Jeff’s work, JR joined us in the middle of the bridge. A thoughtful man of few words, he didn’t often say much unless he had reason to, giving you the sense he was more at home with animals than people. The three of us had become great friends since meeting on a Zoofari location shoot in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, last fall. A first-class reptile man in his own right, John Ray Erling was just the man Jeff was looking for. As curator of the Australia Walkabout Trail, Jeff had asked him to sign on as our crocodile keeper. He knew the passion JR had for his animals and, more importantly, Jeff knew he could trust this man with his life. That was critical when handling creatures the size and ferocity of Sebastian.

Zookeeping could be a dangerous business. Wild animals had a nasty trick of doing the unexpected, no matter how well versed in their habits you thought you were. Even Gary knew this. His mother had confided to me how his stepfather, a zookeeper, had been killed some years back by a usually docile panther in his care. The lesson was clear:—as a keeper, you never took the behavior of your animals for granted.

“The valve cover looks good, Jeff,” JR said. “We shouldn’t have any more trouble with it.”

“Only had one chance to get it right.”

Gary Olson stirred. “What happened? Did something else go wrong?”

“Just the plumbing, mate.” Jeff exchanged a meaningful look with JR. “The water in this tank is supposed to filter every sixty minutes. One of the crocs has been chewing on an exposed PVC pipe, took a nasty bite out of the elbow joint.”

“The pipes were exposed?” That surprised me. Leaving exposed pipes in a carnivore’s exhibit was only asking for trouble. “How—”

“Far as I can tell, the faux rock shielding wasn’t secured properly and broke off. We thought it would be a good idea to install a wire cage over the exposed pipe valve, as a little prevention.” Jeff nodded toward the panel that had been removed from the bridge wall, which had allowed access to the plumbing. “At least until we can move the crocs out again and repair it properly. I thought I could fix the problem from the path, but I reached in a bit too far.”

“You fell in?” I feigned surprise, giving him a wide-eyed stare. “I thought you’d had a heart attack or something.”

For the first time Jeff looked embarrassed. Even so, he was still unable to wipe the broad smile off his face. Jeff prided himself on his agility. I’d seen him scarper up steep cliff faces freehanded and climb trees like the goanna lizards he loved to chase up them. I was never going to let him live this one down.

“Yeah, I fell in,” Jeff admitted, then moved on to business. “But I got a crackerjack view and was able to get the cover attached.”

I shook my head. “Leave it to you to turn a negative into a positive.”

Voices from the top of the exhibit drew my attention. Across the billabong, some fifty feet away, a small audience of onlookers had assembled at the stone wall that served as the outer barrier at the top of the exhibit. In animated conversation, they marveled at Jeff’s moment of peril. Now that he was safe and in one piece, they could openly enjoy that instant of horror.

I knew two of the amateur photographers. One was Butler Thomas, the zoo’s assistant director. Leaning an elbow on the waist-high retaining wall, he looked like an ad for Calvin Klein aftershave. Mister Public Relations, Butler was the zoo’s second-in-command and its most ardent supporter.

With him was Senator Ted McNealey, a man I disliked by reputation only, being too far down on the food chain to have met him personally. At least two decades older than Butler Thomas, he was a state senator and a key member of the budget committee. His favor could easily make or break the zoo, as a huge chunk of the operating budget was approved by the legislature. This explained why Butler was acting as his personal escort, no doubt giving McNealey a private sneak preview of the exhibits before the official opening that evening.

In their tuxedos, they looked like twin poster boys for high living and partying—

The Beastly Ball!

I’d forgotten that nearly two hundred people were even now arriving at the zoo for a posh dinner and tour of the new Australian Walkabout Exhibit.

I reached over and grabbed Gary’s wrist. His scuffed up Timex said we still had thirty minutes before the official ceremonies were to start. Enough time for me to clean up a bit and slip Jeff of the Jungle into the tuxedo I had secreted in his office behind the croc exhibit.

My hopes for some badly needed quiet time were dashed when a voice thundered behind Butler Thomas and the senator at the head of the exhibit. The two parted like the Red Sea as a stern, white-haired man, also decked out in evening clothes, brushed past them and thundered down the footbridge, the soles of his patent leathers reverberating against the deck planking.

It was Anthony Wright, the director of the zoo. And he was in a foul mood.

“What the hell is going on here? Somebody said a man was being eaten alive!”

When four gray wolves are slaughtered in northern Minnesota, Snake Jones joins a team of investigators looking to track down the culprit.  But the investigation takes a deadly turn when murder is unleashed in the small town of Ely.  After a near fatal attempt to stop the wolf team, Snake is left by herself to solve the killings, leading her into the dark confines of Superior National Forest, where she finds herself trapped in a desperate struggle against the murderer.