Baird spun the wheel and the launch headed out to midstream. Already he was fifty yards or so from the bank. He wasn’t even listening to Rico’s frantic cries.
Rico pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. He tried to thumb back the safety-catch, but the gun slipped out of his hands and fell with a splash into the river. He made a frantic effort to save it, overbalanced and toppled over into the shallow water.
His broken leg twisted under him, and for a moment he lost consciousness, engulfed by pain. The water, closing over his head, brought him round, and he struggled to the bank, where he lay half in and half out of the water.
With sick horror, he watched the dim shape of the launch gathering speed and disappearing down the river into the darkness.
He dropped back, sobbing wildly. He could feel blood coming from his wound. In the bright light of the moon he saw the water around him was turning red.
Even then he wouldn’t believe he was going to die. The police would find him, he told himself frantically. Another launch would come in search of the first one, and they would find and save him.
He closed his eyes and began to pray: words coming from his mouth without meaning.
He didn’t see a dark, log-like shape slither down the opposite bank and take to the water. The scent of his blood drifted across the river: it was an irresistible invitation the alligator accepted with alacrity.
The dark silent shape came through the water with surprising speed, only its scaly snout showing; as dangerous and as menacing as the half-hidden periscope of a submarine.
Rico felt a movement of water against his face. He opened his eyes. A few yards away from him he saw a steady ripple on the water that was advancing towards him. He stared at it, wondering what it could be. Pain had dulled his fears. The ripple didn’t frighten him. He watched it, puzzled.