Howard the Leopard’s boat didn’t take him and Bud Roy Roemer’s body to the Port of Wilmington because no one ever shut the hatch, which was required to activate the self-piloting mechanism. So Howard drifted for three days. He survived on rainwater that came down the hatch, the bounty that was Bud Roy, and the amazing ability cats have to shut down and wait out the bad times.
When Howard’s lifeboat reached shore, he happily reacquainted himself with dry land. Something in him told him to head south.
Three days into his overland journey, Howard stalked and killed a feral pig. He found it far more agreeable than the fare on his lifeboat and logged the tastiness factor into the vast majority of his brain assigned to keep track of such things. That was an animal he hoped to see more of.
On day six, Howard and a black bear had a difference of opinion over who would dine on a small deer Howard had killed. He decided, in his own cat way, not to mess with those mean fuckers ever again.
He kept moving south, urged on by a climate he found increasingly comfortable.
On day seventeen, Howard crossed a highway at night. Something told him this was a place where a leopard could make a good home. Howard the Leopard couldn’t read, but if he could have, the sign he strolled past would have confirmed his assessment.
Welcome to Florida.
Two weeks later, Deputy Sheriff Sam Aucoin was sitting with a cup of coffee in his hands in Sheriff Johnnie Hawkins’s office.
“They found what was left of Bud Roy Roemer in a lifeboat drifting off the coast,” Hawkins said. “Damn gruesome. Just a head and Bud Roy’s left thigh remained. And gulls had worked those over.” He shuddered and then indulged in a little of the mordant humor cops are known for. “It looked like Bud Roy booked a cruise on the SS Jeffrey Dahmer.”
“Howard was partial to saving the thighs for last,” Sam said, remembering Sprinkles the Dog. “So I take it they suspect Howard the Leopard?”
“Leopard fur. Leopard scat. Leopard paw prints,” Hawkins said. “Even the FBI is fifty-six percent sure this is the work of a leopard.”
“Well, statistics don’t lie. If you keep a leopard in the house, it’s way more likely to eat a member of your family, or you, than to ward off an intruder.”
Hawkins grinned and drank some coffee.
“Are they putting out a BOLO for Howard?” Sam asked, using the acronym for a Be On the Lookout order.
“There have been sporadic reports of leopard sightings in Florida. Along with a Tasmanian devil sighting”—Hawkins fished his notebook out of his shirt pocket and flipped it open—“a capybara sighting, a pygmy hippo sighting, a king cobra sighting, a puma sighting, and a zebra sighting.” He flipped his notebook closed. “Howard made it to the Promised Land.”
“Oh my,” Sam said. “If he can find something to mate with down there, they’ll be up to their asses in leopards inside of five years.”
“Not our problem.” Hawkins took a sip of coffee and set the cup back on his empty desktop. “How about you? I suspect you could hook on with any federal shop or any police force in the country.”
“Becks and I talked about that. I like it here. She likes it here. And I hear you might just be thinking of hanging up the spurs next year.”
Hawkins smiled. “You heard right. And if you want my job, I will do everything I can to help you get it. After that, I’m goin’ fishin’.”
Sam Aucoin stuck out his hand. Johnnie Hawkins took it. “Johnnie, if you’re serious about going after some big fish, I know just the boat captain for you.”