LITMIR.BIZ

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probably in their midfifties while Brittany was midtwenties. Ann Hoffman, a bit overweight with an animated face framed by sleek silver hair, seemed gracious and outgoing, whereas Ben appeared solemn and distracted, despite being a solid, salt-of-the-earth kind of guy. Since the Hoffmans were trying to make a go of what was basically an animal shelter and amateur zoo—though the State of Florida had deemed them worthy of taking in the tiger since they had built a good cage facility—Nick had insisted on paying for everyone’s ticket, even though they had offered to let the group in for free.

      The only other Hoffman child was a son, Lane, a violinist with the Naples Symphony Orchestra—the black sheep of the family. Nick knew who he was from the days he attended social and charity gatherings, but couldn’t really say he knew him.

      The Comfort Zone kids were given sno-cones, and their group spent almost a half hour next to the tiger cage while the poor beast paced back and forth glaring at them. As good a job as Brittany did talking about tigers, he could tell Claire was glad when they moved on to more cuddly, placid animals that meant hands-on action. Man, he thought, if that tiger got out, it had a gourmet dinner waiting just across a small moat where llamas, goats, sheep, calves and even a baby camel awaited the kids. Tiberia could probably smell dinner on the breeze.

      Nick had to admit, though, that the Hoffmans were brave to try to establish the BAA here, as its fifteen acres were wedged in between the big ranch to the west and orange and grapefruit orchards to the east on this road. A nine-foot wire fence surrounded the property, and they were still making improvements on cages and refreshment stands. Obviously, it was their dream to help animals, big and small, and teach youngsters to love them as they did.

      He was grateful that they’d let the kids in an hour before general admission today, though he wondered how many families would actually show up. At least Ben Hoffman had skills from his old career to arrange for advertising for the place; Claire had said she’d seen ads in both the newspaper and online.

      Nick glanced back to see Ben Hoffman had appeared near the cage with a big box of something, maybe to feed the tiger. Good thing the kids didn’t stay to see a carnivore eat dinner, but at least there was no kill involved.

      Near the petting cages, Nick settled down on a bench, holding a white rabbit while the kids tentatively, then more assuredly, petted, held and even talked to the animals. Duncan seemed the only one to want to pet what Brittany had called a rare mulefoot hog piglet, a squirmy little thing that looked both muddy and ugly.

      Besides Brittany moving from child to child, Claire was everywhere, comforting, praising, suggesting, especially watchful of Lexi and Duncan. Nick smiled to see his former bodyguard, big Bronco, now man-of-all trades, petting the animals too. Nita, Bronco’s very significant other, was smiling and speaking Spanish to the anteater, who seemed to be the only antisocial creature of the bunch.

      After about fifteen minutes, Jackson, the man Brittany introduced as their “jack-of-all-trades around here,” joined them with two pink flamingos that elicited oohs and ahhs. Though the guy was a maintenance/custodian type, Nick noted he seemed great with the animals—and kids too.

      Jackson, however, introduced himself as the zookeeper. He was a tall, lanky African American around sixty, almost bald, with a big smile. He lived on the grounds, he said, helped to feed the animals and was going on an errand to get fresh vegetables for the flamingos to eat so they would stay pink.

      “Because that depends on what they eat,” Jackson told the kids. Nick was impressed when he went on, “What you eat makes you colorful too—so remember to eat your veggies, okay?”

      The kids nodded or responded, and waved to Jackson as he guided the flamingos back toward the small moated area labeled Flamingo Isle where he disappeared into the foliage.

      “Not only our keeps-things-together genius,” Brit told them, “but a longtime friend of my dad’s.”

      Duncan laughed loudly, not at that comment, but at the little piglet he was hugging.

      And then—

      A screech, a roar and a scream pierced the air.

      “Tiberia!” Brittany yelled, and took off on a dead run.

      “Watch the kids!” Claire shouted to the other adults, and headed across the moat after Brittany.

      Damn! Why had he married a take-charge, bleeding-heart woman?

      “Bronco, you’re in charge. Keep the kids here!” Nick ordered, and thrust the rabbit into his hands. That cry had been fierce, feral—but he was sure he’d heard a human scream too.

      * * *

      Claire broke into a run over the wooden bridge spanning the moat. She hadn’t run for weeks, and she was quickly out of breath. Couldn’t see the tiger cage from here because of the curve in the walk and a small building blocking it. Brittany...out of sight ahead. Had that restless tiger just roared at someone, maybe someone too close to its cage, then the person screamed?

      Surely no one would get too close. They’d have to climb a fence first.

      But that scream had been first low, then shrill, bloodcurdling.

      She tore around the corner of the small glass enclosure that held beaver and otters in two separate displays with small water pools. When she turned the next corner, she saw only horror.

       3

      Brittany had climbed the four-foot-tall restraining fence and was right up to the bars of the tiger cage, shouting, “Tiberia, back, back! No! Nooo!”

      But the big cat seemed to just be standing. Growling. Eating something. Brittany had told the kids it was almost feeding time, but someone else would do it today. Claire had assumed that she didn’t want the children to see a carnivorous animal tearing into its meat.

      As she came closer, Claire saw a man, face up, grotesquely sprawled under the cat in a pool of blood. Brittany’s father! The tiger lowered its jaws to the big man’s ravaged, red neck and gave his limp body a hard shake.

      “I’ll call 911!” Claire shouted at Brittany, who, now sobbing, clung to the bars of the cage.

      Nick ran up, his cell phone already out of his jeans pocket. He was talking into it, asking for help, paramedics, the police. He put an arm around Claire, hugging her hard to him.

      Brittany, hysterical, kept screaming at the beast. She began to rock against the bars as if she’d pull them from their moorings. Then she turned away, climbed the fence again, and tore around to the door of the interior part of the display where she’d told the kids there was a “tiger bedroom” and supplies. As she ran in, the door behind her caught and stood ajar. A red fire extinguisher was mounted there.

      Ann Hoffman appeared, running, gasping. “What?” she cried, and then she saw. Nick hurried toward her. Unlike her daughter, the woman didn’t scream, but fastened her fists in her hair and stared aghast as if in shock.

      “Do you have a gun here?” Nick asked the distraught woman. “Ann, do you have a gun? Tranquilizer darts?”

      She just stared. Dear heavens, Claire thought, this was a nightmare. If Ben Hoffman wasn’t dead already, they’d never save him now.

      Surely Brittany didn’t intend to go into that cage. This was no metropolitan zoo with protocols and stun guns. But that fire extinguisher gave Claire an idea.

      She rushed to the door where Brittany had disappeared and shouted, “Brittany, come back! The fire extinguisher will stop him!” She lifted it from its holder attached to the inside of the door. Heavy. She staggered back with it. Nick ran to help. Good thing, because she realized she had no idea how to use it.

      Leaning forward over the restraining fence, Nick yanked a ring on the metal extinguisher, pointed the hose and nozzle, and pulled the lever just as Brittany ran back out toward them with a long metal gaff. She must have meant to use it to shove the tiger away from her father,

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