Sliggers

by Michael Yowell

  The confrontational behavior made Danny’s pulse quicken. “No sir, I just don’t understand. It seems like I can’t make you happy, no matter what. I go to school so I can get a good job someday, I do chores around the house, and I even offer to work for you.”

  “Just clean the house today, and shut up about it.”

  “I will. But afterward I need to spend some time with Eaver and Mason before –”

  “No, what you need to do is what you’re told. Am I clear?”

  The submissive son sprayed the table and began wiping it clean.

  Ricky brought his face right to Danny’s ear. “I said, am I clear?”

  Danny nodded. “Yessir.”

  “And another thing –”

  “Aren’t you going to work today?”

  “Watch that smart mouth, boy,” Ricky warned, his voice rising with the same intimidating tone he had used for many years. “You’re not too big for me to lay a whooping on.”

  Danny wondered – for the shortest of moments – if he was big enough to stand up to his old man. He could surely take a beating, as he had done on occasion over the years. But then he decided his father was still too tough, too belligerent, too strong for even a twenty-year-old to take on. Besides, Danny needed a place to call home until he was out of school and could provide for himself. So he cowered, as he always had. “Yessir,” he said obediently.

  “I don’t know why I put up with you, Danny. I really don’t. You don’t work, don’t pay bills, eat my food, live under my roof, and you bitch about having to do a little work around here instead of fucking around with your friends.”

  Danny did not respond; instead, he continued wiping down the table. He was upset about the way his father was treating him, and had always treated him, but he knew there was no point trying to communicate his feelings. Danny’s feelings didn’t matter to Ricky, all that mattered was Ricky’s rule. So Danny kept his feelings bottled up, as usual, and kept working.

  Ricky stood quietly, then looked down at his watch. “As a matter of fact,” he noted, “I do need to go to the store and check in on everyone working today.” He retreated to the living room to turn the TV off and grab his cell phone and keys. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” Ricky stated. “And when I get back, you better have this whole goddamn house clean. Is that understood? Am I clear?”

  “Yessir.”

  Ricky left the house, started his truck, and drove away. When the sound of the motor was gone, Danny reared his head back and yelled at the ceiling. “AAAARRGH! You’re CLEAR, ‘King Richard’, you’re CLEAR! You’re such a fucking asshole!” The outburst released some of the frustration that was boiling inside him.

  Danny stewed for ten minutes. Then, with a sigh, he resumed his cleaning duties while secretly wishing his resentful father was dead.

  CHAPTER 9

  Sheriff Jimmy Steele sat behind his desk, stroking his bushy mustache in deep thought. Earl Goates was still missing, as were any new clues to what had happened to him. All they had to go on was the damaged dinghy found on the rocks, blood spatter on the inside and outside boards, and the long tooth embedded in the boat’s underside.

  Marty Bennett, the resident diver and authority on marine life, had searched the turbid waters of the cove for hours on Saturday. But the diver had found no body, nor any evidence of one. The old fisherman had simply vanished from the face of the earth.

  The fact that Earl had no family saddened the sheriff. If Earl turned up dead, nobody would be there to mourn him and give him a funeral. But at least the sheriff would not have to endure the discomfort of informing family members that Earl had died.

  His eyes drifted to the picture frame perched on his desk. The brass lattice held a warm photo of the thirty-seven-year-old sheriff, his wife Betty, and his two boys Jack and Mark. If anything ever happened to him, his family would be devastated. But at least he would be remembered. Poor Earl would eventually be forgotten completely.

  Deputy Carl Riggins walked in with two cups of coffee and noticed the furrowed brow of his boss. “Thinking about Earl?” he ventured.

  The sheriff nodded in the affirmative. “We should’ve found a body by now. Currents wouldn’t carry it out of the cove, not the way they flow into there. Unless he’s just gone missing – but the blood and scratched-up boat suggest otherwise.”

  “Like I said, looked like an animal attack.”

  “Yeah, it’s looking that way. I want to know what that tooth came from.”

  Carl set the coffees down and seated himself on the opposite side of the desk. “Have you heard back from Marty yet?”

  “No, not yet. I guess he’s taking his time identifying it.”

  “We may need him to dive again and keep searching,” the deputy suggested.

  “Maybe, Spud. Maybe.”

  The phone on the desk rang, and Sheriff Steele glanced down at the caller ID. The incoming call was from Marty Bennett, the diver.

  “Speak of the devil.” The sheriff picked up using speakerphone. “Steele here.”

  “Hi, Sheriff, it’s Marty.”

  “Howdy, Marty. What’s up?”

  “You know that object you found in the boat hull?”

  “Yep. Sand tiger tooth?”

  “Um, no. That’s what’s got me so mystified. It’s not a tooth.”

  The sheriff was stunned. He took a moment to process the statement before responding. “What? What the hell else could it be?”

  “I originally thought it was from a sand tiger too, seeing as they like shallow waters. But their teeth are more blade-like whereas this is more cylindrical. And the shark teeth have a bilobed root, but this doesn’t. And it doesn’t have a nutrient groove in the center either. So I wondered if it could be a claw.”

  “A claw? No way.”

  “I took it over to the lab to have it analyzed. Based on the amount of hard keratin, and the things I already mentioned, they confirmed my suspicion that it’s actually a claw.”

  “So could it’ve been a gator?” Carl asked, grinning proudly since he had suggested alligators as possible culprits when they investigated the scene.

  “No, although they did find marine reptile DNA. But it’s nothing like an alligator claw. And the DNA was more consistent with that of benthic life.”

  The sheriff rolled his eyes. Marty always did like showing off his knowledge of marine biology. “What’s that mean in layman’s terms, Marty?”

  “Means whatever it came from probably lives on the ocean floor. But it has claws – which means digits, which means limbs – which implies it could operate on land as well.”

  Sheriff Steele buried his face in his hands. “Are you trying to tell me nobody knows what this tooth – claw – came from?”

  “Afraid so. We’ve compared it to everything that lives in necrotic zone and nothing matches. This thing has me baffled.”

  “Alrighty then, I guess we’re back to square one on what happened to old Earl.”

  “Maybe,” said Marty. “I’m gonna dive Pirate’s Bend again. I have to see if I can find anything that leads me to what this claw came from.”

  The sheriff squirmed at the thought of somebody diving in waters shared with an unknown danger, but he knew it had to be done. “I suppose we’ll need you to. Just be careful in there. You bringin’ additional divers with you? Or spearguns or something?”

  “Naw, I don’t think that’s necessary. Whatever has claws like this is probably a nocturnal predator. I should be just fine during the day. Just like I was last time.”

  The sheriff nodded to the blind speakerphone. “Alrighty then, when’re you planning on diving?”

  “This afternoon. I just need to gather my gear and fill my tanks, but I’ll be back in that water as soon as I possibly can.”

  CHAPTER 10

  It was half past three when Marty arrived at Pirate’s Bend. He still had plenty of good daylight left to thoroughly search the water in the cove. He parked his van on the side of the road, then got in t
he back to get ready for his dive.

  He took his shirt and shorts off and slipped into his neoprene wetsuit. Then he donned his weight belt and strapped his dive knife around his leg. Opening the side door, he emerged from the van with his mask, tank, and fins in hand.

  With care, he walked barefoot down the rocky embankment to the water’s edge. There he sat, pulled the fins over his feet, and strapped the air tank to his back. Then he cleaned his mask with spit and seawater and positioned it tightly onto his face. Finally, he stepped into the water and kicked away from the shore. After a quick test of his mouthpiece and regulator, Marty dove beneath the surface.

  The water was murky, brown with turbidity. Marty’s eyes focused on the particles of sediment and zooplankton, watching the current pull them back and forth. He studied the endless motion for a minute, then returned his thoughts to the task at hand. He began to swim over the floor of the cove, searching for further clues as to what kind of animal had attacked the fisherman and his dinghy.

  Marty spent thirty-five minutes underwater, scouring the area for signs of a predator. But in that time he found nothing useful in the rock and sand. Disgruntled, he was about to return to the surface when something caught his eye.

  His search had brought him to a tight notch in the corner of the cove. A small area – darker than the rest of the stony seascape – stood out in the haze, about fifteen feet below. He swam nearer to it. Upon a closer look, Marty discovered the dark patch was actually the entrance to an underwater cave.

  Aha! he thought. Perhaps the answers that eluded him would be found inside the cave. But that was something he could not explore at the moment. He would need his flashlight, which was in the van, and he was due for a new air tank. Marty surfaced, took note of where he was, and swam back to where his van was parked.

  After retrieving his flashlight and replacing his harness with a full air tank, Marty returned to the water. He eagerly headed back to the notch of the cove where he had seen the dark opening of the cave. Then he bit onto his mouthpiece and kicked his way down below the waves.

  The opening was just big enough for Marty and his gear to slip through. It was pitch black inside, so he could not tell if it was any more spacious farther in. There was only one way to find out. Activating the flashlight and holding it in front of him, he gave a kick of his flippers and pulled himself inside with his free hand.

  Cave diving was something Marty had done many times before, so he was well aware of the potential dangers. He had a full air tank, his diving knife, knew to avoid areas he or his gear could get trapped in, and would keep himself wary of any currents within. As long as he took it slow and cautious, he would be fine.

  The flashlight illuminated the tunnel before him. The walls, consisting of limestone and other sedimentary rock, were bumpy but smooth, having been eroded by thousands of years of flowing water. Some sand and silt danced on the bottom, giving Marty an indication of the strength and direction of the current. Twenty feet in, the cave grew larger, giving Marty room to move around more freely.

  He was now in a chamber that was twelve feet in diameter. The spaciousness around him made him feel more relaxed, as did the softening of the current. There was still no sign of Earl Goates’s body, nor evidence of any animal that might have attacked the old fisherman.

  Marty continued kicking, pushing himself forward. He went another thirty feet, then stopped. He could see a weak light ahead. Curious, he swam toward it.

  He was soon in the pocket of a large cavern. Seeing the light dance above him, he followed it until he broke the surface and found air again. Marty removed his mask and looked around to study his surroundings.

  The cavern was breathtaking. Its high walls stretched upward to converge on a small hole in the rock, where the daylight was coming in. The ceiling was covered with calcium stalactites protruding down, twenty feet in some cases. To complement them, towering stalagmites reached up from the rocky floor. The enormous chamber was quiet, dark, and warm… aside from the lingering stink of sulfur, it brought a sense of tranquility and peace.

  Marty studied the hole at the top. It looked like a natural blowhole, caused by millennia of erosion. Gauging his whereabouts, he figured he must be underneath Pirate’s Point, the scenic spot overlooking Pirate’s Bend. And the hole letting light inside the cavern had to be the same fenced-off hole in the rock on top of Pirate’s Point. All this time he had no idea of the beauty that had been hidden from the outside world.

  Marty kicked to the edge of the rock and pulled himself out of the water. Leaving his flippers on, he cautiously began walking to explore the grotto. He was careful to watch where he was going, noting the calcium stumps and flowstone on the floor.

  About ten feet from the water, he found a flat area of floor that was covered in seaweed and kelp. Odd, he thought. How would seaweed gather in one concentrated spot? Even in high tide, anything that had washed in would be left scattered as the water receded. This seemed more deliberate than natural. It resembled a den.

  Marty moved past the seaweed and resumed his exploration. He moved along another ten feet to the corner of the cavern. Where the floor eventually met the rocky wall, Marty spotted something unusual.

  There was a hollow in the rock, about six feet across, that was full of ocean water. But what truly puzzled Marty was what he saw inside the hollow. There were dozens of oblong objects, a mere foot beneath the surface, resting in the crater. With the aid of his flashlight he was able to see more detail. They were a greenish-yellow color, the texture looked leathery, and they were the size of footballs.

  They looked like eggs.

  The sulfur smell grew a little stronger. Marty took notice, prompting his thoughts to shift to wondering if there was a natural hot spring down here. It would be unprecedented for the area, which piqued his urge to search for the odor’s suspected source. The orbs in the pool could wait for now.

  Marty scanned the floor of the cavern with his flashlight, but could not find a single hot spring. Nor did he see evidence of the yellow sulfur that should be there to give off that distinct smell. Perplexed, he circled back to revisit the mysterious leathery orbs.

  Stepping alongside the water’s edge to avoid as many stalagmites as possible, he made his way toward the puzzling pool. Then, behind him, the gentle sounds of splashing and lapping were heard in the quiet of the cavern.

  Was that something slipping into the water?

  …Or out?

  His eyes darting nervously, Marty scanned the cavern for any movement. He saw none. But he could hear something, now coming from more than one location. Wet, sticky sounds from something brushing the rocks around him. And the sounds were converging on him. He started thinking the sheriff may have been right – maybe Marty should’ve brought a speargun after all.

  In the light from the hole above, movement caught Marty’s eye. He drew in on it to see a silhouette. But he could not quite make out what it was. That’s fucked up, he thought, it almost looks like a walking octopus.

  Staying at the edge of the water, he aimed his flashlight to illuminate the creature. There was nothing there now. Marty frowned, bewildered. Could the thing have been a marine creature? A reptile? Or could it be some mammal like a wildcat or big possum? Whatever it was, it was probably not friendly. And he could still hear movement on the rock around him.

  He had to get out of there.

  Pinning the flashlight in his armpit to free his shaky hands, Marty hastily donned his facemask and mouthpiece. Then he dove back into the water to flee the cavern.

  His heart racing, he swam as quickly as he could. He took quick looks behind him every few seconds, making sure nothing was following. To his relief, the flashlight beam revealed nothing in the briny giving chase.

  Marty made his way back to the cove and surfaced. Then he hurried out of the water to get to the van and report his findings to the sheriff.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sheriff Steele was about to sneak home for dinner when he got the
call. Being the only person in the station, as Carl Riggins was out patrolling and old Lewis Simkins wouldn’t be shuffling in for another couple of hours to start the next shift, he answered the ringing telephone.

  “Sheriff Steele here,” he announced into the mouthpiece.

  “Hey Sheriff,” said a man on the other end, “we found us an abandoned truck up here on the hills near Pirate’s Point.”

  “Okay, any idea whose it is?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s Walt Echerson Jr.’s GMC.”

  “Anybody see young Walt?”

  “No, Sheriff. And that’s why I called. There’s a tore-up tent here, camping gear everywhere, but nobody around. And the truck has a window busted out with what looks like blood on it.”

  Steele’s ears perked. What he assumed was a typical truck-ran-out-of-gas situation had suddenly become a potential crime scene. “Who is this?” he asked.

  “Donnie Broden,” the man informed. “We was just hikin’ the ridge and we saw this mess up here. Didn’t look good, so I figured I’d better call you.”

  “Thank you, Donnie, I appreciate that. Do me a favor, will ya? Don’t touch anything, try to leave everything exactly how you found it. I’m on my way right now. Can you hang out there for a few and wait for me?”

  “Sure, Sheriff.”

  “Great. Now where exactly are you?”

  “Just a few hundred yards past Pirate’s Point, past the rocks, right where you can overlook the beach down that long hill to the estuary.”

  “Got it. I’ll find you in about ten minutes, Donnie. And thanks again for the call.”

  He hung up, then called Carl on the radio to bring him back to the station. While the deputy was on his way in, the sheriff phoned his wife to inform her that he would be unable to join the family for dinner tonight. She sighed, disappointed, but she understood being married to a policeman. Next the sheriff called Deputy Simkins to have him come in a couple hours early to man the station.