Sliggers

by Michael Yowell

  By the time Carl pulled in, Sheriff Steele was waiting by the door. He met his deputy at the driver side window.

  “We got a call, Spud,” the sheriff announced. “Take us up to Pirate’s Point.”

  “You got it,” said Carl. The sheriff stepped around to the passenger side and got into the cruiser. Then Deputy Riggins drove them away.

  “Did you get some dinner yet?” asked the deputy.

  “No. I was about to when Donnie Broden called.”

  “Well, I’m hungry. Wanna run to Sherrie’s with me after this?”

  “Depends on how long this’ll take, Spud.”

  “What are we checking out?”

  The sheriff told him about the discovery of Walt’s damaged truck and the described condition of the campsite around it. By the time Carl was brought up to speed, they were at Pirate’s Bend and almost to the hill leading to Pirate’s Point. Sheriff Steele glanced at the cove as they passed by, and the waves breathing together in the waning daylight made the cove appear to be a single, living entity. For a moment the sight made him think about the lives Pirate’s Bend had taken over the years. Like it had fed on them.

  Deputy Riggins steered up the short road that ended at the top of Pirate’s Point. From there the two policemen exited the car and began walking the trail to the secluded side of the hills where the campsite was found. After five minutes of silent trekking, they saw the ridge where the truck was. Several men were standing there, waiting.

  Donnie Broden, a Sweetboro native, wore a troubled face. “Howdy, Sheriff. Glad you’re here, this don’t look good.” He gestured to the truck. “Looks like some foul play took place here.”

  Sheriff Steele approached the light-blue GMC, noticing the broken window and the pieces of glass on the ground below. The passenger side window was gone, save the remaining shards that protruded from the frame. The sheriff could see blood on the edges of the jagged glass. Looking closer, he also saw blood spatter on the dashboard and steering wheel.

  “We got blood, Spud.”

  The deputy opened the driver side door and examined the interior. “Sure do. Somebody got cut or shot in here, and then dragged out through that window, leaving the broken glass bloody.”

  The sheriff took a step back, looking at the ground. Seeing nothing but grass and dirt, he knelt down for a better look. “I don’t see a blood trail leading away anywhere,” he said, his voice perplexed.

  “We kinda looked around the whole area,” said Donnie. “You know, to see if there was a body.”

  “And nothing?”

  “Nothing. Then we decided to quit pokin’ around and give you a call.”

  Steele turned his attention toward the campsite. A red tent was collapsed in a heap, and the ground around it was littered with strewn garments, food, and trash. Walking closer, the sheriff could tell the tent had been shredded by something sharp. Carl followed his boss and examined the devastation.

  The deputy shook his head, visibly uncomfortable. “I don’t like this, Sheriff. I sure hope we don’t have ourselves a killer running around town.”

  “Looks too much like a murder for me to think anything otherwise. Apparently ol’ Sully picked the right time to be on vacation.” Mayor Sully Vargas took a two-week vacation every year with his family, and right now the Vargas family was on a Mediterranean cruise. It would do little good to call the mayor. Even if the sheriff could reach him by phone, the cruise ship would keep him at sea too long for the mayor to get back here any sooner than expected. As acting town authority, Sheriff Steele would have to make all the decisions affecting this investigation. He did not want to make any mistakes.

  “Run back to the station and get the kit,” the sheriff directed. “We’re gonna need to scour the scene, dust everything we can for prints, take photos, take samples… the whole nine yards.”

  Deputy Riggins sighed. His day had just turned into a long evening. But he knew it was what they needed to do. “You got it, Sheriff.”

  “And get ol’ Lewis to start callin’ around to see if he can locate Walt Jr. Or anyone who knows where he is.”

  “Okay,” said Carl. Then he turned and swiftly walked the trail back to the cruiser.

  Sheriff Steele informed Donnie Broden and his friends that they could leave the scene. Then, after thanking them and watching them depart, he turned his eyes back to the mayhem of the campsite.

  The tent was destroyed, as was the fiberglass cooler lying near the fire pit. Mangled cans and packages of food were left nearby. Pieces of shredded sleeping bags and clothing were everywhere. It almost looked like a wild animal attack.

  But wild animals don’t break into trucks and pull people out, he mused.

  Figuring he had better let his wife know he would be working late, the sheriff grabbed his phone. At that moment he saw a notification stating he had a new voice message. He connected to his voicemail and listened. It was Marty, saying that he had found something very interesting in the waters of Pirate’s Bend.

  The sheriff, hoping to hear Marty tell him he figured out what had happened to Earl Goates, eagerly returned the diver’s call.

  “Hey, Sheriff,” Marty greeted when he picked up. “Where are you?”

  “Hey, Marty. I’m up here past Pirate’s Point, checking out an incident. Are you nearby at the cove?”

  “No, I’m actually in town. Came by the station to see you, Deputy Simkins told me you were out.”

  Sheriff Steele cut to the chase. “So what did you find in the cove? A body, I hope.”

  “No body, I’m afraid,” said Marty. “But maybe a little more information about where that claw came from.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “It’s a lot. Listen, why don’t we meet back at the station, and I’ll tell you everything in person.”

  “Okay, Marty. As soon as Spud gets back here to take over, I’ll take the car to the station.”

  “I’ll meet you there in a little bit then.”

  “Sounds good.” Steele ended the call. Then he dialed home and informed his wife of the situation. Afterward, he resumed his search for clues at the campsite.

  Deputy Riggins returned a short time later with the crime scene analysis kit. Sheriff Steele instructed him to cover the job thoroughly, announced that he was taking the car back to meet with Marty, and that he would be back as soon as possible to help the deputy finish up. Then the sheriff headed into town to hear what news his diver had for him.

  Steele pulled to the curb in front of the station and parked. Marty was standing outside the building, waiting by the door. He nodded to Marty as he walked to the entrance. “Hey, buddy. C’mon, let’s go inside.”

  The sheriff opened the door, escorting Marty inside. Behind the front desk sat Lewis Simkins, a long-time Sweetboro policeman. He was black, in his late fifties, and usually worked the night shift at the station. It was quiet and for the most part peaceful, usually consisting of him sipping coffee and watching DVDs while manning the station. It was the perfect shift for Lewis to spend his few remaining years on the force working.

  “Evening, Sheriff,” he greeted. “Marty.”

  The two men nodded to Lewis and continued through the station to the sheriff’s office. There they each took a seat on opposite sides of the desk.

  “Alright, Marty,” said Steele, “what did you find?”

  “Okay,” the diver began. “I did a thorough search in the water along the shoreline where the boat was found. But I saw nothing indicating any presence of marine life larger than feeder fish.”

  “And still no body.”

  “No body. And I seriously doubt we’re going to find one at this point. I think we would’ve by now.” Marty shifted in his seat. “But check this out. I found an underwater entrance to a cave system. And guess where it leads?”

  The sheriff wanted very much to respond with something witty like ‘the end of this story’, but he chose to stay serious. “Where?”

  “There’s a big cavern below Pirate�
�s Point. Very dark, except for a tiny bit of light coming down through the hole at Pirate’s Point. I was able to get out of the water and walk around in there. I saw what looked like a nesting area, although I don’t know for what kind of animal. And then I found a small pool with a bunch of what looked like eggs inside.”

  “Eggs?”

  “Well, that’s what they looked like. For all I know they could be geodes, or just smoothed rocks or coral.”

  “But you saw a nest?”

  “More like a den. Seaweed and kelp had been layered in one single corner, and nowhere else in the cavern. I think it was placed there by an animal. And I did hear some kind of animal in there.”

  The sheriff leaned forward. “Yeah?”

  “Yes, more than one. I think they realized I was there and started to converge on me. I didn’t know if they were gators, or wildcats, or what; I just knew I was not in a good situation. I jumped back in the water and swam out through the cave.”

  “Did you get one of those eggs?”

  Marty hung his head. “No, dammit. I intended on taking one, although I wasn’t sure how I’d carry it with my flashlight, or if it was even something safe to touch. But when I heard those things moving in, my only thought was to get the hell out of there.”

  “Understandable.” The sheriff tilted his chair back on its rear legs. “It’s a shame, though, I’da loved to see what they are, eggs or minerals or what-have-you.”

  “Me too,” Marty agreed. “I just may have to go back in there and try again. But I’ll bring a weapon next time, something a little more powerful than a dive knife. Just in case.”

  “Well, we still don’t have anything helping us with the investigation of Earl’s disappearance. Although whatever you heard in the cave might’ve had something to do with it.” Steele leaned forward, the chair legs returning flat to the floor. “But we still have no body.”

  “Nope. But it’s not for lack of looking.”

  “True. Thank you, Marty, for searching at least. I’m gonna have to close the investigation, pending any further information. For now I’ll just have to say poor old Earl was the victim of an animal attack, based on the condition of his boat and the blood found, with no body recovered.”

  Marty nodded. “That’s what I’d go with.”

  The sheriff stroked his bushy mustache. “In the meantime, I suppose, it might be a good idea to put some signs up to keep people out of Pirate’s Bend.”

  CHAPTER 12

  The moon looked misty through the bottom of the upturned glass. Cinch let the last of the moonshine run into his mouth, swallowed it, and returned the glass to its coaster on the patio table. Smacking his lips, the old Creole looked around the porch for his bottle. He located it on the planks near his chair and reached for it to pour himself another glass.

  A splash was heard in the dark distance, in the water at the edge of his property. Fish jumping for mosquitoes, he figured, since the time was right for evening feeding. There were some big fish in the inlet that bordered his back yard. He had caught bass, crappie, and bream in there. Farther down the water a bit, in the estuary, red drum and spotted seatrout were the prominent inhabitants.

  Suddenly Cinch felt the urge to go fishing. Sure, he was drunk, but so what? He did not have to work tomorrow, and he was certainly no stranger to fishing while inebriated. He loved being by the water at night, especially with a bottle of his homemade booze, and he loved the pull of a defiant fish on his hook even more.

  With a mellow smile forming on his face, he pushed himself up from his chair. Then, staggering a little, he walked inside his house to gather his gear. He collected his fishing pole, flashlight, and wading boots. He inspected his pole, making sure his favorite lure was still tied to the end of the line, slipped his boots on, and then made his way back outside to the porch.

  Grabbing his bottle of hooch, the contented old man turned the flashlight on and hobbled off the porch and down through the trees toward the nearby inlet. Three minutes later he arrived at the water’s edge. The fresh water glistened in the moonlight when he got there, welcoming him to a night of pleasant fishing.

  Cinch set down his bottle and wedged the flashlight under his arm. Then, with his hands free, he set up for his first cast. Making sure he could clear the overhead tree branches, he cast his lure out. It plopped into the water, and Cinch sat before shutting off the flashlight and slowly reeling his bait in.

  After a few casts, he paused to take a pull from his bottle. The alcohol warmed his throat and belly nicely. Then he resumed casting out his lure and bringing it back in.

  Nothing was biting. Cinch frowned; maybe he wasn’t going to get whatever made that splash here a while ago. But he might catch something farther downshore. With hopes of finding better sport in the estuary, he turned his flashlight back on and moved down the inlet.

  He had to duck underneath the sheets of Spanish moss draping down from the limbs of the waterside oaks. The soft plants grazed and tickled his head as he passed beneath. Cinch walked fifty yards before he was at the salt marsh.

  Here the fresh water met the salt water coming in from the Atlantic. Tufts of smooth cordgrass crowded the surface, which would not accommodate Cinch’s lure fishing. He went a little farther, until he found an open bank of pluff mud. The distinct odor found its way into his nose when he stepped closer, the sulfuric smell of decay that was indicative of salt marsh mud. The pluff mud was a great spot for harvesting oysters, and sometimes blue crab, but that was not Cinch’s goal tonight. He would wade out into the water, past the boot-gripping muck, until his feet could find a firm sandy spot. Then he would be in a good position for catching some red drum or flounder worth bringing home.

  He readied his pole, pocketed his bottle and flashlight, and began plodding through the mud and into the water. About ten feet from shore, while the water still was shallow enough to stay out of his high wading boots, he found a sandy area that felt right for stable standing. Cinch cast his lure out from there, and he saw the ripples it produced in the moon’s reflection.

  After another swig of his shine, Cinch almost lost his balance. It was a good thing he was out beyond the squishy mud, or he would have fallen for sure. He was getting pretty drunk. Shrugging, he re-established his underwater footing and took another drink.

  Just then a foul smell hit his nose, stronger and more distinct than the odor from the pluff mud. It was more like rotten eggs. Confused by this foreign scent, Cinch squinted his eyes and looked around in the dark.

  On the shoreline thirty yards down from him, a shape moved in the cordgrass. Focusing on the shape under the faint light of the moon, Cinch held his pole under his arm and reached for his flashlight. He turned the light on and aimed it down the shore toward the ocean. He caught a glimpse of something unbelievable just before it slipped into the water and out of sight.

  Cinch froze for a minute, his mind processing what he had just seen. It instantly triggered memories from his Louisiana childhood, many years ago. He recalled the vivid nightmares his Creole grandmother used to give him by telling stories of ancient, aquatic monsters that would come for children if they misbehaved. And those images in his head from long ago looked very much like what he thought he just saw.

  An uncomfortable chill washed down his body, and he trembled. Something horrible was out there in the water, something evil. Keeping his flashlight fixed at the spot, he saw faint ripples created by motion under the water.

  And whatever was causing them was moving in his direction.

  Cinch decided he needed to get the hell out of there. Holding his pole and flashlight, he turned around and quickly headed for the shore. His feet found the mud again, which gripped and pulled his boots while he tried to hurry through the water. He fought the pluff mud, his leg muscles working hard to lift his boots from each step, and anxiety was beginning to take him.

  Nervously, he shined the light once more at the water downstream to see if the threat was still there. The ripples appeared again,
then again, drawing closer.

  Cinch’s anxiety was now absolute panic. One of the monsters of his childhood nightmares was almost upon him. Terrified, he pulled with his legs until he had made it through the mud and finally to shore.

  He ran from the area. Following the shoreline upstream, he rushed back the way he came, back toward the inlet and his house. Within moments he heard splashing from where he just was, something getting out of the water. His heart pounding, he tried to run even faster.

  Being drunk did not help his situation; he started to feel light-headed from the vigorous exercise he had unexpectedly forced upon his body. His legs began to go numb. He prayed they would not cramp up and stop his flight. Hearing the rustling sounds of something else moving behind him, his fear and adrenaline kicked in to keep his legs churning. He looked straight ahead while dashing through the oaks and Spanish moss. He kept going, hoping he would not trip on a root or run into an outstretched limb. After a minute, he no longer heard anything pursuing him. But he kept running as fast as his legs would allow.

  Cinch finally arrived at his property. He scurried up the slope to his house and scampered up the steps to his back porch. His pole and flashlight were no longer with him; he had no idea where he had dropped them, nor did he care. All that mattered to him was getting inside the house and hiding from the monster. He hurried inside through the sliding glass door, latching it behind him.

  He quickly went through the house to make sure each and every one of his doors and windows were shut and locked. Then he turned the lights off and tiptoed to his bedroom, where he crawled into bed and did not make a sound.

  CHAPTER 13

  Ricky Young sat at the breakfast table, smoking a Marlboro, quietly watching his son in the kitchen. It was another lovely day outside, and Ricky had plans to enjoy it to the full. But he could not make his secret rendezvous happen until after Danny left the house. So he sat, patiently, and tried to coax Danny to leave.

  “Nice day out,” said Ricky, “you really should go enjoy it before it gets too hot.”