Silurid

by Gerry Griffiths

  “A good six or seven miles, I’d say.”

  “I see.” That ruled that out.

  “You can turn around over there,” the flagman said, pointing to a wide area on the shoulder of the road.

  Jess followed the flagman’s instructions. She could see the bulldozers at work, scooping up the mud; the hillside looking like it could come down at any minute.

  The asphalt ended at the wall of mud like it was meant to dead-end there.

  She turned around and headed back, not sure what she should do next.

  After driving a mile, she pulled the Bronco over to the side of the road. She got out and walked over to the edge and studied the terrain below. As treacherous as it was, Jess knew she had no other choice if she wanted to get to the lake. She would have to pick the best route and take her chances.

  After a two-minute search, she found the right spot. The grade was not as steep, but there were plenty of trees to dodge. It was impossible to tell from this distance if the Bronco would even fit between some of those trees. There was only one way to find out.

  Jess got back in the Bronco, started the engine, and positioned the vehicle perpendicular to the road, blocking one lane. It was a dangerous thing to do considering she was close to a blind curve.

  She put the transmission lever on the steering column into neutral, reached down, and pulled the four-wheel drive shift on the floorboard into 4L. The four-wheel drive display lit up on the dashboard, signifying that the four-wheel transmission was engaged.

  She dropped the lever on the steering column into low. The Bronco idled. She was nervous as hell, mustering the courage—

  A pickup truck barreled around the bend.

  The surprised driver blasted his horn. He locked up his brakes, and the rear tires screeched and smoked.

  The truck came at her like a torpedo, ready to broadside the Bronco.

  Leaving Jess no time but to react.

  Jess tromped on the accelerator. For an instance, all she could see was gray sky and treetops through the windshield—and then the Bronco shot out over the edge and plunged down.

  She stood on the brake pedal with both feet. The Bronco careened down the slick slope. She frantically wrestled the wheel, dodging trees rushing up.

  Branches slapped the windshield and clawed the fenders.

  The all-terrain tires slipped in the mud, forcing the Bronco to go sideways, robbing Jess’s control of the vehicle, then miraculously regained traction.

  The Bronco bottomed out, and a wave of mud splashed over the hood, splattering the windshield.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Come on, Devon,” Nell shouted, waiting impatiently at the head of the stairs.

  “Hold your horses,” Devon replied. He gathered some towels under his arm and strode across the deck. He wore sunglasses, a straw Stetson, and a zipped-up gray sweatshirt over his ski wetsuit, the neoprene covering his thighs, leaving the rest of his legs exposed.

  The morning sky was a smoky gray with billowing dismal clouds, but at least it was not raining for the time being.

  Devon followed his sister down the stairs leading to the cove.

  “One, two, three,” Nell said, counting off the steps.

  She stopped on the last step but could not go any further without stepping into the lake. She looked up at Devon with a perplexed expression. “Eighteen? Hey! How come there are only eighteen steps instead of twenty-two?”

  “Must have rained pretty hard last night,” he said. “The other steps are under the water.”

  Devon hoisted Nell on his shoulder and waded out to the boat.

  Sean was already onboard. He was wearing a light-blue ski wetsuit. A huge inner tube was wedged in the back seat next to the black engine cover.

  “Do we need to bail?” Devon asked Sean. He lifted Nell over the gunwale. Nell was wearing a life preserver over a heavy jacket and sweat clothes.

  “Nope, the tarp kept the Pumpkin Eater as dry as a bone.”

  The McNeeley’s had had the Pumpkin Eater for years. The Sidewinder was painted a bright orange with black, tuck-and-roll upholstered seats. A 289 cubic-inch V-8 engine was concealed under the engine cover, and the craft was propelled by an inboard/outboard. Despite its age, the boat looked sleek and racy. Many times other boaters would come alongside and challenge him to a race. Devon usually obliged.

  Devon untied the rope anchored to a stake and tossed it ashore.

  “Max, here boy!” Devon called, wading in the water with one hand on the boat.

  Max ran down the bank and dove in the lake. The golden retriever was wearing a flotation vest with a handle. As soon as Max was within reach, Devon grabbed the handle and lifted the sixty-pound dog into the boat and then climbed in after.

  Devon sat behind the steering wheel. He held a key with a small yellow rubber float attached—in the event the key was to fall in the water—with the catch phrase: ‘Right or Wrong, I’m Still The Captain!’

  He put the key in the ignition, started the engine, and the boat fired up, rumbling like a beefy roadster.

  “Hold on!” Devon gunned the boat out of the cove. The bow popped up out of the water. As the Pumpkin Eater gained speed, the bow dropped down and began cutting a wedge through the water as the boat trimmed out.

  Devon let her rip. He gave the boat full throttle and steered for the middle of the lake. Nell sat beside him, the wind blowing her hair. Sean sat in one of the back seats, holding onto the inner tube so that the wind wouldn’t blow it out of the boat.

  Devon studied the lake ahead. The rain had swollen the lake. Some of the islands that had existed before had disappeared. Whenever he saw a bush sticking out of the water, he knew that there was land only a few feet below the surface. He made sure to steer clear of them.

  “Are we out far enough?” Sean asked.

  Devon could tell his brother was anxious to get in the water.

  “This should do,” Devon said, slowing down the boat. He switched off the ignition key, stopping the propeller.

  The Pumpkin Eater rocked in a soothing rhythm, the rough water around it beginning to quell.

  Sean snapped on his ski vest and jumped in the lake.

  Nell stood up in the boat and was holding a bright orange flag to signal other boaters that they had someone in the water, even though there were no other boats to be seen.

  Max jumped up and rested his front paws on the gunwale, whining because Sean was in the water.

  “He’s okay. Relax, Max,” Devon said. Max stopped his crying but never took his eyes off of Sean.

  “Man, it’s cold,” Sean said, swimming in a tight circle to generate heat inside his wetsuit.

  Devon threw the inner tube out into the water. A ski rope was attached to the inner tube and tied off to a plated ring mounted on a stanchion above the engine cover.

  “I’m going to take out the slack,” Devon warned. He made sure Sean was clear of the prop before starting the engine.

  Devon throttled forward slowly, until the towline was drawn taut.

  “So Nell, what’s your job?” Devon asked, always big on safety.

  “I’m the spotter. If Sean falls, I tell you he’s down and we go back around.”

  “That’s right. Let me know when he’s ready?”

  Devon glanced over his shoulder.

  Sean pulled himself on the inner tube and grabbed the handle of the ski rope.

  He raised his arm.

  “Hit it!” Nell yelled.

  Devon gave the boat full throttle. The boat took off slow at first then leveled out when it was going fast enough to compensate for the weight of the drag from the inner tube it was towing.

  Sean clung to the bouncing inner tube caught in the boat’s choppy wake.

  He shifted his weight and gained control. He rode the inner tube out of the wake and onto the flat lake.

  Usually, this time of day, the lake would be as smooth as glass, but this morning, the surface was rippling, though calm enough for some excellent
tubing.

  Devon headed out for Grizzly Island, keeping the speedometer at thirty miles per hour. He leaned back, glancing back occasionally as Sean traversed back and forth across the wake of the boat. Sean held up his arm and made a circular motion.

  “Sean wants us to whip him,” Nell said.

  Max watched Sean from one of the back seats. The dog’s ears and the hair on the dome of his head ruffled in the wind.

  Devon sat up straight so he could get a clear line of sight of the lake ahead and saw nothing ahead but flat water.

  “Here we go, brace yourself. Grab hold of Max.”

  Nell called Max and he came over. She grabbed the handle on his vest.

  Devon cut the wheel to the left and powered the boat.

  He glanced back at the towline and saw Sean gradually whip out from behind the boat until he was almost perpendicular to the starboard side. The inner tube gained incredible speed, skimming over the water, actually going faster than the Pumpkin Eater.

  “Woooyaaaa!” Sean hollered as the inner tube shot over the water.

  After completing a full loop, Devon straightened out the boat and throttled down. Sean scooted off the inner tube and slipped into the lake.

  Devon circled around to pick up Sean. Nell held the flag above her head.

  “That was intense,” Sean yelled, floating on his back as the boat approached.

  The inner tube trailed behind the boat like a forgotten dingy.

  Devon turned off the ignition. He made sure to keep the ski rope clear of the stern of the boat so he wouldn’t suck it up in the prop. Sean swam to the inboard/outboard drive and used it for a step to climb into the back of the boat.

  “My turn,” Devon said. He took off his sweatshirt, put on his ski vest, and slipped on a pair of ski gloves, roughed up on the palms to give him a firm grip on the inner tube.

  “You’re the skipper.” Devon handed his sunglasses and cowboy hat to Sean.

  Without hesitation, Devon jumped into the water. Sean had been right. The water was freezing. He vigorously kicked his legs, swimming backward to warm up his muscles.

  Devon did the sidestroke out to the inner tube. With one hand on the inner tube, he raised his other hand to signal for Sean to take out the slack. He watched Nell turn to communicate his request to Sean. The engine started, and the boat slowly idled forward.

  Soon, the towline was taut and the boat began to drag the inner tube over the water. Once the inner tube was stable enough, Devon lurched aboard and grabbed hold of the ski handle that knotted the rope to the inner tube. It was difficult to balance at this slow speed. The inner tube wobbled in the slight wake threatening to flip him over if he was not careful.

  “Hit it!” Devon yelled. The boat roared ahead, churning the water behind the Sidewinder’s stern.

  Devon clutched the handle of the ski rope in his right hand and used his left to widen the base of his center of gravity. Using his hips to shift his weight, Devon could also drag his feet in the water, acting as a rudder.

  The inner tube contorted into an oval shape and plowed through the water. Once there was enough speed, the inner tube returned to its original shape and began to glide over the boat’s wake. Water flew up through the doughnut hole and slapped Devon in the stomach. He had to squint, the onrushing wake splashing in his face.

  Even though Devon was an expert water skier on a single ski, he always enjoyed the rush he got from tubing. It was akin to body surfing in the ocean, shooting the curl headfirst, like getting a surfboard’s-eye view coming off of a wave.

  After a couple of minutes of slaloming the boat’s wake, Devon raised his hand with his thumb extended upward signaling that he wanted Sean to speed up.

  The Pumpkin Eater began to go faster.

  The ride got bumpier. Devon began to make the inner tube jump the sloping waves left by the boat. He made a couple daredevil maneuvers, almost losing it once when he went airborne.

  It was time for the whip. He waved his arm in the air.

  The ski boat banked to the left. For a moment, the inner tube seemed trapped in the concave center of the wake. Devon leaned to the right. The inner tube rose and flew down the outside wash onto the flat water. Devon held on tighter, shifting his weight to the left, the centrifugal force trying to peel him off.

  His face was only six inches above the water, racing over the surface at forty miles an hour. At this speed, if he hit the water wrong, the impact would be akin to taking a belly flop onto a cement driveway.

  The inner tube went faster, hydroplaning over the water.

  Devon spotted something in the water ahead. It was hard to see clearly with the spray in his face, but it looked like a log—directly in his path. He tried to react in time, but he was too late.

  The inner tube smacked into the log, and Devon was flipped off.

  The next few seconds were a blur, but the pain was not. He toppled over on the rock-hard water. Dazed, he floated on his back, the impact having bruised his ribs despite the padded ski vest.

  “Devon, are you okay?” Nell shouted from the boat as they came around. Sean gave the engine a short burst of power then switched off the ignition, allowing the vessel to drift up to Devon.

  “What happened?” Sean asked, leaning over the side.

  “Are you blind? Didn’t you see that log?” Devon grumbled, swimming for the stern.

  “What log?”

  Devon pulled himself into the boat.

  “There!” Devon said, pointing to the log drifting in the water.

  Max began to growl. The hackles on his scruff stood straight up. It was a menacing growl, tinged with fear. Max was generally good-tempered. This was not normal behavior for the golden retriever. Max barked, whined, then barked again growling in between.

  “Devon, I’m scared,” Nell said, trying her best to hold on to Max.

  “Pull in the inner tube,” Devon snapped.

  Sean ambled to the stern of the boat.

  Max continued to growl, pacing from one side of the boat to the other, jumping onto the gunwale with his front paws.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Devon had to restrain Max by the handle to prevent the dog from lunging over the side. Sean hoisted the inner tube into the boat.

  “I’ll drive,” Devon said, snatching his sunglasses and Stetson from Sean.

  Devon revved the Pumpkin Eater and jammed back to the resort.

  ***

  Kate had just set lunch on the table when Sean and Nell strolled in.

  “So, did you both have fun?”

  “Yeah, a regular blast,” Sean said sarcastically and went to his room.

  “What’s with him?” Kate asked Nell.

  “He and Devon got into it, as usual,” Nell said.

  “Well, after he cools off, tell him he better eat. When you’ve both finished, come down to the store. Sean has work to do, and you have studying to catch up on.”

  “Oh, Mom!”

  “Knowledge is food for the brain, just like that sandwich is food for your tummy.”

  “That’s corny,” Nell said, sitting up to the table.

  “Maybe so, but it’s true. See you in a bit,” Kate said. She grabbed her jacket and went out the door.

  Ten minutes later, Kate was inside the store, switching on the lights. She went over and turned on the portable TV on the end of the counter.

  She was about to check the shelves when the television drew her attention.

  The screen showed a woman news reporter dressed in rainwear holding a microphone up to her chin. She was conducting an interview.

  “This is Victoria Savage in Madison. We are here at the Murdock Fish Hatchery. With me is Billy Garner, foreman of the hatchery. Mr. Garner, would you describe to us what happened here last night?” The camera panned right of the news reporter to the man standing next to her.

  “It was damn scary, is what it was. We were down in that ravine, laying out sandbags when the levee broke. We were lucky to get out of there alive.”
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  “Was there much damage?”

  “Well, we lost three of the ponds.”

  “You mean the ones to our right?” Victoria Savage asked. The camera panned over to the ponds and back to the reporter.

  “Yes, we lost over two thousand pounds of catfish.”

  “My goodness. But, I only see two ponds, Mr. Garner. Is that the other pond over there?” Again, the camera moved away, this time focusing on the collapsed wall behind a Quonset hut.

  “Ah, yeah.” The camera had returned to Mr. Garner.

  “And what was kept there?”

  The hatchery foreman hesitated, unsure what he should say next.

  “Mr. Garner?”

  “Catfish, I believe.”

  Kate’s television screen switched to the network’s studio, where a newscaster with too much stage makeup sat behind a well-polished countertop.

  “Victoria? What can you tell us about the break in the levee?”

  A picture-in-picture display showed on the background behind and above the newscaster’s left shoulder so that the viewers could watch him and Victoria Savage simultaneously.

  The reporter walked to her right and stopped. Just behind her, but still in plain view, was the levee with a torrential rush of water flowing through a gap in the embankment.

  There were bulldozers and a caravan of dump trucks on the scene.

  “As you can see, John, the Corp of Engineers has their work cut out for them. Everything hinges on the Sacramento River…and what she will do next. It could be another day or two before the waterline of the river drops enough so that the levee can be shored up. Only problem is…they are predicting another storm front to hit here later this afternoon. All we can do now is wait…and pray…that the rain lets up. This is Victoria Savage. Back to you, John.”

  The picture-in-picture of Victoria Savage dissolved.

  “Thank you, Victoria,” John said. “We have a news breaking story of another incident of road rage reported on the interstate. Sam Wright, a landscaper from Madison, suffered a gunshot wound to the shoulder when another motorist opened fire on Mr. Wright’s car. Apparently, Mr. Wright was returning home from work when he was shot.

  “The California Highway Patrol is alerting motorists to be on the lookout for a dark-colored four-door sedan. This could be another assault by the Highway Marauder, who is responsible for five other attacks on motorists in the past few weeks. Now, for the weather…”