Skink--No Surrender

by Skink- No Surrender (ARC) (epub)

  “Was it yellow?”

  “Think so.”

  A few days before she’d run away, Malley had bought a canary-yellow swimsuit at a surf shop. I felt good about what the gar man was saying because it meant that the houseboat wasn’t moving, and that normal things, such as laundry, were getting done.

  After thanking Nickel, I stepped gingerly through the fish corpses and hopped from the bow of the barge to the bank.

  Shooing the flies from his face, he asked, “You got a gun in your bag, boy?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Huh.”

  “Dumb question—do I need a gun?” I hadn’t told the gar man about Malley’s situation.

  “You’ll wish you had one if’n them wild pigs git after you.”

  Oh great, I thought. Some vicious new beast to worry about.

  “The boars is the meanest ones. They tusks’ll rip your guts out,” Nickel said. “How ’bout you gimme a shove off?”

  “Hey, I have an idea.”

  “Naw, just shove me off.”

  “If had more than seven dollars to pay, would you consider giving me a ride downriver?” The thought had just popped into my brain. At the slow pace I’d been hiking, the houseboat carrying my cousin might be long gone by the time I got there.

  Also, I wasn’t thrilled at the idea of being gored by a crazed pig.

  “You got more cash?” Nickel asked with a twitch.

  “Way more. But not on me.”

  “Think I’m stupid?”

  “Up by the Road 20 bridge?”

  “Go on.”

  “There’s a shoe box buried in a secret spot,” I said.

  It wasn’t mine to give away, but the governor was gone and time was running out for Malley. I couldn’t think of a better way to keep Nickel interested.

  “What kinda secret spot?” he asked.

  “I’ll tell you where if you give me a ride to the houseboat.”

  Skink never told me how much money was left, and I hadn’t asked. However, when he had opened the shoe box to get the cash for the canoe, I’d seen several thick stacks of bills bundled with rubber bands.

  “There’s plenty in there,” I informed Nickel. “Take what you think is fair.”

  I figured he’d keep it all. Assume the worst—that was Skink’s philosophy.

  “You rob a bank, boy, or what?”

  “The money belonged to my grandfather. He was an honest man. Once I’m on the houseboat, I’ll tell you exactly where to go dig.”

  The gar man spat over the side. “I don’t like being made the fool. They’s no shoe box in the ground up there, you gonna see me again real soon. Too soon.”

  “Dude, I’m telling the truth.”

  “O-right,” he said. “Git back in the boat.”

  Being heavy, the barge couldn’t go very fast, but I didn’t mind. It beat slogging on foot through the marsh and the vines.

  “M’self I got sixteen known cousins,” the gar man was saying, “and I wouldn’t give a dollar fifty for all of ’em put together.”

  “I only have one cousin. She’s like my best friend.”

  “Yeah, still.” He was eyeing me from behind his NASCAR shades. “You ain’t givin’ me the whole story.”

  “I don’t know the whole story, but I’m pretty sure she’s in trouble.”

  Nickel pushed the throttle wide open. The engine sounded dreadful, like marbles in a washing machine. I was afraid it might blow up.

  The gar man raised his voice. “This old whale won’t do more’n ten knots!”

  Good enough, I thought.

  He was keeping to the middle of the river. The stench followed us, and so did the bottle flies. Ahead was another bend.

  And beyond that bend was a white houseboat with blue trim.

  Thirteen

  A radio was playing. Country-western, which was not Malley’s favorite.

  Nobody was visible on deck. As we drew closer I called her name. From the corner of my eye I saw the gar man pick up his rifle.

  The houseboat was battered and grimy, the paint bleached flat by the sun. Once upon a time the boat had had a name, but the lettering on the transom had faded. The hull looked nicked and gouged. Bolted to the stern was a big outboard engine that was probably older than me. Part of the Evinrude decal had peeled off so that only the “rude” was left.

  Laid out on the side rails were my cousin’s yellow swimsuit, some T-shirts, four white socks, a men’s pair of blue jeans and the gray hoodie that Malley had been wearing the night her mother dropped her at the Orlando airport. I remembered the hoodie from the security video that Detective Trujillo had showed me.

  The houseboat’s windows were open, but they’d been covered from the inside with bed sheets. Maybe the sheets were meant to keep out mosquitoes, or maybe they were put there to prevent anyone from seeing inside.

  Nickel eased the garfish barge alongside. He tied off with a greasy-looking rope. Balancing on the gunwale, he jabbed the barrel of his .22 through one of the houseboat’s windows and pulled down the sheet. He took a long look inside before announcing: “Ain’t nobody home.”

  In a way, I was relieved. My fear was finding Malley tied up and gagged.

  “What kinda trouble you think your cousin’s got into?” the gar man asked.

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  My guess was that Online Talbo had taken Malley ashore to find something to eat. It was only a short swim. He’d probably left the music playing to make people think the boat was occupied, so they wouldn’t try to sneak on board and swipe anything.

  “Those her clothes hung up to dry?” Nickel said.

  “Some of them, yeah.”

  “Then she ain’t dead, is my thought. They’ll be back.”

  “I’ll wait.” Nervously I climbed aboard. It must have been a pitiful sight, me and my nine-iron, because Nickel said, “You sure ’bout this, boy?”

  “Definitely.” I wasn’t going back without Malley, no way. I flicked the eighteen-button rattle hanging from my neck and said, “It’s my good-luck charm.”

  “Didn’t help the snake too much, did it?”

  Thanks, I thought, for the vote of confidence.

  “Look, I cain’t stay and watch over you.”

  “No problem,” I told him. “We made a deal. You did your part.”

  “They’s a man in Bonifay gonna pay me two hundred bucks for these fish. Maybe two ten. He grinds ’em up to fertilize his watermelon patches, eighty acres total. But he don’t like to wait.”

  He glanced down at his .22, and for a second I thought he might offer it to me. If he had, I would’ve said no thanks. The only thing I’ve ever aimed a rifle at was a Dr. Pepper can, and it took five tries to put a hole through it. I was target-shooting out near the landfill with Mitch, a friend of mine who’s in tenth grade. He’s a serious hunter. My brothers and I never owned any guns. Mom and Dad didn’t like them.

  “The money,” said the gar man. He seemed to be in a hurry.

  “Just before you reach the bridge, there’s a boat ramp.”

  “I know which one.”

  “Ten steps from the ramp is an old tupelo tree. That’s where my grandfather’s shoe box is buried.”

  “’Preciate it. You take care.” Nickel untied the barge and slowly it drifted away from the houseboat. He gave a slight nod before chugging upriver. The flies went with him, but the stink lingered like a fog.

  I got out of sight pretty quick. The inside of the cabin was musty and hot. First thing I did was rehang the sheet that Nickel had yanked down. Small holes along one edge aligned with a row of nails that somebody had hammered into the window frame.

  In one corner of the cabin was a portable camp stove. In another sat a scuffed gray suitcase that most likely belonged to the fake Talbo Chock. The sui
tcase was locked, so I let it be. On the floor was a pile of rumpled blankets along with Malley’s red travel bag. I found her laptop, which was broken. Worse than broken, actually—it looked like somebody had stomped on it. No wonder my cousin hadn’t been sending any emails.

  My plan was to hide as soon as I spotted Malley and the bogus Talbo Chock returning through the woods. There was a hatch in the cabin floor that held a spare anchor, a rusty fire extinguisher and some mildew-covered life vests. I crawled inside to make sure there was enough space for me and my backpack—no problem, once I chased off the spiders.

  After stowing my stuff, I propped open the lid of the hatch for easy access. Then I took a seat behind the console. Most of the gauges were cracked from old age and weather. Propped against a cockeyed compass was a portable clock radio that was playing a song about hard times and lost romance. I wanted to change the channel, but Online Talbo would know something was wrong if he heard rock or hip-hop blasting from the boat.

  One thing I didn’t factor into my situation was exhaustion. The night before, I hadn’t slept for even five minutes. The rain was too noisy, thwopping like BBs against the shower cap. Plus I couldn’t stop thinking about the governor, chasing a gator through the dark waters of the Choctawhatchee. Now, in a muggy stillness full of sad guitar tunes, my eyelids grew heavy. I tried cranking up the volume, which rousted me for a while, but eventually I ended up in the middle of a dream that made no sense.

  It was me, Trent and my father playing golf on a beach! The two of them were getting along just fine. Mom wasn’t there, so it wasn’t like she had to make a choice. The sand was whiter than the sand on Loggerhead Beach, and the dunes were taller. We had to be careful where we hit our shots because there were fresh turtle nests everywhere, and from each mound poked a single striped soda straw. Trent snap-hooked a five-iron into the surf and all three of us waded in to search for his ball. My toes brushed against something hard and smooth, but when I dove underwater I saw that the object was way bigger than a golf ball—it was a sunken car, a white Toyota Camry, with a pellet-sized hole in the rear window. I yelled for my father to come see, but nothing came out of my mouth except bubbles.

  I woke up with my forehead resting on the steering wheel of the houseboat. Some people were talking, and they weren’t part of the dream. Peeking out the cabin door, I saw only birds and butterflies in the trees along the bank. I crept to a window and moved the sheet slightly, so that I was able to look downriver.

  Two figures were approaching in a small boat. At first I thought it was a kayak, but as they drew closer I saw was a canoe.

  The canoe.

  The one that the gator had carried off. There was no doubt in my mind.

  Malley sat in the bow. Phony Talbo was paddling in the back. I recognized his blue Rays cap and mirrored Oakleys from the airport video. He didn’t look like a huge guy though I couldn’t be sure from a distance. Malley was in a typical Malley slouch. She was wearing some floppy Australian-type bush hat and pink bracelets on each wrist—not her usual style, but I was totally amped just to see her alive, out in the open.

  Yet what about the canoe? The sight of it hardened my sad suspicion that Skink was dead. If he wasn’t, he would be the one with Malley and Online Talbo would be the one in the river.

  Whatever conversation my cousin and her kidnapper had been having ended abruptly. In silence they were coming straight toward the houseboat. I grabbed the nine-iron and lay down in the hatch. When I lowered the heavy cover, my arms were basically pinned to my body.

  The hatch wasn’t much wider than a coffin. The darkness and stale heat were smothering. Every breath I took sounded like the huff of a locomotive. Every heartbeat was like a thunderclap. The air was an acrid mix of mold and gas fumes. I’ve never been claustrophobic, but I knew I couldn’t stay there. One of the anchor prongs was digging into my butt, and the nozzle from the fire extinguisher was poking me in the neck. Some sort of insect, possibly a cockroach, casually crawled across my eyebrows, but I couldn’t even reach up to brush it away.

  In a panic I kneed open the hatch cover, scrambled out and ducked into the boat’s head—basically a small closet built around a mini-toilet. It didn’t smell like a spring garden, but I sat down and shut the door. It wouldn’t lock because the latch had been pried off.

  There was a sharp clack when the aluminum canoe nosed against the houseboat, followed by muted thumps as my cousin and Online Talbo stepped aboard. The two of them entered the cabin, the deck squeaking as they walked. Somebody turned off the radio.

  “Light the stove.” It was a male voice.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You’re never hungry.”

  “I won’t eat a catfish,” Malley said. “They’re so gross.”

  “Gimme your hand.”

  “No.”

  “Give it here.”

  “No!”

  I heard a brief scuffle and then a click.

  “You’re such an ass,” Malley snapped.

  The fake Talbo called her the b-word. “I’ll go clean the fish,” he said, “but first I gotta take a whiz.”

  “Oh nice.”

  “Don’t go anywhere. Ha ha.”

  Trapped on the toilet, I didn’t have any brilliant ideas. The guy needed to relieve himself, and the boat had only one place to do that. I reached for the doorknob and held on. With the other hand I started shaking the rattle on my neck.

  A real rattlesnake can vibrate its tail more than fifty times per second, way faster than human finger muscles can move. I must have been trembling like crazy, because the eighteen buttons on that rattle started making some noise—enough to freak out the Talbo impostor.

  He let go of the doorknob and yelled, “Whoa! You hear that!”

  “What is it?” asked Malley.

  “Diamondback!”

  “No way. How’d it get on the boat?”

  “They can swim, you dummy. Just like moccasins.”

  “Where you going? Don’t leave me here like this!”

  “I’m gonna get that ax from the canoe,” Online Talbo declared.

  I heard him stomp toward the transom. Rising slightly, I cracked the door just enough so that Malley could see me. Her eyes got wide.

  So did mine. Her hair was dyed jet, even blacker than her jeans. She looked scrawny, and both arms were covered with mosquito bites. The pink bracelets I’d thought I’d seen weren’t bracelets at all—they were raw marks made by handcuffs.

  One of the cuffs was now locking her by a wrist to the steering wheel of the houseboat. She opened her mouth to say something, but I signaled her to be quiet. Then I sat down slowly on the mini-toilet and closed the door.

  Online Talbo was returning with Skink’s hatchet, and I had nothing to defend myself with. The nine-iron was down in the deck hatch, where I’d stupidly left it.

  I heard Malley say, “Don’t go in there, T.C.!”

  “Hey, there’s only way to deal with a damn rattler.”

  “But what if you get bit?”

  “Just shut up. I’m gonna chop that thing into a million pieces!”

  I had maybe two seconds to make a decision, and what I decided was this: I didn’t particularly want an ax blade embedded in my forehead.

  So I hollered, “Stop! I’m NOT a snake!”

  Silence on the other side of the door, then murmurs of confusion.

  Finally, Online Talbo spoke up. “Come outta there right now! Whoever you are!”

  I did what I was told. He was poised to strike, holding the hatchet high.

  “Chill out, dude!” I raised my hands.

  Malley said, “He’s just a kid, T.C.”

  He lowered the ax though he didn’t put it down. “Who are you?”

  “Carson is my name,” I answered.

  Malley shot me a look, like: Where’d you get that on
e?

  “Carson what?” asked the fake Talbo.

  “Just Carson.” It probably popped into my head because of Rachel Carson, the author of Silent Spring.

  “I can’t tell you my last name,” I said, “because you’ll call my parents.”

  Malley immediately synced to my act. “So you’re a runaway!”

  “Walkaway is more like it. Let’s just say I’m traveling.”

  “How’d you get out to this boat?” demanded Online Talbo. “You didn’t swim else your clothes’d be wet.”

  “Hitched a ride with a gar man.”

  “Bull!”

  The bogus Talbo was several inches taller than me—as tall as my brother Robbie only not as muscular. He wasn’t ugly and he wasn’t movie-star handsome. Regular-looking is what he was, except for his smashed nose, all swollen and plum-colored. That explained the nasal twang.

  His dusty brown hair was cut short, and he hadn’t shaved in days. His T-shirt was forest green, the cuffs of his jeans were frayed and his white slides were filthy. When he took off his shades I noticed that his dark eyes seemed small and jumpy, like mouse eyes on a rabbit face.

  “What was that noise behind the door?” he asked.

  I showed him the rattlesnake rattle, which he tore off the cord around my neck and held up in the light. “This the real deal?”

  “For sure.”

  “Too bad.” He sneered and threw the rattle out the window, into the water.

  “Seriously, dude? That was a present from my grandpa.”

  “Get offa my boat, dorkface.”

  While Malley was cyberdating the fake Talbo, she would always brag that he was “deep, like a poet.” I’d never met any genuine poets, but I was pretty sure they didn’t use the word “dorkface” in everyday conversation.

  I turned to my cousin. “How come you’re chained to the wheel?”

  Bogus Talbo didn’t like the question.

  Malley smiled tightly and jangled the cuffs. “Oh, it’s just a fun game we play sometimes. Right, T.C.?”

  “Yeah,” he said gruffly.

  “Now gimme the key, sweetie.”

  “What?”