The Redneck Detective Agency (The Redneck Detective Agency Mystery Series Book 1)

by Phillip Quinn Morris

  Vivian nodded her head.

  Al picked up his camera and aimed it at Vivian. Vivian jumped into the water between the two boats. The water was almost up to her breasts. She waded to the bank, turned and waved, took a deep breath and her head disappeared under the water.

  In a few seconds Rusty could see a cloud of muddy water--water that was muddier than the already muddy Elk--churn out of the bank at the hole. Then he thought he heard a faint thud from within. Then another cloud of muddy water.

  Then a wave of water came out. Whiteness. A figure. Vivian popped out of the water. She gasped for breath. She waded quickly toward the ladder and took a step up.

  Something was wrong.

  Rusty scrambled over and held his hand down for Vivian. She took it and he pulled her into the boat.

  Vivian was ghost white. Some of it was from being in the water, but it looked like all the blood had drained from her face. She had a muddy place on her head between her right temple and forehead. Then Rusty saw it was an abrasion.

  Vivian sat dumbfounded. Al put down the camera. “What’s the matter, Viv?”

  Rusty thought she was going into shock, but then she said, “It’s this monster. A shark. Something. It got my arm in its mouth. Wouldn’t let go. It spun me. It’s huge.”

  “Okay!” Al hollered. “We got us a big one. You take a breather there, Viv, and then go back in there and get that cat.”

  Vivian shook her head, frightened. “No, no, no. I’m not going back into that black hole.”

  Al kicked the side of the boat. Accidentally or on purpose, Rusty couldn’t tell. “Vivian, you go back in there and get that fish. I didn’t spend all this time training you. All this money for this equipment for you to chicken out.”

  Rusty took a step forward in his boat. “Let her…”

  “You don’t understand. That fish can eat me. That fish can drown me. It’s huge. It’s dark in there. There’s no air.”

  Vivian started to cry.

  Al looked up at the sky, gritted his teeth, and then looked back down. He changed his persona. “Okay, okay, okay, Vivian. This was just supposed to be fun. If you…” then he trailed off, choosing not say any more or not knowing what he was about to say.

  Just as Rusty thought she was going to start sobbing, Vivian stopped crying. She reached into a black garbage bag, came out with a towel and started drying herself off.

  Al and Rusty stood there in silence, looking toward Vivian. Vivian put her shirt back on and sat there huddled over like she was shivering cold in the hot, Alabama sun.

  “What about you, Rusty?” Al asked.

  “What about me, what?” Rusty asked. This whole episode was starting to give Rusty the willies. He needed to get away from Al. He needed to get to Sammy.

  “You ready to come out of retirement and grabble that big cat out of there?”

  “He’s Rusty,” Vivian said.

  Rusty looked at Vivian. She smiled. Only then did he get it. It was a pun.

  They all smiled to one another. Al seemed like his old self.

  “You’re the man of the hour,” Al said. “Rusty Rusty want to jump in the rusty water, go in the rusty hole and get the goddamn catfish that will probably win you five thousand dollars?”

  Rusty had forgotten about the prize money. Young Vivian might very well have been doing this for the money. Five thousand dollars was a lot of money for Rusty. It would probably be a fortune to a girl like Vivian. Now, come to think of it, it was the same amount Katfish King had given him.

  Rusty jumped down into the water. He wasn’t after the money. He wasn’t even after the challenge of the catfish. He just wanted to do whatever he had to do to gracefully get the hell away from Al Bolton in this moment in time.

  Chapter 43

  “I’ll give it a shot,” Rusty said. Vivian and Al clapped.

  Behind him at the transom of his boat was his father’s old tackle box. But today, unlike when he blew up the Yamaha, the tackle box did not hold his father’s .45 automatic Colt. Rusty got the tackle box, opened it and slipped the stuff out of his pockets and put in the box. Since Al was looking at him, he kept the recorder in his pocket.

  He took his shirt and hat off. Rusty jumped out of the boat and into chest deep water. It was warm. It was muddy. He couldn’t even see his own hands two feet down in the water.

  Two steps toward the bank and he had climbed up to waist deep water and then he went into a hole where the water was almost waist deep.

  Rusty took three deep breaths and then right before he went under the water, he heard Vivian say, “Be careful.”

  Before he could come up and see what kind of air pocket he had, Rusty hit the catfish.

  The catfish spun. The edge of a fin hit him on the forearm. He fell back against the clay and rock wall of the hole. The catfish stopped.

  Rusty felt for his head and there it was. He stuck his hand on the monster’s mouth and the catfish clamped down.

  Rusty planted his feet firm, squatted and tugged to pull him toward the hole, but Rusty’s foot hit a slick on the clay bottom section and he slipped. The catfish didn’t let go. The catfish spun. Rusty rolled with the cat. His head hit the wall. He put his other hand up on the catfish’s head and tried to pry his hand loose. The catfish wasn’t letting up.

  The thing was huge. One could never judge the size of a catfish in pitch, underwater darkness. They all seemed big monsters of unknown size. But this one was humongous.

  Rusty got his feet up under him and tried to stand. His head hit the top of the hole. Oh, my God, there was not enough air pocket at the top to raise his head out of the water to get a gasp of air.

  Rusty tugged and slipped. The cat spun again. It felt like it had yanked his right shoulder out of the socket.

  Rusty was running out of air. The damned catfish was going to drown him.

  He heard a muffled noise. Maybe it was Vivian screaming. Screaming at Al, for Al to come in to help pull him out.

  No, that was part of Al’s cat and mouse plan. To see if a catfish could drown Rusty Clay. If Al saved him he would wait, wait until Rusty was unconscious and drag him out and be the hero. That would fit into either plan. If Al just wanted to kill Rusty, it would tire him out, make him easier to control. Or if Al wanted mostly to mess with Rusty’s mind, it would put him into a tired state-of-mind, into gratitude, and thus submission. Al could implant his own agenda into Rusty’s psyche.

  Rusty was no Ray. Ray could stay underwater for three minutes. Not Rusty. Now, his lungs started to burn. The exertion sucked the oxygen out of him. He fought the compulsion--a crazy compulsion to breathe in a mouthful of warm, muddy Elk River water to try to fill his lungs. Keep my wits, Rusty said to himself.

  Rusty positioned himself alongside the catfish. He put his left arm around the cat right at the base of the cat’s head. The creature was way beyond huge. Rusty got a grip around the cat, hugged it with a tight hold. The cat started to roll. Rusty wrapped his left leg around the body of the cat.

  The Rusty Wrap. That’s what his daddy had called the move. It was the same move he had used at age ten to grabble a catfish greater than his own body weight.

  The catfish was one mad son of a bitch. He tried to roll and when he did, it gave him more leverage against the floor of the hole with his free leg. He planted his foot firmly, and with the use of the catfish’s own leverage, Rusty moved himself and the catfish out of the hole.

  Rusty popped up and got a breath of air. The sunlight seared his eyes. Rusty went back under, but before he did he saw Vivian begin to clap. Al had the camera trained on him.

  The catfish spun. Rusty used the motion to his advantage. Shoved on three more feet. Then Rusty’s free foot sunk into mud.

  It would be brute strength from here. Rusty let his wrap on the fish go, planted his feet into the mud. He manhandled the catfish over to the ladder.

  The catfish let his mouth grip go on Rusty’s hand. He actually tried to spit the hand out. Rusty’s hand slid
out.

  He was going to lose the catfish. But did it matter now?

  What was he trying to do? Grabble a catfish into the boat or get the hell away from Al?

  Rusty shoved the catfish’s head over the gunwale of Vivian’s boat, which despite the catamaran type contraption, was now just a few inches above the water level. Vivian stood up and away from the catfish, careful not to assist.

  Rusty wrestled the body of the fish into the boat. The fish made a quick, strong side jack-knife reaction. Rusty lost his grip.

  But instead of flipping over Rusty’s shoulder back into the river, the catfish flipped himself right into the boat.

  Vivian started strapping the thing down.

  Rusty climbed into his own boat and looked over.

  Oh, my God. A catfish usually never looked bigger or seemed bigger than when you were grabbling it. But not now. The thing looked as big as a lopsided, full grown dolphin.

  After three deep breaths, Rusty let out the best cliché he could think of: “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

  He moved his arm in a rotating motion. He didn’t have full use of it. The catfish had pulled something in it. His left forearm had a cut down the length of it, but it wasn’t bleeding much. His back hurt.

  Rusty Clay had been beat up by a blue catfish.

  Vivian said, “Rusty, your arm is cut.”

  She grabbed the towel, took a step with calculated balance on the strut and stepped over into his boat. She started wiping around the cut. “We need to get some antiseptic on that. Maybe even some stitches.”

  We. She had used we. She had her right breast rubbing against him.

  Al took a good close-up of the fish. It was trying to flop out but the straps held him. It was so long that its tail extending well over the middle seat.

  Then Al glanced over. Rusty could see it, see how Al took a momentary note that Vivian was giving Rusty a little too much attention and sympathy.

  Al let the camera drop to arm’s length. He looked at Rusty.

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah, just a little shook up. I’ll be just fine in a minute.”

  “How much do you think it weighs?” Al asked.

  “Um.” Rusty put his shirt on and rolled the left sleeve up so it wouldn’t touch his cut. “I don’t know, Al. I’ve never seen a catfish that big.”

  Al looked back at the fish. “I couldn’t say either. If I had to guess I would say it weighed around two hundred and fourteen pounds.”

  Al had just shortened the distance of cat and mouse. Giving him the exact weight Katfish King had given Rusty. Make it plain as day that Al knew what Rusty knew. Al, in a figurative way, reeled in half the length of fishing line Al had Rusty on right now.

  “Let’s get the fish to the marina and officially weigh it in,” Al said.

  “I’m going to go home, put something on this cut, take a shower and put on some clean clothes,” Rusty said. “I’ll catch up with y’all there later.”

  “Wait, wait,” Al said. “We have to get a shot of you holding the paper with the fish.” Al got the newspaper out of the plastic bag and held it up.

  Vivian took the struts off the boats, so they were no longer connected. Al pulled his boat around and handed Rusty the newspaper.

  Rusty held the newspaper up. Al got it all on film. “Yes, folks, it looks like we have a new grabbling world’s record.”

  Vivian clapped. Al cut the camera off.

  Rusty reached back to crank his outboard. “Okay, guys. I’m out of here. See y’all at the marina.”

  “Naw, man. We all have to go together. You got to get the glory. We can’t take this thing in without you,” Al said.

  The charade was over. Ole Blue tipped the scales. Sure any huge blue catfish would be named Ole Blue, but it tipped the scales. Al didn’t intend him to leave his sight. Maybe he didn’t even intend for Rusty to arrive at the marina.

  Chapter 44

  Silence hung in the air. Dead silence between Al and Rusty. A vacuum of silence.

  Vivian knew something was up. She looked at one and then the other, but she didn’t say a word.

  Rusty could hear outboards humming in the distance. He even thought he could hear cars passing on the bridge downriver. He could hear someone holler something undistinguishable up the river, then a rebel yell. It was all far off and in another world.

  “Al,” Rusty said. Then he said each word slow and deliberate. “I’m going home. Get out of these wet jeans. Take a shower. Put peroxide on my arm and in my ears. If you two want to go with me to my house you are welcome.”

  If the tone of words could kill, Al Bolton would have been a dead man.

  “No, no,” Al said, in an apologetic way. “I just didn’t want to steal any of your thunder. You go on. Vivian and I will time it to be at the marina with the fish in about forty-five minutes. Gives you fifteen to get home, fifteen to clean up, fifteen to get to the marina.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Rusty said.

  Al clapped his hands together once, like they now had a plan.

  Rusty cranked his outboard and circled around and headed up the river. He reached down into the tackle box and picked up the cellphone. But he did not use it. Al would have his eye on him and if saw him making a call, he might just plug him in the back of the head. And sometimes in this area of the river, there was a dead spot.

  He gave up on the cellphone idea. But he was a good ways away now. It would take a lucky shot—from a moving boat to a target in another moving boat.

  Rusty came around the slight bend and the marina was in sight.

  He got closer. And as crazy as it was last night, he had seen nothing like this.

  The weighing in of catfishes, the search for topless girl grabblers, and the catfish protestors and the topless protestors must have all dove-tailed. The marina was just one big shit pot of boats, pickups and trailers.

  He was going to head straight to the marina and get free of Al.

  He glanced around, Al was in sight. Vivian was behind, hauling the catfish.

  Rusty opened the throttle.

  By ESP, whatever, Rusty knew--the son of a bitch has loaded the boat down with dynamite. If he sees me going to the marina, he’ll blow it up by remote control.

  Rusty kept in the channel and headed around the next bend. As soon as he edged around it, when he knew he was out of sight of Al, he punched in--not 911 or Sammy’s number--but Ray’s.

  The phone went dead. Not just a dead spot of reception, the phone itself was dead. What, it had expired right at this strategic moment? Rusty doubted it. In fact, he didn’t doubt it at all. There were no coincidences right now.

  He would go straight to his house, just like he told Al. But when he got there, he would get armed, lock and load. He felt under his thwart but didn’t feel any explosives.

  He looked up to see a large something on up river. As Rusty got closer, he saw it was old man Butler from across the Tennessee River. He steered his super-wide utility boat with double Johnson outboards, chugging up the Mussel real slow. The damn thing was practically a barge.

  He was headed to Rusty’s house to tow back some of the floating docks to his marina.

  Here was Rusty’s ticket. He could catch up to old man Butler and jump on his boat and he would be safe. Al wouldn’t dare take a shot then. Rusty could just jettison his boat in case it was wired with explosives.

  Rusty closed in on him. Old man Butler stood at the helm. His boat’s wake disturbed both banks of the river.

  “Hey, hey!” Rusty hollered. The son of a bitch was half deaf and couldn’t hear anything over the hum of his outboards. Rusty gave a shrill whistle. Nothing. Well, he would catch up to him in less than a minute, even if old man Butler didn’t turn around.

  Rusty could smell something weird. Over the odor of the river. Over the exhaust smell of Butler’s outboards. It was that acrid tobacco smell of Redd Oxx that Butler smoked in his little briar pipe.

  Then--Rusty’s outboa
rd cut out. No cough, no jerk, no nothing. Just cut out like you pulled the spark plug wire.

  He stood up on his stern thwart, put his hands to his mouth and yelled as loud as he could. Old man Butler just kept chugging along, looking straight ahead.

  Rusty whistled. The old man never looked back.

  Rusty looked behind him. Al had not come around the bend yet. He looked ahead. He was about two hundred feet down river from the tip of Clay Island. Gloria and Rusty had left in a hurry and he’d never gone back to get their things--the air mattress, the cooler of food and drink, the radio. And Rusty’s other cell phone!

  He could abandon his boat and swim. But there was a slight current and it might take a while. What if Al came around the bend?

  Rusty turned around and popped the outboard cover off, tossed it in the middle of the boat. He checked the spark plug wire. Yeah, it was on good and tight.

  Then he saw it fixed onto the carburetor. Some little metal robot flap of a thing with a very small wire antennae on it. Shit! Al’s gadgetry. Al pushed a remote control button and a little nine volt battery made a flap move and cover up the intake to the carburetor.

  Rusty grabbed hold of it--the whole gadget was no bigger than two match boxes including the battery--and ripped it off, tossed it into the bottom of the boat.

  He put the cover back on, so the pull cord would work. Gave it a yank. It almost caught. He pumped the bulb on the fuel line. He pulled the cord.

  The engine cranked.

  Rusty opened the throttle up and headed back for old man Butler’s boat. Rusty closed in on him. He was right even with the tip end of the island, when the engine cut out again. Ripping the gadget off had changed the carburetor setting.

  Rusty veered the boat toward the island. He had enough speed left to get in the wake of Butler’s barge boat. When he got twenty feet from the bank, right at the tip of the island, he went to the bow, took the painter line and jumped into the water. It was barely waist deep.

  The Elk River side of the island was all tree tops. He took the rope of the boat and pulled it down to the tip of the island, pulled it on up between a couple of trees.