by C. L. Bevill
“Is it illegal?” Sheriff John asked back.
“If he sinks it, it is,” the park ranger replied. He was a man in his thirties who looked like he was half-awake and not very happy to have been dragged from his comfy air-conditioned cabin.
“Ifin Ralph sinks it, then I’ll arrest him,” Sheriff John said. “It’ll be assault and battery on the fish. Do we have to talk to Fish and Game for that, Willodean?”
Willodean spared her boss a brief glare. She was more concerned with whether Ralph was about to sink Bubba along with the In Decent Seas.
“I think that guy’s on drugs,” the park ranger said. “He was screaming about men in black and mini-lightning strikes. There might have been something about aliens, too.”
“That doesn’t sound like Ralph,” Sheriff John said.
“He’s got pot growing on board,” someone in the crowd of people said. “He tried to sell me some.”
Willodean winced inwardly. She didn’t want to have to arrest Ralph as he was Charlene Cedarbloom’s main supplier for medicinal marijuana, but if several witnesses were front and center and holding their cameras in a way that suggested they were digitally recording everything, she would have to. Sheriff John and she wouldn’t have a choice about whether Ralph would be staying out of the pokey. She shuffled forward and heard someone ask, “Is that Bubba Snoddy’s wife?”
“Yep. She’s death with mace. Best to back up and make shore we’re upwind,” someone else said. “Look, she’s got Bigfoot slippers on her feet. She’s badass!”
“Ralph!” Willodean called loudly, cupping her hands around her mouth.
Ralph stopped swinging the axe and looked up into the spotlight. He shadowed his eyes with his hand and said, “God? Is that you? I knew you was really a woman!”
“It’s Willodean Gray Snoddy,” she called. “Ralph, I don’t think you’re going to be able to sink that boat with that axe.”
“I kin chop it in half!” Ralph declared and went back to work. It took five swings before he let the axe drop on the deck while he wilted with exhaustion. “It’s a tough boat. I gotta rest for a minute.”
“Ralph, have you been smoking something?” Willodean asked.
“No, I never smoke,” he panted, “but this fella from San Francisco brought me some beer. He also might have brought me some magic mushrooms.” He stroked the axe’s handle and Willodean sighed. “They dint taste like regular mushrooms. I should have gotten spaghetti sauce and put them in that. Did you know there’s rainbows at night? Look! A unicorn!”
“Ralph, we’re going to call an ambulance for you,” she called. “There’s unicorns and rainbows at the hospital.” She looked over her shoulder at Sheriff John, but he was already speaking on his shoulder mike. “Have you seen Bubba tonight?”
“Bubba!” Ralph yelled and sat up. “YES! I have seen Bubba! And also there was a babe in a leather bustier. She was HOT!”
“Ralph!” Willodean interrupted before he could meander on. “Is Bubba out there with you now?”
“No, Bubba got taken by the men in black!” Ralph yelled. “I saw it all from the boat with my binoculars from the poop deck! They had suits on and sunglasses! They shot him with alien devices and then they carried him off! Ifin it makes a difference, they couldn’t use that floaty device on him. It took four of them to get him in their flying saucer! The flying saucer looked just like a big SUV! Then they took Snuggles and Precious, too! But they didn’t use their devices on them. Quick! Call Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones! I want the pug, too!” He snorted with abrupt laughter. “It’s a pug life!”
“Was that before or after you ate the magic mushrooms, Ralph?” Sheriff John called.
“Cain’t recall!” Ralph said. “But I knew ya’ll would come, and backup plan A was in effect. Had to sink this baby before J. Edgar Hoover came back dressed as Margaret Thatcher and arrested me. Look, flying vermicious knids!”
“Ralph!” Willodean yelled. “You have to get off the boat to avoid those flying vermicious knids! They’re attracted to boats!”
“Oh hell!” Ralph yelled and promptly jumped into the water.
“And they can swim, too!” Sheriff John yelled helpfully. “Hey, he left the axe on the deck,” he added in a lower voice.
“Maybe I should have thought to ask if Ralph can swim first,” Willodean wondered. She looked over her shoulder and saw that through a stand of dark pines the lone Chevy truck sat in isolation in the farthest part of the parking lot. One yellow light allowed a pool to illuminate the green color of the vehicle. She looked back at the marina. She could see where the In Decent Seas had been tied up based on the wires that had been pulled out forcefully and lay in a pile on the wooden planks. She looked back at the truck. It was a clear shot right through the woods to the truck. If Ralph had been on the top deck, he might have very well seen something.
“He’s dog paddling,” the park ranger said. “I’ll go get a boat, so we can pull the houseboat out of the waterway before someone hits it.”
“Ralph!” Sheriff John yelled. “Those vermicious knids are right behind you!”
Willodean sniffed. “That’s just mean.” However, Ralph paddled harder, aiming for the side of the dock with the alacrity of a seal with its ass on fire.
“You started it,” Sheriff John said good-naturedly. Willodean couldn’t argue with that as Ralph reached the dock and several people leaned over to help him up. He collapsed into a wet pile of man noodle and wheezed like an asthmatic caught in a pollution inversion in Los Angeles on a summer day.
About thirty minutes later Ralph was loaded in the ambulance and talked about seeing purple elephants that turned into Lucy in the sky with diamonds before he started in on an accommodating rendition of the Beatles song. The park ranger confirmed that neither Bubba nor anyone else was on board the In Decent Seas but that there was about twenty marijuana seedlings inside the cabin plus all the lights to supply the seedlings with nutrients, although Ralph had pulled the plug when he’d let the boat drift away from the dock.
Willodean stared at the boat while Sheriff John had a look. She was thinking about men in black and flying saucers that looked like big SUVs. She wasn’t normally an imaginative person, but she had seen someone that looked like a man in black, and he’d been driving a big SUV. In fact, she’d ticketed the big SUV and then she’d followed it until she’d lost it because of an urgent need to pee. What would anonymous government types want with Bubba and one of the strippers named Snuggles? Furthermore, why would they have taken Precious, too? Further furthermore, what was Bubba doing with a stripper named Snuggles or was that all in Ralph’s drug-addled brain?
Sheriff John was helping the park ranger with the electric wires that Ralph had broken in his haste to get the In Decent Seas out to the middle of the lake where he could sink it in his paranoid fervor. “Cain’t have this,” Sheriff John said to the ranger.
“That boy ain’t coming back here, is he?” the park ranger asked.
“Depends on what the judge says,” Sheriff John said.
“He’s got a pot patch on a boat,” the park ranger complained.
“Well, it could have been a floating meth lab,” Sheriff John said. “Might have blown up the entire marina.”
“Yeah,” the park ranger admitted, “that makes the pot not seem as bad. But what do I do with his boat?”
“I’ll put crime scene tape on it later,” Sheriff John said. He looked up and saw Willodean headed for the Bronco. “Willodean! Where you goin’?”
* * *
The last place Willodean had seen the Chevy Tahoe was at the Flying W Truck Stop and Grocery Store at the base of the exit ramp from Interstate 38, about five miles out of Pegramville. She knew the place well because she stopped there for snacks and to use their bathroom at least once during the last three weeks of shifts. The owners knew Willodean well, too. They didn’t seem to mind her trips to their bathroom, and Willodean was grateful that they kept their business, and in particular, their b
athrooms spic and span.
“What’s here?” Sheriff John asked from the passenger seat. He’d barely gotten in the Bronco as Willodean had started it up, and he clearly hadn’t wanted to interrupt her activities with a demand to drive.
“Mostly clean bathrooms,” Willodean said, “although Mrs. Peabody makes these cinnamon buns that are almost as good as Miz Adelia’s. I’m going to have to go on a diet after the baby is born.”
“You don’t look like you’ve gained much,” Sheriff John said obligingly.
Willodean smiled briefly. “You don’t lie very well but it’s okay. Neither does Bubba.”
“So what’s here?”
They sat in the darkest corner of the truck lot and watched the activity around them. The Flying W was a large truck stop and the last one for about ten miles as the interstate ran away to northern locales. Six miles south was Bufford’s Gas and Grocery, but it wasn’t set up for the big rigs. Therefore, this was the best place for truckers to stop and get some shuteye or perhaps to eat some of Mrs. Peabody’s chicken and dumplings or possibly to take a shower.
For a Wednesday in the early hours it was very busy. There were at least twenty rigs with trailers sporting such logos as Amazon Prime to Piggly Wiggly to FedEx. There was even a fifth-wheel horse trailer with a trainer who was pulling out a horse to walk the animal around the lot.
Truckers and drivers came and went. There was a truck wash next to the gas pumps and two truckers were using that to wash the road grime off their Peterbilt and Mack trucks.
There were also two women dressed in miniskirts, high heels, and tube tops. Neither of which missed the Pegram County Sheriff’s Department Bronco sitting in the deep shadows. They watched from the corner of the Flying W and one smoked while the other one spoke on a cellphone.
“This is where I saw the Tahoe last,” Willodean finally said.
Sheriff John looked around. “It’s not a bad place to lose a deputy.”
“If you’ve got a truck,” Willodean said. She sighed and opened the door. Sheriff John watched her trudge over to the two women before he sighed and went to join her. She hesitated after several steps and her head tilted to the left. Then she glanced at Sheriff John, “Do you hear a Basset hound howling? Because I do.”
Chapter 18
Bubba and Lots of Questions
Wednesday, August 23rd
Agent Peterson asked some more questions about the mysterious general and the equally mysterious big event. There were mentions of the network and the Book Man and what everything had to do with everything else. Bubba assumed that Peterson was an agent for an as yet undetermined government agency and that he was professionally connected to John J. Johnson the Third. He also assumed that Peterson was in charge of the “plumbers” who’d moved John’s body from Bazooka Bob’s, although he couldn’t understand why they would have wanted to do that.
“I demand coffee,” Bubba said. “Also a lawyer. His name is Lawyer Petrie, although his first name ain’t really lawyer. I’ve heard his first name before, but I cain’t he’p thinking of him as anything but Lawyer Petrie.” He shook his head. “Everything else just sounds wrong.”
“Your lawyer is the same lawyer as Nehemiah Clement Jones’s AKA Bam Bam Jones’s?” Peterson asked.
“Yes, I think so. You kin call him Bam Bam. I’ll know who you’re talking about.”
“And your mother, one Demetrice Snoddy, is also involved in the business at Bazooka Bob’s Gentlemen’s Club?”
“Girls, girls, girls, and free buffet on Tuesday,” Bubba added helpfully. He was tired and he was worried about Willodean worrying about him. To a lesser degree he was worried about his mother worrying about him. He was also worried about his dog, but she was probably lapping up attention in the other end of the tractor-trailer. Once the agents of an unknown government agency stopped plying her with treats, she would probably start getting antsy. “You need to walk my dog, Peterson. She ain’t bin outside since we was at the marina. Prolly needs water, too. Don’t any of you people have pets?”
“You should worry less about your dog and more about yourself, buster.”
“Bubba, not buster.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do?” Bubba was surprised. Sometimes he did know what other people meant, but mostly he didn’t really want to know what they meant. The truth was that Bam Bam had dragged him into this mess, and Bubba had to tamp down a desire to throw the other man under the bus, or in this case, under the tractor-trailer. (Throwing Bam Bam might have caused Bubba to giggle, but he shoved that wanton desire deep down inside his soul so that he didn’t giggle and sound like a maniacal mad genius on a bender to achieve world domination.) On the other side of that desire was the knowledge that Peterson and his happy crew of miscreants were bending the laws of the land to their own ends, and Bubba didn’t care for that, either. (In fact, hearing about that kind of activity was like listening to a person scrape their fingernails down a very long chalkboard, which wasn’t a very nice thing at all.)
“Look, Bubba,” Peterson said in a kindly fashion, “I know you’re tired. I’m tired. We’re all tired. I just need to know a few things.”
“I know,” Bubba said. Peterson’s ploy had changed from I’m-going-to-drill-at-you-until-you-sing-like-a-canary to hey-I’m-your-best-bud-just-let-me-help-you-out. “You need to know if it’s safe.”
“What?”
“There was a Dustin Hoffman movie marathon last weekend. We watched Marathon Man, Tootsie, and Rain Man before we gave up, which was bad because them was followed by Papillon and Kung Fu Panda. I reckon we could argue that Papillon and Kung Fu Panda weren’t really Dustin Hoffman in the starring role movies, but he stole Kung Fu Panda, for shore. Have you seen Kung Fu Panda? Dang good movie. Skidoosh!” Bubba paused for breath. That was the most he’d said in days. “Emphasis on the doosh part.” He waited for the other man to get the insult, but it apparently sailed over his head.
Peterson stared at Bubba with an expression that was equal parts confusion and frustration. Bubba had seen the look before in many people he had spoken to, especially when Bubba was in a particularly uncooperative mood. Bubba figured that it was only a matter of hours before he was out of the tractor-trailer or Peterson shot him. Probably the former because the government didn’t want to dispose of another dead body. Plus, there had been about five RVs and six other houseboats at Lake Plooey. All of them had been lit up indicating occupants who had likely seen what had happened to Bubba and David Beathard. (They couldn’t kill all the witnesses, could they?)
Bubba also supposed he should be worried about David, but once the government men ascertained that David was truly a resident of the Dogley Institute of Mental Well-Being, then they would undoubtedly cut him loose. (Peterson had said they were aware of David’s proclivities, but the statement had come across as decidedly disbelieving.)
“Coffee,” Bubba said, counting off on his fingers, “lawyer, dog. Mebe some chicken wings. I think it’s too late for that buffet at Bazooka Bob’s, but there’s a couple other places that serve wings all night long. Grubbo’s serves wings all the way to breakfast on Friday nights, er, Saturday morning. You should try Grubbo’s while you’re here. After my wedding they got to serving these drinks called a pink pantie dropper, which is made from gin, white tequila, vanilla ice cream, and pink lemonade. Turns out that everyone loves them. Except my father-in-law, who drank too many of them at my bachelor’s party and swears he will never drink pink lemonade again in his life no matter how long he lives.”
Peterson stared. Finally, he said, “We can keep you here as long as you live. No pink pantie droppers and no coffee.”
“That would just be mean,” Bubba said. He was getting tired of the interrogation. Generally, when he was arrested (and he wasn’t certain if he’d actually been arrested this time) there was a certain amount of interrogation. Sometimes there was a polygraph test. There were always questions about what he knew about so-and-so’s dead body,
but Peterson wasn’t really asking much about John J. Johnson’s dead body. Bubba tried to think about what he could reveal without tossing Bam Bam’s bacon into the fire. “Coffee,” he repeated. “And something else to et. Also, you need to tell my wife that you have me, else she’ll get worried. You don’t want to worry Willodean.”
“I’ll say,” Peterson muttered.
“What’s that?” Bubba asked, rattling his handcuffs.
“Nothing. Hey, Kirk, get some coffee in here.”
One of the others came in and sat a full Styrofoam cup in front of Bubba. He perked up and sniffed. It wasn’t the best coffee he’d ever smelled, but it was better than no coffee at all. (It wasn’t the French roast or Blue Mountain varieties he’d been promised earlier.) He took a drink and wrinkled his face. “This coffee isn’t good,” he commented to the third man, the one who was about six feet tall and had grayish-brown hair. He’d been the one helping with the handcuffing earlier.
“Did you drug it?” Bubba asked. “I mean, a little tasering is one thing. I kin understand how you little fellas might be threatened by a big one, but drugging is underhanded.”
“We don’t drug people,” the man who’d brought in the coffee said. Kirk, Bubba reminded himself, like Captain except without the James or the Tiberius. “We’re the government. The government doesn’t do things like that.”
“Hey,” Bubba protested while thinking, They do so drug people. “You need to go back and take a few more history classes, fella. Come to think of it, my neck is still sore.” Then he clamped his mouth shut. He knew what was happening. He sounded a little less like a bubba, and a lot more like someone who’d had a few college courses.
Peterson smiled slyly as if he’d been handed a gold coin. “Bubba didn’t sound like a redneck just now, did he?”
The other man Bubba had seen popped his head into the door. “Guy’s got a record. Also been in the military. Didn’t do so well there.”