Skink--No Surrender (10 page)

And, to be honest,
Silent Spring
was a good read. It came out back in 1962, before my father was born, but even half a century later, reading it will make you angry. Skink told me that DDT was basically outlawed after the book was published, which was an epic victory. He also said there are plenty of other chemicals that are just as bad and totally legal.

Nobody spoke again until an hour or so before sunrise, when a deer wandered up to the camp. “Hello, you,” I said, and it dashed off.

Darkness gave way to a soft golden glow in the east. For breakfast the governor poured some granola mix into a pan, and we ate it dry.

My phone went off, the first whale song ever heard in those woods.

“Malley?”

“Hey, it’s me.” She was half mumbling.

“You’re up early. Can you talk?”

“Not at all.”

“Tell me whatever you can.”

“Nothing, Mom,” she said. “Everything’s awesome.”

I could hear a male voice in the background. Obviously she’d told Online Talbo that she was calling her mother.

“If you need help,” I said, “ask me about your dad.”

“Sure. How’s Dad doing?”

I looked at the governor, who moved his fingers like he was pulling on a piece of taffy. String out the conversation, he was telling me. Get more information.

“If you’re still in Florida,” I said to Malley, “say something about the weather.”

“It’s been sunny and clear, just fantastic. You guys had rain?”

By now I was cupping the phone with both hands. “This is important, Mal. Are you still at that ivorybill place?”

“Yeah, I saw one up in the tree this morning!” she said lightly.

“The Choctawhatchee River, right? Like on the map we did for my project?”

“Absolutely, Mom. I miss you, too, but this is, like, the best trip ever. Off-the-hook amazing!”

“Listen to me,” I whispered. “I’m coming to get you.”

“That’s so sweet.”

Skink motioned for me to cover the phone. “Ask if
she’s north or south of the bridge on State Road 20. Then find out how far.”

“Mal, there’s a bridge on Road 20,” I said to her.

“I know, Mom.”

“Say ‘sardines’ if you’re north of there. Say ‘clams’ if you’re south.”

“Clams. And they looked delicious.”

“How far? Say something besides miles. Rainbows, hiccups, I don’t know …”

“Otters,” she said. “Yesterday I saw two of ’em.”

“Got it, Mal. Two miles south of the bridge.”

Then the voice in the background said: “Hang up, damn it!”

And she did.

We rolled out at dawn. The traffic was zero. Driving on the pavement was smoother than on the logging road, and way quieter.

“Faster, Richard,” said Skink.

I was perched with my butt on the Steinbeck novel, my eyes jumping back and forth between the road and the dashboard gauges. When the speedometer reached fifty, the governor raised a hand.

“Is this good?” I asked.

“Fabulous.” He sounded groggy, which concerned me.

“Did you take one of those pain pills?”

“I’m sharp as a tack, sport.”

“Good, ’cause I can’t do this alone.”

“What’s the speed limit out here?” he asked.

“The sign said fifty-five.”

“Very sensible.”

“I’d really like to keep it at fifty.”

“You’re a model citizen, Richard. Fifty it is.”

True to his promise, Skink plugged my iPod into the car’s sound system. I expected some harsh commentary, but he actually liked several artists on my playlist. His favorites were the Black Keys and Jack Johnson. When Adele came on, he shrugged and said no woman on the planet ever sang better than Linda Ronstadt. He spelled the last name for me, and I promised to check her out. When I played a cut by Skrillex, he covered his ears and started moaning like a sick baboon.

We were heading the same direction as the mystery Toyota, and my driving was smooth and steady. Then we came up behind a truck, and that’s when I got the shakes. It was a tall brown UPS delivery truck, the same kind my father had crashed into on his skateboard. An awful thought wormed into my head:

This is the last sight Dad ever saw
.

I must have gone pale, because Skink asked what was wrong. My hands were locked on the steering wheel and my eyes were riveted on the UPS logo. I wasn’t tailgating or anything, but I was definitely in a weird half-hypnotized mode.

The governor told me to pass the truck. The road had
four lanes, two going each way. Plenty of room to scoot by on the left.

“Can’t do it,” I said.

“Then pull over and take a break.”

“No, I’m okay.” Untrue.

The accident had totally been my father’s fault. The UPS truck had been parked by a curb with its flashers on. The driver, who felt the impact, jumped out of the cab to run back and help. Nothing could be done for Dad, of course. A police officer called Mom, and she got there ten minutes later. I was in school, thank God. She never talked to me and my brothers about what that scene was like, but it must have been brutal. I still have a dream where I’m there, too, trying to climb into the back of the ambulance so I can ride with my father to the hospital—except the ambulance doors won’t open, no matter how hard I pull. I always wake up soaked with sweat and gasping for air.

For like a year after he died, my mother wouldn’t order anything from Amazon, because in our neighborhood all the Amazon shipments are delivered by UPS. Every time Mom saw one of those brown trucks, she’d start crying. Now she’s over that and back to her crazy online shopping, and UPS comes to our house all the time. It had never bothered me—at least I didn’t think it had.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Skink said.

“Nothing.”

“The snake rattle you’re wearing around your neck? It has eighteen buttons.”

“Yeah, so?”

“That was a big-ass reptile, son. A button for every year of its life. You want to make it to age eighteen, or you want to break your momma’s heart?”

I was in a hot woozy fog. It felt like the car was driving
me
, not the other way around.

“Look behind us,” he said.

“Oh great.”

A dark sedan was on our tail, a bright blue light flashing on its dashboard.

“What now?” I asked blankly.

“Calmly remove your foot from the accelerator and place it on the brake pedal.”

It wasn’t the smoothest stop in the history of automotive travel, but I managed to guide the Malibu safely to the shoulder of the road. As soon as the UPS truck disappeared from view, I snapped out of my brainless daze. In the mirror I saw the officer stepping out of the unmarked police car.

“Highway Patrol,” the governor said.

Anxiously I turned to him. “Sorry, but I can’t lie about this. Not to a cop.”

“I understand.”

Now the trooper loomed at my window. He was tall and heavyset. Like Detective Trujillo, he wore plain
clothes—tan slacks and a Nike golf shirt, the same brand that Trent buys. A gold badge was clipped to his belt, a small blunt-nosed gun holstered on his hip.

I was too nervous to make eye contact, so I stared idiotically at my knuckles on the steering wheel.

“Officer, was I speeding?”

“Not at all.”

“This isn’t my car.”

Skink sighed. “He knows that.”

“Look, I’m really sorry,” I blurted, “but I don’t have a driver’s license.”

“You do now,” the trooper said.

He handed me a laminated card stamped with holograms of the Florida state seal. It was a real learner’s permit, with my real name and photo—the same one from my middle-school yearbook. My home address was on the license, along with my height and weight. Every detail was correct except the date of my birth, which was off by exactly one year.

That wasn’t a random mistake. It made me legally old enough to operate a motor vehicle with an adult riding in the passenger seat.

“Someone found it by the bridge in Panama City,” said the trooper.

I sat wordless, studying the shiny card.

Skink was smiling. “Must’ve fallen out of his backpack. Thank you, officer.”

The man leaned over and looked into the car. He
was an African American, and way old enough to be retired from the state police. His hair was white as a glacier, though his arms were like ship cables.

“Safe travels, gentlemen,” he said.

The governor winked at him and thundered: “Brother, you restore my faith in humanity!”

“I doubt that.” The man put on his sunglasses. “Richard, you keep a close eye on this old fart.”

A minute later the sedan was gone, a dark speck vanishing in the distance. I slipped my new driver’s license into a back pocket and turned the key in the Malibu.

“That was him, right?”

“Who?” said Skink.

“Your friend Mr. Tile.”

“Can you believe he called me an old fart?”

TEN

The Choctawhatchee River was wide and sleepy-looking. We stood on the Road 20 bridge gazing down at the brown water, swollen by hard summer rains. Lush trees lined the banks, and a pair of ospreys coasted back and forth searching for mullets.

“Mom says we’ve got three days and then she’s calling the cops.”

“Ha! Plenty of time,” the governor said.

A large fish made a splash by the pilings, and Skink declared it was a sturgeon. “They jump like lunatics during mating season. One of ’em demolished a Jet Ski a few years back.
That
I’d pay to see.”

“You sure this is the right place?”

“I am.” He was peering down at something, shielding his good eye from the sun. “Stay here,” he told me.

“Where are you going?”

“For a dip.”

With surprising agility he crossed to the end of the span and descended a steep grassy slope toward the base of the bridge. For a few moments I lost sight of him
among the concrete pillars. When he emerged, I noticed that he’d removed his leg splint and kicked off both his boots.

Into the river he went, and that’s when I saw what he’d seen—a long whitish shape on the bottom. The angled light gave it a hazed, spooky glow.

I hurried down to the shoreline, but I was too freaked to jump in after him. “Useless” is the word for it. I actually turned away and threw up.

The governor dove three, four, five times. Whenever his head popped to the surface, he sounded like a creaky old manatee sucking air. I folded into a heap on the ground and waited for the sky to stop spinning. It was more than fear that paralyzed me; it was pure dread.

Skink sloshed out of the river, panting. His hair was slicked and his silver beard glistened.

I practically choked on the question: “Is that it?”

“Yep.”

“You check the license tag?”

“Tag’s been yanked off.”

“Is … is she—?”

“Nobody’s inside, son. Not a soul.”

“You’re a hundred percent sure it’s the same one? Did you look at the back windshield?”

“There is a pellet hole. There’s also a big rock on the accelerator.”

He located the tire tracks where the bogus Talbo Chock had sent the stolen Toyota rolling into the
Choctawhatchee. Now the submerged car was obscured by a milky cloud of mud, stirred by Skink’s explorations.

“But you didn’t see Malley?” I asked in a thick voice. “You’d tell me if she was down there, right?”

“I’d have her in my arms right now.”

“What about the trunk? You look in there?” It made me sick to think about it, but I had to know.

“I popped the trunk,” Skink said patiently. “Nothing but a spare tire and some soggy Bibles. The preacher’s stash, no doubt.”

“So Malley’s still alive!”

“My guess is they got a boat.”

Which meant they were probably moving downriver. If they were two miles from the bridge at dawn, when Malley called, they could be much farther now. It all depended on where the fake Talbo intended to go, and how fast. Maybe he was just searching for a place to hide on the river.

“We need a boat, too,” I said, “like
immediately
.”

The governor smiled and extended a dripping arm toward the ramp on the downriver side of the bridge. There a middle-aged man and woman were carefully lifting an aluminum canoe off the top of their minivan.

“That,” Skink said, “is what you call destiny.”

“So, those people are just going to loan us their canoe? Two total strangers.”

“Of course not.”

“Please don’t tell me we’re going to steal it.”

“This is not the movies, Richard. There’s a shoe box in the back of the car. Please go get it while I take a long, glorious leak.”

The couple was Mr. and Mrs. Capps, from Thomasville, Georgia. At first they were rattled by the strange vision of the governor lurching their way, but before long he charmed them into believing that he was my grandfather. He said we were on a camping trip but that some jerk stole our kayak down in Apalachicola.

“Richard was devastated,” Skink said. “Right, buddy?”

I tried my best to look devastated.

Mrs. Capps patted my shoulder and said it was a cold rotten world if people went around swiping kids’ watercrafts.

“So true,” Skink agreed with a frown. “I tried to stop the thug but he whacked me on the skull with a crowbar and then ran over my foot with his station wagon.”

He displayed his impressive injuries to Mr. Capps and his wife, who were outraged. They asked if we’d called the police and I said yes, of course, but the bad guy still got away. That was my only contribution to the governor’s made-up story.

“Folks, here’s the situation,” he went on. “This is probably our very last river trip together, me and Richard. I’m not gettin’ any younger and, well, last time I went in the hospital the MRI didn’t look so peachy. It’s my lungs.”

Naturally, Mr. and Mrs. Capps took this to mean that the cockeyed old man was deathly ill.

“I’m so sorry,” said Mr. Capps.

Except it turned out he was actually
Doctor
Capps, and he started pressing Skink for details about his medical condition. From the governor’s mumbling, it was obvious that he hadn’t thought up an actual disease for himself, so I piped up and said, “Gramps’s got emphysema.”