Skink--No Surrender (13 page)

What I didn’t want to see was a dead body floating—the governor’s body—but I braced for that sad sight. By noon I was totally whipped from the tough hike. My legs were sore, my face was splotched with insect bites and I’d torn a hole in the knee of my pants. It got so hot that I finally set my backpack on a cypress knee and waded waist-deep in the water, which felt awesome.

I could’ve stood there for hours, the cool current streaming around my legs, but another boat appeared, heading upriver. I kept yelling to the driver until he finally saw me, and he made a wide turn toward shore. His boat was slow and low-riding, about twenty feet long with a squared-off bow. A small barge, really. It was piled with dead gars, which was weird because they aren’t any good to eat. They’re ugly fish, tough-skinned and tubular, with a flat beak of a mouth packed with needle-sharp teeth.

“Whassup?” the man said when he got close.

“Sir, you have a phone?”

“Do not.”

The man was unshaven and wore no shirt. Not to be mean, but he could have used a bra. His balding scalp
looked sunburned, his chubby face flushed from heat and hard labor. He wore black wraparound sunglasses with the NASCAR logo on the frames.

The boat stunk from the load of gars. I didn’t see any gig poles, but the fish definitely had holes in them. Dried blood streaked the man’s meaty arms, and slime-green gar scales stuck to the hair on his chest. A swarm of bottle flies was orbiting his melon-sized head.

“Did you pass anybody on your way up the river?” I asked.

The gar gigger just shrugged. Not the friendliest dude. I explained that I was looking for my cousin.

“Sure you are,” he said.

“No, seriously. She’s staying on a houseboat with a friend of hers. My canoe got away from me last night, so now I don’t have any way of reaching her.”

“How the hell do you lose a canoe?”

“It happened during the storm,” I said, skipping the details. “My name’s Richard. Richard Sloan.”

When Mom married Trent she took his last name, McKenna. I kept my father’s name, and Trent was totally fine with that.

The gar man didn’t volunteer an identity. “Didn’t see no canoe, but they’s a houseboat not far.”

“Can you show me where?” I had like seven bucks left in my pocket, sopping wet, and I offered it to him. “To help pay for the gas,” I said.

“O-right.”

I stepped aboard carrying my backpack and Skink’s nine-iron. I could practically hear Mom’s frantic voice in my ear:
Richard, have you lost your mind? The guy might be a serial killer!

Normally I’d never have set foot on a boat with an unknown character, but this wasn’t a normal situation. In my mind, it was life or death. The gar man didn’t frighten me, though he didn’t look particularly dependable. My plan: One wrong move and I’d brain him with Skink’s golf club, then dive overboard.

On deck there was no place to stand except among the dead fish, which were slippery. The gar man whisked the seven dollars from my hand. I was determined to get on his good side because I didn’t want to go up against Online Talbo one on one.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Nickel.”

“Nice meeting you, Mr. Nickel.”

“Ain’t my last name. It’s my first.”

He had ridiculous B.O. I mean he reeked like a porta-potty. Mix that with the gasoline fumes and fish stink, and it was hard to take a breath aboard that boat without gagging.

“Hold on tight,” he said, and banged the throttle forward with a bare knuckle.

“Hey, you’re going the wrong way.”

“Seven bucks gits you to the other side of the river, no farther. Hike down a ways, you’ll see the houseboat anchored up beside some mossy oaks.”

“Really? You’re just going to drop me off and go?”

“Does this look like a taxicab, boy?”

“No, sir,” I muttered.

“These garfish ain’t gettin’ any fresher.”

“Whatever.” I was bummed, but I didn’t want to argue with the man. I couldn’t imagine who would buy a boat full of dead gars, or why. Not even Skink would eat one, and he’d eat just about anything.

When we reached the opposite shore, Nickel slowed the engine and nudged the barge into a grassy cove. “Out you go,” he said.

“Wait. How do I know you really saw the houseboat? You might just be telling me that to get my money.”

“Whoa, you callin’ me a liar?”

That’s when I noticed the gun propped behind the console. A .22 rifle, the stock glistening with fish slime. Nickel hadn’t gigged all those gars—he’d shot them.

“Sorry,” I said quickly. “I believe you.”

Insulting a stranger is never a brilliant idea, especially a stranger with a gun. Fortunately, the gar man seemed to accept my apology.

“It’s maybe twenty-four foot, the houseboat. White with blue trim, but she’s all faded out. They’s an old Evinrude on the back, a one-fifteen. I didn’t see nobody on board when I went by, but they was clothes hung to dry.”

“Girls’ clothes?” I asked.

“Yeah, some.” Nickel seemed embarrassed to have noticed. “Saw a bathing suit.”

“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 bedsheets. 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 suitcase 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. Leaning 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.