Skink--No Surrender

  This was the first time I’d heard my cousin tell the story, and it sounded about right.

  “Well, you picked a fine river,” Skink said. “There’s a special bird lives here that can’t be found anywhere else in the country. Make that the entire planet.”

  Malley smiled. “You’re talkin’ about ivorybills. I saw one.” She glanced at me. “It was amazing.”

  I assumed she said this because Tommy had overheard her talking about the woodpeckers when she’d called to give me a clue to her whereabouts—back when we both had working cell phones and laptops, when we were actually connected to the rest of civilization. It seemed like a long time ago.

  “Young Thomas,” said Skink, “what happened to your nose?”

  “Some dirtbag sucker-punched me and I had to kick his butt. It’s none a your flippin’ business.”

  “You a North Florida boy? I am, too.”

  “Get me some water,” Tommy said to Malley.

  “She mentioned you called yourself ‘Talbo’ in the chitchat room. That a family nickname?” The governor’s tone was perfectly harmless.

  “Talbo Chock. He was a friend of mine got killed in Iraq.”

  “Afghanistan,” I said.

  Skink nodded. “Always sad to hear that.”

  “He was in the Marines,” added Tommy.

  “You guys serve together?”

  “Naw.”

  Malley poured water into Tommy’s mouth, since he couldn’t hold the bottle with his catfish hand. If it was me, I might have grabbed for his gun, though I understood why she didn’t. If she’d missed, he likely would have started shooting again.

  In the meantime, I’d opened my knife, and I was making progress on the rope. Skink kept the conversation rolling. “Are your folks coming to the wedding?”

  “What for? God, no,” said Tommy.

  “It’s a big day, that’s why. I’ve never been married myself.”

  “Who cares?”

  “Never married?” Malley said. “Why not?”

  The governor laughed and laughed. “There’s a great song called ‘Heart of Gold,’ and that’s what it would take to be married to me—someone with a heart of pure gold. Your parents know the words.”

  “I’ve heard it,” I said.

  “Me, too,” said my cousin.

  “Seriously? Shut up!” Tommy croaked. He was fighting tremors that made his shoulders pinch.

  Skink asked Tommy how old he was and got no answer.

  “He’s twenty-four,” Malley said.

  “Old enough to know a blue heron isn’t a game bird, right? Meaning it’s against the law to kill one. A duck or a bobwhite quail—that’s different. But there’s no hunting season on herons.”

  The governor was hung up on the bird that Tommy almost shot. I sensed that he put Tommy in the same sleazy category as Dodge Olney, the turtle-egg poacher.

  “Ever been to jail?” Skink inquired.

  “Maybe I have,” said Tommy, trying to sound proud of it.

  “How about your father? Possibly there’s a genetic explanation.”

  “My old man’s a saint. Just ask him.”

  At this point I was sawing vigorously on the rope, hoping I didn’t accidentally cut my wrists. I couldn’t actually see what the knife was doing behind me.

  My cousin brought up Tommy’s supposed career as a big-time party DJ, which made no impression at all on Skink.

  “The only DJs I ever heard were on the radio,” he said.

  “You mean, like, when, back in the Stone Age?” Tommy sniped.

  The situation inside was heading downhill. Outside, the storm gave no signs of letting up. Skink began to croon the heart-of-gold song. He had an okay voice, but Tommy wasn’t in the mood for a serenade.

  Another powerful gust of wind came up the river swinging the bow hard, only this time the bow didn’t swing back. The houseboat continued to spin.

  “We just lost our anchor,” Skink casually announced.

  It was true. We were bobbing down the Choctawhatchee like a waterlogged cork. Tommy swore loudly. He ordered Malley to start the engine, and make it fast.

  Just then the knots binding me went slack under a hard stroke of the blade. I kept my arms in the same position so Tommy wouldn’t notice I was free. He was busy at the control console coaching my cousin, who pretended to be totally baffled by the ignition switch.

  Slowly I slid the pocketknife behind Skink, and he palmed it. Time had run out for Malley’s kidnapper.

  Or so I thought.

  SEVENTEEN

  The engine wouldn’t start.

  Tommy Chalmers didn’t know that the houseboat was equipped with a bilge pump that automatically switched on whenever water accumulated. The pump had been running nonstop during the heavy squall, draining so much juice from the boat’s battery that there wasn’t enough left to spark the big outboard.

  “Unbelievable!” Tommy seethed. “You got to be kidding.” For a moment I thought he might put a bullet in the ignition switch.

  Malley sighed and stepped away from the controls. “Hey, I’m done. This is not my deal.”

  The governor said, “We’re all part of something bigger now. Enjoy the drift.”

  At any moment I expected to see him shake off the rope and pounce on Tommy. I wondered if he would use my knife or only his bare hands. My cousin must have been anticipating a scuffle, too. She moved to a corner of the cabin, took off the bush hat and sat down on her travel bag.

  “This is no good, Malley!” Tommy kicked the steering console. “Can you say total flippin’ disaster?”

  Skink waited until Tommy calmed down before asking why his right hand was wrapped in a bloody T-shirt. Tommy refused to answer, so Malley provided a brief account of the catfish episode.

  “Been there,” said Skink with a sympathetic wince.

  Tommy grunted. “Who cares?”

  “He won’t let me put any medicine on it,” Malley said.

  “Why not?” the governor asked. “Tommy, are you a fan of pain?”

  “No, he’s just stubborn.”

  Tommy positioned the flashlight on the console with the feeble beam aimed at us. I peeked behind Skink and observed the knife blade going back and forth.

  When he makes his big move, I thought, it’ll be epic. Already I was imagining a triumphant phone call to my mother: We got Malley back! She’s okay! I could picture Uncle Dan and Aunt Sandy rushing out of the house when we pulled up. They’d be crying and hugging my cousin so hard that her eyes would bulge. I could see myself down at the police station, telling Detective Trujillo how the rescue went down—he’d be totally blown away.

  But back in real time, in the real world, Tommy Chalmers still held a loaded gun, and Skink still sat there wearing a crown of green waterweeds and a snail shell crammed into one eye socket. Lightning crackled around us as the houseboat spun in slow motion, pushed by the storm and pulled by the river’s current.

  And my cousin, for reasons known only to her, decided to stir things up even more. “T.C., there’s something we should tell you.”

  “Who’s we?” Tommy asked.

  I had no idea what Malley was going to say. Looking back, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. She wanted Tommy to know he’d been outwitted.

  Matter-of-factly she announced, “Carson’s real name is Richard. He’s the cousin I told you about.”

  Tommy needed a few seconds to process the information.

  “What the hell’s he doing here?” he huffed.

  “What do you think? He came to save me from you.”

  “Okay, that’s bull. Nobody knew which way we went! I made sure a that.”

  “Well, he found us, didn’t he?” Malley said. “See, some people really care, T.C. They don’t just fake it. It’s called a conscience.”

  Tommy blinked sweat beads off his eyelashes. “And some people don’t slug their boyfriends in the nose.”

  “You’re not my boyfriend. You were never my boyfriend.”


  “Ha! Yeah, right.” He turned a bloodshot glare on me. “I never bought your stupid story. I knew you definitely didn’t steal no yacht and run for Cuba. What about him, the old man?”

  I said, “He’s just a friend who offered to help.”

  “You lie. Look at him—he’s a bum off the street!”

  “Very classy, T.C.,” said Malley. “Like you’re one of the Kennedys. Or maybe you’re a royal and you just forgot to tell me. Prince Thomas Chalmers of Kensington Palace, right?”

  Now she was doing her British accent, but with a nasty edge.

  Skink said, “I take no offense at the man’s remarks. Often I’m misjudged due to my appearance.”

  I thought: Enough talking already. He had finished cutting himself free. I could see the rope in pieces behind him, the pocketknife twirling in his fingers.

  “He looks like some hobo got run over by a train!” Tommy chortled.

  “Actually, it was a truck,” I said.

  “Partially run over,” Skink added for clarification, “although I make no excuses.”

  My cousin reminded Tommy that he looked awfully sketchy himself. “You’re one to talk, with your fat nose and club hand!”

  It was like pouring gasoline on a fire, but that’s how Malley’s anger was coming out, as sarcastic digs.

  “Don’t listen to him—he’s just jealous,” Malley said to the governor. “You’ve got epic teeth. Do you whiten?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Crest strips, right?”

  “I floss like a fiend,” Skink replied with a straight face, “sometimes using barbed wire.”

  “Okay, that’s it. Let’s move on,” I said.

  What I wanted was the night to be over. Even wracked with fever, Tommy was able to comprehend that he couldn’t allow me and Skink to leave. You can’t just tie up a couple of strangers, wave a gun in their faces and then say never mind, see ya later. They’re going to call the cops as soon as they can.

  We were eyewitnesses to a crime, Skink and I, which meant Tommy either had to keep us as prisoners or kill us.

  “How’d you find out where we were?” he asked. “Did she tell you?”

  “No, I traced your cell phone signal. There’s an app called triangulated telemetry.”

  Which sounded totally legit, even though I’d just made it up. Tommy seemed semi-persuaded until Malley butted in again.

  “He’s full of crap, T.C. I told him where we were,” she said. “We had a code on the phone. Isn’t that right, Richard?”

  I stared at her wordlessly. What I wanted to say was: Are you out of your mind? You want to get us all shot?

  “Would a real ‘girlfriend’ pull that sorta thing, T.C.?” my cousin went on. “Rat you out? No way! Because I wasn’t ever your girlfriend, so quit saying I was. ‘Triangulated telemetry,’ are you freakin’ serious?”

  In a husky voice Tommy said: “What kinda code?”

  Skink stood up, grumbling, “You youngsters are giving me a migraine.” He continued to keep his hands behind him. Tommy, who didn’t notice the rope fragments on the floor, ordered him to sit back down.

  “Relax, son. What have you got to fear from a broken old street bum like me?” The governor was so tall that he had to stoop slightly inside the houseboat. “Just stretchin’ my legs,” he said.

  “Sit your ass down. Final warning.” Tommy aimed the pistol at Skink’s heart, and for a sick man his arm seemed very steady. Frighteningly steady.

  Malley was biting her lower lip. “Don’t make things worse, T.C.”

  He gave a hollow laugh. “Worse than this? Not possible, babe.”

  That’s when I stood up, too—not a hero move, I promise. When the governor lunged for Tommy (which I hoped would happen any second), my intention was to grab my cousin and get both of us out of there.

  Skink said, “Thomas, let’s review why your integrity is being questioned.”

  “Let’s not,” he snapped.

  “You took advantage of this young lady’s situation, her problems at home, by luring her into accompanying you on this trip. To make a personal connection you hid behind a false name, the identity of a young Marine who died in combat—a hoax on your part that personally I find unforgivable.”

  “Say one more word, old man, you’re dead. Talbo Chock was my best friend ever!”

  “Then tell me the name of the cemetery where he’s buried. Surely you attended the funeral.”

  “I don’t remember. It was Our Lady of the Blessed something.”

  “Wrong.”

  Tommy was busted and he knew it. He shivered wretchedly but he didn’t lower the pistol.

  “I’m not a deeply religious person,” Skink continued, “but stealing a preacher’s car is a slime-dog move, even by the gutter standards of today’s common criminal. I presume this houseboat was obtained the same way—by theft rather than an honest purchase.”

  “It’s a loaner,” Tommy said dully.

  “No, he stole it,” Malley interjected, “in the middle of the night. After he sunk the car, we hitched a ride to some marina and jumped the fence.”

  Skink brought his freed hands out from behind his back. No pocketknife.

  You’re kidding me, I thought.

  “Son,” he said to Tommy, “you’ve chosen the proverbial dead-end highway. Anyone who takes pot shots at a lovely wading bird is a hopeless defective, in my view, an evolutionary mistake. There’s a natural order to what happens to you next, an inevitable conclusion to all this low villainy.”

  It was quite a performance. Dodge Olney probably heard the same sort of lecture before he wound up in the ambulance.

  Tommy wore a crooked, clueless grin. “Oh yeah? Well, here’s my conclusion. I’m gonna kill all three of you and dump your dead bodies in the river.”

  “No, you are NOT!” Malley was beet-faced, shaking a fist. “You’ve done enough, T.C. Too much!”

  Skink parted the sheet and used a frayed edge to wipe a circle in the condensation on the windshield. Peering downstream he said, “By the way, Thomas, there is a word that rhymes with orange. ‘Sporange.’ S-p-o-r-a-n-ge. The definition can be found in the unabridged Oxford dictionary. I’d say go look it up, except you won’t have the opportunity.”

  Tommy cocked the pistol’s hammer maybe two seconds before the houseboat struck the half-submerged tree stump that Skink must have spotted ahead of us when he looked through the window. The boat shuddered, swayed—then the gun went off. Blue light flashed from the muzzle, and the bang was deafening.

  The governor didn’t go down. He was on top of Tommy in an instant, yelling for me and Malley to get off the bleeping boat. I dragged her breathless and squirming through the cabin door. Outside in a stinging rain I pulled her close and told her everything was all right. She was shuddering, weeping into the front of my shirt. I’d never seen her that way before, and I won’t lie. It shook me up.

  Skink appeared, hauling Tommy by the hair and backlit by the strobing flashlight, which was rolling around the floor of the cabin. Once again the old man had been lucky, the bullet barely grazing an ear lobe. He hurled something overboard, and from the heavy splash I knew it was the gun.

  “Okay, let’s go! Let’s go!” I screamed.

  “With no further delay,” he said in that canyon-deep rumble, and with a gentle sweep of an arm he launched me and my cousin over the side, into the muddy roiling Choctawhatchee.

  Malley and I are both good swimmers, but swimming for fun is way different than swimming for your life. We got to shore, but you wouldn’t call it graceful. Like two weary frogs we shimmied up the slick bank and hugged the trunk of a cypress, flinching at every thunderclap.

  I turned my head so I could see the houseboat. It was drifting away at a peculiar tilt, pulling the canoe like a sleek dog on a leash. A familiar wide-shouldered silhouette remained visible on the aft deck. He’d been watching to make sure Malley and I had made it. I called out his name, but of course he wasn’t coming.

/>   A fork of lightning split the clouds, a phenomenal silver-yellow pulse that froze Skink in place like the flash from an old-time camera. One arm was raised skyward, the hand open in a farewell wave. At the end of his other arm hung the thrashing, raging form of Tommy Chalmers.

  The governor’s smile seemed to cast its own light.

  That insane movie-star smile.

  I swear I could still see it after the sky went black.

  EIGHTEEN

  During the storm I fell fast asleep. Incredible but true.

  Scared stiff, plastered to a tree, soaked to the bone, thunder booming, Malley huddled at my side.…

  Not only did I sleep, I had a dream, which I blame on watching too much TV with my stepfather. A Bigfoot was chasing me through the parking lot of an Applebee’s. It wasn’t your standard Bigfoot, all hairy and ape-like. This one was scaly and pink and stunk like a garfish, though it was wearing a really sweet pair of Oakley shades. Trent would have been blown away. The Bigfoot didn’t look like Tommy Chalmers, but instead it was a dead ringer for Mrs. Curbside, my seventh-grade Language Arts teacher. FYI, in real life Mrs. Curbside weighs maybe a hundred pounds.

  The dream Bigfoot didn’t ever catch me, but I felt worn out when I woke up. There was rapid tapping, like a drum roll, on the tree trunk. I could feel the vibration in my fingertips. Malley was sitting on the bank trying to dry her sneakers. Her soaked hoodie lay in a heap beside her.

  She said, “See? I really saw one.”

  “Saw what?”

  “Shh. Don’t spook him.”

  I followed her gaze up the branches to where a tall red-crested woodpecker was drilling holes in the bark. It was a cloudless morning, so the bird’s dark feathers stood out vividly against the pale sky.

  “Mal, that’s not an ivorybill,” I whispered.

  “Is too!”

  “There’s no white down its back. And check out the beak,” I said. “It’s too dark and pointy. That’s a male pileated.”