Skink--No Surrender Page 12

  “I said shut up, both of ya!” His lower jaw was grinding back and forth like a steam shovel.

  “God, can you just chillax?” my cousin said. “Carson’s cool. Tell him what you told me, okay? He’ll understand totally.”

  Tommy took a minute to get the words lined up before saying: “Talbo was a superclose friend of mine!” Another lie. I knew Tommy had gotten Corporal Chock’s name from the funeral papers he’d found in the Toyota that he stole from the preacher.

  “When he died,” Tommy went on, “it’s like I got hit by a Mack truck. His folks called me down in Orlando to gimme the news, and it was like a part of me croaked, too. Know what I’m sayin’?”

  “So then he started calling himself Talbo,” Malley said. “Right, T.C.?”

  “Yeah. Hearing people say his name, that made me feel better. Like, in a way he was still alive.”

  One of the lamest b.s. stories ever. Still, I said, “Sure. I get that.”

  “I didn’t mean no disrespect. I loved the man.”

  “Worshipped him,” added Malley. “This is T.C.’s grieving process.”

  I couldn’t believe she spoke those words with a straight face. That’s when I realized what she was trying to do—calm Tommy down by acting like she was on his side. Her eyes told the cold truth. I was dying to find out what exactly he’d done to her, but that part would have to wait until she and I were alone.

  “Come on, let’s eat,” she said.

  Tommy Chalmers snorted. “Thought you weren’t hungry.”

  “Well, I’m starved,” I said.

  The catfish was lying in the bottom of the canoe near Skink’s spinning rod. There was no sign of the stringer that had held our bass. Tommy unloaded a six-pack of beer, a small cooler of ice and a five-gallon gasoline container, the same type I carry on my boat back home. Where he’d gotten the gas and ice I didn’t know, but it couldn’t have been too far from the river.

  I offered to skin and gut the fish, but Tommy said, “Just stay outta my way.”

  When he wasn’t looking, Malley stuck out her tongue at him. I mouthed the words, “What happened to his nose?”

  She raised her right hand clenched into a fist. I felt another hot rush of anger toward Tommy. Maybe my cousin had punched him for smashing her laptop, or maybe he’d done something worse.

  I considered making a hero move for the nine-iron, but then what? The truth: When it came to fighting, I had no self-confidence and zero experience. Dad was opposed to violence of any sort, and it’s one of the few things he was superstrict about. My brothers got grounded every time they smacked each other, and they knew better than to ever smack me, the smallest one in the family. Consequently, I had no idea how hard a punch I could take. What I did know was that Tommy Chalmers outweighed me by at least fifty pounds. An ambush seemed like the best chance I had.

  The next question was whether or not I could hit any man, even a lowlife criminal, while his back was turned. The answer turned out to be no. The rage I’d felt, those brave fantasies about pummeling my cousin’s kidnapper—all of it stayed locked inside. I didn’t do a darn thing except stand there like a worthless wimp, watching the Talbo impersonator try to kill our lunch in the bottom of the canoe.

  Besides The Bigfoot Diaries and cage fights, my stepfather’s third-favorite TV show is the one where overweight rednecks jump into muddy rivers to wrestle ginormous catfish. It’s pretty sick, and those guys definitely know what they’re doing. Catfish can live a while out of water, as Tommy was finding out. They also have fin spines that are covered with toxic slime, and you do not want to get stabbed. A fishing guide in Loggerhead Beach told me it’s the worst pain ever, then comes the infection. His foot had swelled up like a roasted chicken.

  Strange as it seems, the bigger catfish are actually the easiest to handle. Smaller ones are more slippery, and their spines are sharper. Tommy’s prize weighed only about three pounds, but even if I’d warned him to be careful, he was too macho to pay attention.

  “I know what I’m doin’,” he proclaimed to Malley.

  Wrong.

  His scream was epic. On and on it went. Bone-chilling, as they say. On both sides of the river, spooked birds shot out of the treetops.

  My cousin covered her eyes. The dorsal spine of the catfish had gored the palm of Tommy’s right hand and was poking through the other side like a knitting needle. He was basically impaled.

  At that instant I should have shoved the creep out of the canoe and paddled away with Malley. That’s what the old governor would have done.

  Me? I almost fainted. Pathetic but true.

  Dark red streams ran down Tommy’s right arm while the catfish dangled there writhing. It was a visual I’d like to forget but probably never will. My head got foggy and my knees started to buckle, so I grabbed for the rail of the houseboat.

  Peeking through her fingers, Malley noticed my wobbly condition and hissed, “Don’t you dare faint!”

  By now Tommy’s dungeon scream had dissolved into poodle-style yelps. That didn’t bother me as much as the blood spouting from his punctured hand. The wound looked a hundred times worse than the gash that the turtle-egg thief had put in Skink’s scalp.

  “I can’t pull it off!” Tommy roared. “I’m stuck!”

  “Just cut it, dude,” I said weakly.

  His unpunctured hand located the hatchet in his belt. Feverishly he began whacking at the catfish. I totally expected to see human fingers scattered like carrot sticks in the canoe, but Tommy’s aim was surprisingly good. With repeated sharp chops he managed to sever the spike at the base of the fin. Howling, he yanked it from his flesh. The injured catfish went sailing overboard and, amazingly, swam away.

  Lunch was stale potato chips.

  * * *

  Mom says life is about making the most of your opportunities. I’d wasted a huge one. Tommy Chalmers had been an easy target—doubled over with pain, totally distracted. One good push and he’s in the river.

  But, no, I’m too freaking dizzy to move. Unbelievable.

  Now all three of us were back inside the houseboat’s cabin because it was blazing hot out on the deck, and a bold new herd of flies was buzzing around the bloody canoe. Tommy had wrapped his holey hand in a dirty Imagine Dragons T-shirt.

  He drank a beer, while Malley and I shared a lukewarm bottle of water. When another bass boat sped past, he ordered both of us to sit tight. It was depressing to see him feeling better.

  “So, Carson, where you from?” he asked.

  “Pensacola.” As good a place as any, I thought.

  “Why’d you run away from home?”

  “Got in trouble,” I said.

  “Yeah? Like for what?”

  “Stealing a yacht.” It sounded more impressive than stealing a car. As long as I was inventing a new life history, why not go full-on outlaw?

  Tommy sniggered. “You didn’t steal no yacht.”

  “Hundred-and-twenty-footer. They caught me halfway to Havana. There was a story in the Tampa papers, you don’t believe me.”

  A total bluff.

  “So you’re a pirate,” said Tommy sarcastically. “Like Blackbeard ’cept you can’t even grow one.”

  Malley’s eyes were flashing. “Did they put you in jail?”

  “Juvie hall,” I said. “My folks bailed me out, right? But I didn’t want to stick around for a trial. The judge knew me from other times. He was not a fan.”

  Tommy wasn’t buying any of it. Or if he was, he didn’t want Malley to think he was.

  “So, what was this so-called yacht you stole?” he asked.

  “It’s called Lola’s Chariot.” Where that name came from is a mystery. I’ve never met anybody named Lola.

  “I’m gonna Google it,” Tommy said, “soon as we get to somewhere I can charge my laptop.”

  Malley told him to stop hogging the chips. “I want to hear more about Carson,” she said.

  “Well, I don’t.” Tommy jerked the thumb of his good hand to
ward the cabin door. “Time for you to go, Captain No-Beard.”

  “Make you a deal,” I said. “I’ll go catch us some nice bass if you let me hang around for dinner.”

  “Ha! I can catch all I want anytime.” He wanted me to believe he was an ace survivalist, but the confidence in his voice wasn’t real. After the catfish fiasco he wasn’t keen on trying again.

  “I’ll let you cast,” he said, “but I’m ridin’ along in the canoe.”

  I was hoping he’d say that. My scheme was to head upriver and trick him into stepping ashore. Then I’d leave him there, paddle like crazy back to the houseboat and pick up Malley.

  “Hey, I wanna come, too,” she said.

  Tommy told her the canoe wasn’t big enough.

  “He’s right,” I chimed in.

  Malley speared me with her famous ice-princess stare. She didn’t want to be left behind—or maybe she didn’t want me to be alone on the water with Tommy Chalmers. Just because she didn’t act afraid of him didn’t mean she wasn’t. My cousin likes to give the impression that she’s always in control, unfazed by anything or anybody.

  “Wait outside,” Tommy said, and closed the cabin door behind him.

  I searched the canoe for the hatchet. It wasn’t there. Under the backseat I spotted the shiny spinner that Skink had used to fool those three bass. I tied the lure to the clear mono line on the fishing rod using an improved clinch knot, which my brothers had taught me when I was little.

  Malley and Tommy were still talking inside. I couldn’t make out the words, but the conversation didn’t sound warm and friendly.

  I began casting and reeling in, making a clockwise sweep of the open water behind the houseboat. To test my aim, I threw the lure at brush piles and half-submerged logs, the sort of places where fish like to lurk. I wanted Tommy to see that I knew how to handle a spinning rod.

  When he finally emerged, the small ax was again wedged in his belt—definitely not part of my clever plan. It dawned on me that possibly he didn’t care if I caught any fish for dinner; the canoe ride offered him an easy way to get rid of a pesky intruder.

  “Let’s you and me go,” he said.

  “Wait, I just had a strike.”

  “Just now? You’re full a crap.”

  “No, I swear.”

  I was stalling big-time. The fishing expedition had been a truly bad idea, possibly one of my worst. Tommy Chalmers wasn’t dumb enough to let me scam him. He planned to either abandon me somewhere along the Choctawhatchee or chop me into little pieces, as he’d threatened to do to the imaginary rattlesnake in the toilet.

  I reeled in fast and made another long cast to the same imaginary fish in the same imaginary spot.

  “You deaf? I said let’s go!” The canoe rocked when Tommy stepped in.

  “There he is!” I yelled, giving the rod a hard jerk.

  “Just sit down and shut up.”

  “No, but look!”

  I don’t pray often (and I definitely wasn’t praying when it happened), but what else could it have been except an honest-to-God miracle? Out of the river rocketed a big bronze-shouldered bass, and hooked in its bucket mouth was the silvery spinner attached to my line.

  Twice more the bass jumped as Tommy watched dumbstruck, clutching his bloody wrapped hand. One thing I know how to do is fight a fish, and I whipped that sucker in no time flat. A five-pounder, and that’s no bull.

  “Enough for all of us,” I said, all casual, hoisting the bass by its lower lip.

  At first Tommy was quiet. By his clouded expression you could tell that his brain was sorting through the options. Part of it apparently was reminding him how hungry he was.

  “Don’t drop that thing over the side!” he barked.

  “Hey, Malley, come look at this,” I called out.

  “Never mind her. She’s busy.” Tommy hopped from the canoe to the deck of the houseboat.

  I unhooked the bass, a gleaming wet slab of muscle. Releasing it back in the river would have felt good, but I needed a solid meal. If I was headed for a fight with Tommy, I’d have no chance of winning on an empty stomach.

  “Malley, come here!” I shouted once more as I carried the fish aboard.

  Her voice from the cabin: “Uh, I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I said never mind about her,” Tommy barked. “I’ll get a knife.”

  When he opened the door, I saw why Malley couldn’t come out. Tommy had handcuffed her to the steering wheel again.

  “It’s just a game,” he said, “like she told you before.”

  “What kind of stupid game—”

  “Nice fish, Carson!” Malley found a way to smile, don’t ask me how. Plainly she was miserable.

  Tommy insisted on cutting up the fish himself, pinning it to the deck with his bandaged paw. I could have done a better job, twice as fast, but I guess he didn’t want to put the knife in my hands.

  Probably a smart idea.

  FIFTEEN

  Tommy said it was too hot to cook, so for a couple hours we sat around the cabin doing nothing. Talk about awkward. He didn’t say three words. Obviously, he didn’t want to leave me and my cousin alone. Even when he went to the bathroom, he left the door cracked, so he could keep an eye on us.

  Finally, when it started getting dark, he lit the portable stove and stepped outside for a smoke.

  “Are you okay?” I whispered to Malley.

  “He’s a whack job, Richard. Totally nuts. He won’t let me go!”

  “Has he … hurt you?”

  “Not as much as I hurt him.” She re-enacted her punch to Tommy’s face. “First he drowned my phone and later he busted my laptop, ’cause he didn’t want me emailing. And check out my hair!”

  “Shhhh,” I said.

  “He made me dye it this color after we saw one of those hideous Amber Alert billboards. Did Mom give them that loser picture of me with my braces? She knows how much I hate that one! Now the whole state of Florida thinks I look like a gopher.”

  Classic Malley.

  “Not so loud,” I warned her.

  Through the cabin window I watched Tommy pace the deck, dragging on his cigarette. He was shaking his wounded catfish hand like that would make the pain go away. This sounds pretty dark, but I was hoping he’d get a supernasty infection and his whole arm would turn green and fall off. That’s how angry I was, deep at the core.

  “The canoe,” I said to Malley, “tell the truth. Was there anyone in it? Like a tall one-eyed dude with a beard?”

  “Seriously?”

  “He’s a friend of mine. He brought me here to find you.”

  My cousin swore that the canoe had been empty when they’d spotted it.

  “Then he must be dead,” I murmured, more to myself than to Malley.

  “What? Don’t say that about anybody, Richard.”

  The cabin door swung open and Tommy swaggered in, stinking like an ashtray. “Time to eat,” he said, uncuffing my cousin.

  We coated the bass filets in cornmeal and pan-fried them—possibly the best meal ever, but then I was hungrier than I could ever remember. Tommy used a real fork but he gave us plastic ones, which were worthless as weapons. We were outside on the rear deck of the houseboat, Tommy scanning the river in case another boat ventured too close. He was on his third beer, but he didn’t look sluggish enough for me.

  I was studying him closely. A variety of superheroic scenarios sprang into my head, but none of them would work as long as the man stayed wide awake.

  During dinner Malley didn’t say much. She was wearing that Australian bush hat pulled down low, and she wouldn’t look up from her food. I felt bad for her. Getting chained up like a prisoner had to be humiliating.

  Meanwhile the meal of fried bass had made Tommy more talkative. I was curious to hear what kind of lie he’d make up, so I asked him how his nose got hurt.

  “Ha! You should see the other dude.” He gave a stage laugh. “Maybe when they let him out of the hospital, rig
ht?”

  “What was the fight over?”

  “God, I don’t even remember.”

  “I do,” said Malley.

  “No, you don’t.” Tommy’s voice turned hard. It was a warning to my cousin to keep quiet about what had really happened.

  She sighed sarcastically and shook her head. Tommy glared. I steered the conversation elsewhere.

  “So what do you do?” I asked him.

  “You mean, like, for work?”

  No, jackass, I thought, like, for kite surfing.

  “I’m a DJ,” he said. “I do, you know, private events. Clubs sometimes.”

  “Around here?” I was pretty sure that Walton County wasn’t famous for its rave scene.

  “I’ve had major gigs in Orlando, Tampa, South Beach,” said Tommy. “Summer slows down, so I’m taking a break.”

  “What kind of music?” I asked.

  Tommy shrugged. “Hip-hop. Dubstep. House. Whatever they want, I play.”

  “How about country? I heard a country station on the radio when I got here.”

  “Ain’t no freelance DJs on the country scene. The music’s all right, but, like, there’s no party work.”

  “Is this your houseboat?”

  “Guy I know loaned it to me.”

  I played along like I believed him. The houseboat was likely stolen, same as the car.

  Malley spoke up. “T.C. also writes poetry.”

  “No way.”

  “True,” said Tommy. “I can rhyme anything. It’s a gift, bro.”

  “Really? Tell me something that rhymes with orange.”

  He thought about it for a few moments, his lips moving every time he tested a word that might fit. Malley was chuckling under her hat.

  Tommy said, “What about mange? Like when a dog gets scabby all over.”

  “Mange rhymes with arrange,” I pointed out, “not orange.”

  “I bet it all rhymes in French.”

  “Unbelievable,” Malley snorted.

  “Hey, French counts!”

  Tommy was getting pissed off. Time to change the subject.

  “So what’s the deal with you guys?” I asked, acting clueless. “Are you two, like, together?”

  My cousin said, “We’re just friends.”