Silurid

by Gerry Griffiths

  SILURID

  GERRY GRIFFITHS

  Copyright 2016 by Gerry Griffiths

  DEDICATION

  For Frank, Dale, and Leonard

  The place isn’t the same without you guys

  And for Hannah and Summer

  May you be waiting for us on Rainbow Bridge

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I have always been a tremendous fan of the literary conflict of man versus nature, or to be more concise, man against beast. Two of my all-time favorite novels are Herman Melville’s classic Moby Dick and Peter Benchley’s thriller Jaws. I especially love John Huston and Steven Spielberg’s superb film adaptations.

  As exciting and terrifying as these stories are, the impending danger created by these cunning and tenacious monsters was only a threat to those foolish enough to venture into the water.

  Just about everything you are about to read in Silurid is true; with the exception of the KHIP news station, the Madison levee and the nearby town, the Murdock Fish Hatchery, and Lake Recluse, which are figments of my imagination; as are the silurid monsters—to the best of my knowledge.

  Gerry Griffiths

  June 2016

  PART ONE

  THE SILURID RESULT

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lake Recluse—Northern California—1997

  Devon McNeeley sped away from the Alpine lake’s shoreline, traveling the frontage road in his golf cart. He pressed the accelerator to the floor in hopes of squeezing enough juice out of the battery to get up a steep hill. Instead of picking up speed, the golf cart slowed and labored up the incline.

  Max sat contently by his side in the passenger seat. The golden retriever stuck its nose in the air and sniffed the morning scents. His wet, leathery tongue dangled out of the corner of his mouth like a pink strip of luncheon meat.

  Devon waved, passing the shack at the main gate.

  Kelly Baron, a part-time employee, paused to return the salutation before handing a day pass to the driver in a white minivan.

  Kelly was taking night classes to get her beautician license. Most of the time she practiced on herself. Devon had to laugh. This morning, her hair was a weird shade of blue.

  The golf cart picked up speed when the road leveled off. Veering off onto a dirt patch, Devon hit the brakes in front of a long row of mailboxes.

  Max jumped out to explore.

  Devon reached into the McNeeley mailbox and pulled out a curled tube of envelopes, magazines, and junk mail flyers. He browsed through the mail, frowning at one of the correspondences. He tore open the flap on the envelope. He removed the folded letter, spread it open, and browsed the contents.

  “Give me a break, will you?” he shouted and slammed his palm on the steering wheel. He stuffed the letter into his denim shirt pocket.

  “Max! Here boy.” Devon spun the golf cart around, but Max was nowhere to be seen.

  Devon gazed up a nearby hillside dotted with manzanita and sagebrush.

  He could hear Max rooting inside the brush.

  “Max! Let’s go!”

  Max scampered down the hill, bits of twigs and pollen matting his coat. After a brisk shake, the dog leaped up onto the blue, vinyl seat, panting as if he had just completed a strenuous run.

  Devon decided to take the service road before checking in at the store. He turned left and gunned the cart down the hill. The onrush of air made Max’s jowls flap comically, exposing his pink and black gums.

  Being the off-season, the resort was mostly deserted except for the few retired residents that lived on the lake all-year round. It was disheartening for Devon to see so many For Sale signs as they went down the road. He passed vacated, lavish doublewide mobile homes, and run-down trailers and fifth wheels on weedy roadside lots.

  Liz Fallow was still in her housecoat and slippers, dutifully tending to her limp azaleas and gardenias in front of her modest trailer. Stony-faced gnomes, miniature windmills, and giant plastic sunflowers adorned the flowerbeds. Rosie, Liz’s English springer spaniel, was sitting at the base of the porch steps, giving the back of her head a vigorous scratch with her hind foot.

  “Morning, Liz,” Devon greeted.

  “Good morning to you, young man,” Liz answered back.

  Rosie yelped excitedly.

  Max replied with a forceful bark.

  “Down, you big stud,” Devon said, waving to Liz as he drove by.

  Devon spotted his younger brother, Sean, hiking up from the shore. The fourteen-year-old, though reluctant at times, generally helped with the chores around the resort. Shouldering his compound bow equipped with a fishing reel, Sean had a bountiful stringer. It was a shame that they were only carp.

  For years, Lake Recluse had been famous for its game fish. The lake had been abundant with German browns, rainbows, largemouth and smallmouth bass, bluegills, and catfish. Then, for some unexplained reason, carp started showing up at the end of fishermen’s hooks. No one knew exactly where the dreaded bottom feeder had come from. Wasn’t long before the other species began to dwindle because the carp fed on their roe and fingerling offspring. Game fishermen stopped coming. No one was going to boast about reeling in an oversized goldfish no matter how large it was.

  Sean ran up the steps to one of the trailers.

  There was a resident sign carved on a wooden plaque hanging under the patio: Stone’s Abode.

  Sean dumped the stringer of garbage fish into a washtub by the front door.

  “Come on, I’ll give you a lift,” Devon called out as he pulled up. He shooed Max into the cargo space.

  Just then another golf cart pulled up alongside Devon.

  The driver’s belly just cleared the lower part of the steering wheel. He had a ruddy scar that ran down the left side of his face and was missing the last two fingers on his left hand.

  “Morning, gents,” Jasper Joyner greeted and took a slug of his beer. He crushed the can and tossed it on the catchall shelf under the dash. He reached into his cooler and retrieved another beer.

  “Starting a little early, aren’t we, Jasper?” Devon caught the pungent aroma of stink bait and body odor and tried not to wrinkle his nose.

  “Just putting a perspective edge on the day,” Jasper replied. He reached into the crinkled bag squished between his legs and shoved a handful of crumbly barbecue potato chips into his mouth, most of which ended up on the front of his San Francisco 49ers T-shirt.

  In the back of Jasper’s golf cart were two more ice chests, four fishing poles, a folded lawn chair, an umbrella, and a minnow bucket.

  “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Fancy Pants,” Jasper said, acknowledging the man walking on the road towards them.

  Claude Talbert was carrying a light fly rod in one hand, a pair of chest waders in his other hand. He wore a British tweed hat with tiny handmade flies hooked around the band. His plaid shirt was buttoned all the way up and tucked inside the waistband of a pressed pair of gray, wool trousers. A French-Reed creel hung off his shoulder. He looked the proper gentleman, puffing on his pipe.

  “Any luck?” Sean asked, running over to the fly fisherman.

  “Luck is never a factor,” Claude nobly replied. He opened the lid of the creel to give Sean a peek.

  “Holy cow, Claude has a couple German browns.”

  “Wow, no one’s caught a German brown around here for ages,” Devon said.

  “Don’t let him bullshit you, Devon. He probably got them at the store. Isn’t that right, Claude?” Jasper laughed.

  “Whatever you say.”

  “See. He won’t even deny it.”

  “At least I play a fair game and don’t go around gagging the fish with those rancid concoctions you fondly call bait.”

  “Beats whipping that line back and forth all day. Personally, I like to kick back and enj
oy myself when I fish, thank you very much. Well, I guess I’ll see you all tonight,” Jasper said, and drove off in his cart.

  “Schmuck,” Claude said and blew out a bluish ring of cherry-blend smoke.

  “Where’d you catch them, if you don’t mind me asking?” Devon asked.

  “Well, Devon, all I can say is that I did not get them at the market.”

  “I thought as much,” Devon said, and smiled. He waved to Sean to get in and they drove off to the store.

  The country store was small with two large paned windows facing out onto the parking lot. A Neon Budweiser sign hung in one window, a Coors sign in the other. There were faded snapshots taped to the windows of fishermen with their catches back when the lake was bountiful. A service window was just around the left side of the building for taking lunch orders and passing out food. Five picnic tables with benches were tucked under a red and white striped awning.

  Devon hadn’t quite stopped when he pulled up to the parking stall by the entrance door when Max vaulted out of the cargo space. The dog bolted for the park bench to the right of the door. The bench was Max’s favorite spot. He jumped up, sprawled on the bench, and rested his head on his paws.

  “Better see if Mom has any rentals lined up,” Devon said, climbing out of the cart.

  “Gotcha.” Sean went inside the store.

  The season had been slow at the resort mostly due to the poor fishing. No one was willing to drive two or three hours to catch carp. The meat of the fish could be boiled for two days and still have the texture of rubber, not to mention tasting like crap. Devon often kidded Sean that whoever came up with the name carp was dyslexic.

  Devon suspected that the other resorts and campgrounds like Shasta and Clear Lake had attracted their business.

  Sean strolled out of the store.

  “Mom is finishing with a customer. I’m going down to get a boat ready,” he said. “Come on, Max.”

  Max leaped from the bench and trotted after Sean, heading down to the dock where ten aluminum rental boats were moored.

  A minivan—the same vehicle Devon had seen at the main gate—was parked beside the McNeeley’s GMC pickup.

  A bell over the door rang softly as Devon entered the store.

  Most of the shelves on the four aisles were stocked with canned foods, packaged dry goods, and glass jars of preservatives and condiments.

  One row of shelves was devoted to fishing tackle: hooks, sinkers, fillet knives, hook removers, floats, tackle boxes, stringers, spools of fishing line, and jars of Power Bait. A magazine stand and two clothes racks with T-shirts and tank tops with zippy slogans, shorts, and swim trunks were at the end of one aisle.

  The back wall housed the glass door refrigeration units sparsely stocked with bottled and canned drinks, bait, and bags of ice.

  Fishing rods of all types—bamboo poles, graphite poles, and Ugly Sticks—were affixed to the walls on eyehooks. There were more pictures—these framed for prosperity—of record catches. Trophy trout and largemouth bass were expertly preserved in shellac, mounted on shiny plaques with tiny bronze plates identifying the size and date of each catch.

  The register was up front along with a glass counter stocked with Mitchell, Zebco, Shimano, Penn, and other popular brand reels.

  Nell, Devon’s eight-year-old sister, was sitting at a small table in the corner behind the glass counter. She was earnestly printing in a spiral notebook, her tiny fist wrapped around a #2 pencil. A large book was open on the table, and by the colorful illustrations on the pages, Devon knew Nell was doing her geography lesson.

  Devon’s mother, Kate, had taken on the task of tutoring both Nell and Sean at home. As the resort was secluded and demanded much of her attention, Kate could not afford devoting three hours a day driving the kids to and from the nearest public school.

  Kate was behind the counter, filling out a rental agreement.

  She was wearing a green blouse, jeans, and a rugged pair of work boots. Her auburn hair flowed just over her shoulders, and while in her mid-forties, Kate was attractive, business-smart, and not to be reckoned with. She had raised her two sons and daughter by herself as Devon’s father, a trucker by trade and a scoundrel by nature, had drifted out of their lives shortly after Nell was born.

  After a time, they had all adjusted to not having a husband or father around.

  A man and his son were browsing about the store.

  “There, Mr. Linton, if you would just sign here, the boat should be just about ready,” Kate said, placing the pen on the paperwork.

  Mr. Linton was staring at the map of the lake on the wall.

  “This is our first time here. Could you tell us a little bit about the lake?”

  “Sure, I’d be delighted.” Kate walked around the counter and joined Mr. Linton.

  “Lake Recluse has a surface area of 3,500 acres and 45 miles of shoreline. Not big enough to get lost on but big enough to find some solitude if you like. The resort consists of sixty-three mobile homes, all situated here at Recluse Cove.” Kate pointed to where the mobile homes were on the map.

  “Up here is Adobe Creek, which has been dried up for the past fifty-some years. This is Chickaree Creek. The creek feeds the lake with snowmelt from the Sierra Range during the spring.

  “There are numerous islands on the lake, most of them sandbars, with the largest being Grizzly Island. There’s nothing really there but an old oak tree that refuses to die. Along this shore is the service road that leads to the boat ramp, marina and boat docks, and this is where we are, the country store. Farther down is Landon Cove. And here are the campgrounds,” Kate said, pointing with her finger.

  “We might check the campgrounds out later,” Mr. Linton said. “What’s this at the end of the lake? It says dam, but I never knew there was a dam up here.”

  “Dates back to FDR and the New Deal,” Kate said, refusing Mr. Linton with a smile when he offered her a stick of chewing gum before giving his son one.

  “You mean back in the 30s?”

  “That long ago. The Works Progress Administration wanted to build a dam on Lake Recluse—even wanted to call it Roosevelt Dam. The runoff from the lake would feed into a tributary that would have connected to the Sacramento River and down to the San Francisco Bay.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Mr. Linton confessed.

  “Only the dam was never finished.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Are you familiar with the town Madison?”

  “That’s where we’re from.”

  “Oh. Well, it seems that the dam project was doomed from day one. Those two circles on the map next to the dam site are excavation caves that were never completely dug out because the workers struck granite harder than their picks.

  “So, they shifted the site, but before they were able to finish pouring the foundation, the project was put on hold so that the men could be sent up to Madison to build a levee. Once the levee was built, the only source into Lake Recluse was cut off, that being Adobe Creek.

  “There was no need to complete the dam, so the only part built was a single diversion tunnel that stands useless above the lake. Some bitter old-timers refer to the site as Damn Franklin. We just call it Franklin Dam,” Kate said and returned to the counter.

  “Interesting,” Mr. Linton said and turned to his son. “Kevin, here’s a dollar. Go pick out something for yourself while Daddy pays for the boat.”

  The boy, a year or two younger than Nell, ran down the aisles in search of candy.

  “Mr. Linton, if you’d like to sign here,” Kate said.

  The man came over to the counter, handed Kate the money, and signed the rental agreement.

  “The deposit will be refunded once you return the boat.”

  “I understand. I’ll be right back. I have to get something out of the car,” Mr. Linton said and exited the store.

  Kevin raced back, grinning like a miner who had just struck pay dirt.

  “Are these Gummy Bears?” he asked, ho
lding up a package of purple worm lures.

  “No, dummy, that’s for catching fish,” Nell said, laughing from across the counter.

  “Nell! Behave. Now scoot, back to your studies young lady,” Kate said.

  “But Mom. I’m done.”

  “Then I’ll get ‘em for my dad. Here.” Kevin handed Kate his dollar.

  Devon watched Kate take the $4.98 package of purple worms and ring up the sale on the register for one dollar and place the bill in the till.

  “You tell your daddy these were on sale, okay?” Kate told him.

  “I will.”

  “Also, if you want these to work, tell your daddy to cast toward the shore when you’re out in the boat. Can you remember that?”

  “I think so.”

  The front door opened, and Mr. Linton poked his head in.

  “Kevin, let’s go, son.”

  “Bye bye,” Kevin said and scurried out the door.

  “Mom, I wish you wouldn’t just give things away,” Devon said.

  “Since when do we allow our purse strings to close our hearts? Devon? Is something wrong?” Kate asked when she saw the strained expression on her son’s face.

  “We got another letter from the Bureau of Land Management. This time, they’re threatening to terminate our lease.”

  Kate came out from behind the counter. Devon felt her hand gently touch his shoulder.

  “We’ll get through this.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “Devon, this isn’t like you. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is it Jess again?”

  “Can we just drop it?”

  “What happened between you two?” Kate asked.

  “I guess we’re just got too busy to have a relationship. What with me trying to keep this damn place afloat, and her, running that stupid hatchery.”

  “Surely, you two can—”

  “I’ve got work to do,” Devon said and stormed out of the store wishing his mother would learn to let up and quit badgering him about Jess.