Bow Wow

by Spencer Quinn

  “Great idea!” said Birdie.

  “He keeps a toolbox under the bed,” Snoozy said.

  Junior got down on his hands and knees and rummaged under the bed.

  “What’s going on, Snoozy?” Birdie said. “Did he kidnap you? On Little Flamingo Island?”

  “How do you know?” Snoozy said.

  Birdie made a little throwaway gesture with her hand. “But why, Snoozy? Why did he do it?”

  “For the bounty, of course. He’s kind of angry.”

  “Because Brock Stovall hired you first?”

  “That’s right. How come you know so much about it?”

  “I don’t,” Birdie said. “Why has he got you like this? Are you a prisoner?”

  “I guess you could say that,” said Snoozy. “It’s on account of I refused.”

  “You refused to help him on the bounty hunt?”

  “I promised Brock first. Gave my word, if you see what I’m saying. Maybe sort of a jerk—Brock, I mean—but I know him. Don’t know Deke—at least I didn’t—and he’s a jerk, too, even jerkier.”

  Junior emerged from under the bed with a saw in his hand. “Never used one of these,” he said, “but I’ve seen it done.” He made sawing motions in the air. “My dad built the whole back of the food truck from scratch. Not much to it, really.” Junior approached the support post that Snoozy was handcuffed to and took what you might call a sawing swing at it. Then came a sort of clang and the saw flew across the room.

  “Junior! We don’t have time for this.” Birdie went and grabbed the saw, started sawing away at the post with long, clean strokes, faster and faster, sawdust jetting out of the cut she was making. With the noise of the saw, plus the rain on the roof, I maybe didn’t hear what I should have been hearing.

  “Funny thing is,” Snoozy said, “I know this bull shark with the lopsided grin.”

  “You do?” Birdie said.

  The post split apart. Birdie pushed the top part aside. The top bunk sagged down. At the same time, Snoozy sat up straight and slid his cuffed hands over the bottom section of the post.

  “Been tracking him for years—that lopsided grin makes it easy,” Snoozy said, starting to rise. “I even know his favorite hangout, by this ledge where—”

  Right then, or maybe just before, was when the door opened. There stood Deke, soaking wet, a gun in his hand, pointed down for the time being.

  “Go on, Snooze,” he said. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

  SOMETIMES TWO THINGS HAPPEN AT ONCE. This was one of those times, and here are the two things: One, Birdie gripped my collar and held tight. Two, I got the very strong urge to spring across the trailer and bite down pretty much my hardest on Deke Waylon’s gun hand. But now how was I going to do that?

  “Go on, Snoozy,” Deke said, “let your buddy Deke in on the secret. Where’s this bull shark you suddenly seem to know all about.”

  Snoozy said nothing. I thought I could feel his mind at work.

  “See, now my feelings are hurt,” Deke said. “Sharing secrets with these kids here, but freezing me out. Not good for your health, not good at—” He stopped talking, took a close look at Birdie. “Do I know you?”

  Like Snoozy, Birdie remained silent. I could feel her mind working, too, at a somewhat faster pace than Snoozy’s.

  The expression in Deke’s eyes changed and became … fox-like? Yes, fox-like! And all at once I understood Deke real well, on account of my many experiences with foxes. We’ve even got foxes in these parts that can climb trees. Just imagine how irritating that can be! But if you know foxes at all then I don’t need to tell you how tricky they are. Deke Waylon’s eyes showed me he was just like that, only more so.

  “Thought I recognized you,” he said. “The Gaux kid. What’s your first name?”

  “You have no right to keep us here,” Birdie said.

  “Rights?” said Deke. “All anyone’s ever done is try and take ’em away from me.” He smiled. A wiry dude, not big, but all muscle and bone. Very slowly he held up the gun, kind of loose in his hand and not pointed at anybody. “See this here? That’s all you need to know about my rights. Now, I asked you your name and I ain’t gonna ask again.”

  Birdie was silent. The gun seemed to hold her gaze. Me and my kind can smell human fear, and I smelled it now from Birdie. Nothing I could do about it at the moment, not with Birdie holding on to my collar, but way down deep in me—a place where the very important things that just can’t be forgotten get stored—I began making plans for Deke.

  Meanwhile, Birdie’s gaze at last moved away from the gun. She stood real straight and said, “Birdie Gaux,” in a way that let me know one more time that she was just the best.

  “That’s better,” Deke said, and turned to Junior. “And you?”

  “Junior Tebbets,” Junior said, without even the slightest hesitation. He met Deke’s foxy, mean eyes for the briefest possible time and quickly added, “Well, actually Wallace Garnet Tebbets Junior, but everyone calls me Junior.”

  “You seem like a sensible type, Junior.” Deke looked at Birdie and Snoozy. “You two gonna be the same?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Birdie said.

  “But Snoozy does. Tell her, Snooze.”

  Snoozy shook his head.

  “Aw, how touching,” said Deke. “Okay, Birdie Gaux, here’s how it is. Snoozy here flat-out refused to help me on the bounty hunt. Despite some gentle encouragement, just slapping him around a bit, didn’t even leave a mark. Ain’t that true, Snooze?”

  Snoozy looked down at the floor and didn’t answer.

  “But here’s my guess. Snoozy’s one of those gentlemen who wouldn’t want to see any of that gentle encouragement applied anywheres else. Catch my drift?”

  Right then I saw something brand-new: a hot flash of anger in Snoozy’s eyes. He nodded yes.

  “Well, well,” Deke said. “We’re gettin’ somewheres at last. Gonna find that bull shark for me, Snoozy? It’s in this here lake, ain’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Snoozy. “I’ll tell you exactly where if you let us go.”

  Deke shook his head. “You’re gonna show me.”

  Snoozy thought about that. “All right, but there’s no reason you can’t cut the kids loose.”

  Deke smiled his little smile again. “Wouldn’t be the right play.”

  Not long after that we were all aboard Dixie Flyer and under way, headed toward the far end of the lake, where the big yellow earthmovers worked. Even though it was still daytime, they weren’t working now. At least, not that I could hear. As for seeing them, or seeing pretty much anything: impossible. What we had going down now was a full-blown storm, the wind making high-pitched sounds that hurt my ears, the rain driving sideways, cold and hard, and the waves raised up to human height. We’d never gone out in bad weather, me and Birdie—a no-no at Gaux Family Fish and Bait—but we’d been caught by surprise squalls a few times, and one thing I knew right away: Dixie Flyer, around the same size as Bayou Girl, did not handle rough going as well, not even close.

  Deke was at the controls, so he had a bit of protection from the T-top, but up front in the bow—Deke didn’t want anyone behind him in the stern—the rest of us were totally exposed. Maybe I should mention that there was only one life jacket on board, and Deke was wearing it. We all held on tight to something, except for me—holding on is a bit of a challenge, unless I bring my teeth into play. But Birdie had my collar, so I was good. The bow rose way up on a wave, then crashed down, water slopping right over us.

  “What’s with this boat, Snoozy?” Birdie said. “It’s so sluggish.”

  “Bilge fillin’ up,” he said.

  “Oh my god!” said Junior. “With what?”

  “Water,” Snoozy told him. “Rainwater. Deck leaks. Rain flows right on through, and the bilge pump’s busted.”

  Birdie glanced back at Deke, the wind tearing at his long, stringy hair, and all the bones of his face somehow showing under the surface, not a pleasant s
ight. “Does he know?” she said.

  “Don’t know much when it comes to boat maintenance,” Snoozy said.

  Birdie’s gaze stayed on Deke. “Even if he gets the shark, why would he let us go?”

  “After all this, you mean?” Snoozy touched Birdie’s shoulder. “Let’s not think about that.”

  Dixie Flyer wobbled up another wave, even bigger than the one before, and crashed down even harder on the other side, this time another wave coming right away and slamming over the bow. It knocked us all back against the front of the cabin, tangled together in a soaking-wet ball. Snoozy grabbed a rail and pulled himself up.

  “Deke! Turn back! Your boat can’t handle this!”

  “Don’t tell me about my boat!” Deke shouted. He raised the gun. “Just do your job. Where’s my shark?”

  Snoozy turned toward the bow and pointed ahead, where there was nothing to see but flying water from above and below. Dixie Flyer’s engines were making a strange throb throb blank throb throb blank sound, and we kept sort of sliding sideways.

  “Keep us straight!” Snoozy shouted.

  “Shut your mouth!” Deke shouted right back. He fought with the wheel, got us straightened out, at least partly. But behind him things didn’t look so good to me: The top of the transom was real low in the water. “How much farther?” Deke yelled.

  “Not much,” Snoozy said.

  “Then get the rig ready! What’s wrong with you?”

  Snoozy, almost on his hands and knees, scrambled over to a side locker. As he reached out to raise the top, the wind tore his T-shirt right off him, revealing all his fish tattoos, including the half-finished Mr. Nice Guy on his chest. A half-finished Mr. Nice Guy, maybe, but through the rain he looked like he was on the move.

  “Are we gonna sink, Birdie?” Junior said. Me and Birdie were now pressed against him, jammed against another locker farther forward.

  “We’ll be okay as long as the engines are running.” Birdie took Junior’s hand. He held on tight.

  Snoozy grabbed a long, heavy line and a bucket from the locker. The line had a big, wicked-looking hook at the end. Snoozy opened the bucket, took out a huge bloody hunk of fish meat, and drove the hook deep into it. And just in time, because the boat rose suddenly—and, for the first time, fully sideways to the waves—and tipped way over, the bucket sliding over the side, splashing fish blood everywhere, and throwing me, Birdie, and Junior against the cabin wall.

  Dixie Flyer righted herself, real slow. The engines went throb blank throb blank throb. Snoozy came forward, coiling the line.

  “Snoozy?” Birdie said. “Is the shark really here? Grammy says it can’t get into the lake.”

  “True in the old days, Birdie.” Snoozy fastened the end of the line to a cleat, tying on nice and tight. “But water’s been rising the past few years.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe the land is sinkin’. All’s I know is I see it happening.” Snoozy turned to Deke. “Right about here.”

  Deke backed off on the throttles.

  “Snoozy!” Birdie said. “He’s throttling down.”

  “I know.”

  “But nothing will run out of the bilge. It’ll fill up even quicker.”

  Snoozy glanced at Deke. Deke’s face had gone all wild. He was way beyond talking to. “We’ll just have to catch this shark quicker than that,” Snoozy said.

  “All set?” Deke called.

  “All set,” said Snoozy.

  “NOW!”

  Snoozy hurled the baited hook over the side. It disappeared in the storm, the storm so loud now I didn’t even hear the splash. The coil of line ran out real fast, making a small screaming sound pretty much lost in the storm’s roar.

  “You done it?” Deke called.

  Snoozy nodded.

  Deke backed off the throttles even more. I got the feeling we’d stopped going anywhere except for up and down and side to side.

  Snoozy glanced back at the transom. Waves were starting to lip over the top.

  “More throttle,” he said.

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job!”

  “But the bilge is fillin’ up. You’re gonna sink us, man.”

  Deke grabbed a long wooden-handled gaff, came forward, the gun now tucked inside his belt, but that mean-looking gaff held high.

  “I’ll do the thinkin’ here, understood?”

  Snoozy nodded.

  Deke turned to the line, hanging over the side. The engines went blank blank throb, blank blank throb. Dixie Flyer rocked from end to end, rolled from side to side, all those movements slow and heavy. Birdie had one hand on the side rail and one on my collar. Everyone else held on to something, except for Deke, standing with his feet wide apart, crouched low—like … some creature made for storms like this.

  Deke raised his voice over it. “Sure this is the spot?”

  “Yup,” Snoozy said. “But you’re gonna have to throttle up and circle around. Otherwise—”

  Deke smacked Snoozy across the face with the back of his hand. That enraged me! I barked my most savage bark. Birdie’s hand tightened to the max around my collar. A wave crashed over the transom. And at that moment, Snoozy’s line suddenly went taut.

  Deke’s eyes opened wide. I saw an expression on his face I’d never seen before, a scary combination of joy, greed, and craziness. “YAH! I got ’im!”

  We all turned toward the rail and peered over the side. Waves so big, so much rain: It was almost like we were underwater, way down deep. But no. There was still a sort of surface, which I only realized when something huge with an enormous lopsided grin and terrible little eyes came bursting through. It was Mr. Nice Guy, the bloody piece of fish meat between his teeth. Rows and rows of teeth, each and every one big and sharp.

  “I GOT ’IM!”

  Deke dropped the gaff, began pulling on the line with all his strength.

  “No!” Snoozy reached out. “Wait! He’s not really hooked—it’s just caught in that scar. You’ll—”

  Deke batted Snoozy’s hand away, hauled on the line with all his strength. Mr. Nice Guy didn’t like that, as anyone could have seen from how his eyes got even more furious than they already were. But Deke did not see, and he kept hauling on that line, his feet braced halfway up the side.

  “Stop!” Snoozy screamed, and the storm screamed even louder. “You’ll—”

  All at once, Mr. Nice Guy twisted around and dove straight down. The line made a screeching sound and the other side of the boat tipped straight up and now loomed right over our heads. The engines died completely—blank blank blank.

  “We’re goin’ over!” Snoozy yelled.

  “Junior!” Birdie said. “Take a deep breath!”

  “I GOT ’IM!”

  And then we were upside down. Well, to be more accurate, Dixie Flyer was upside down, and I seemed to be under the top of her deck, if that makes any sense. Very hard to see down there, but I knew I was under the boat because every time I tried to swim up I kept bumping my head.

  Air! Air! I needed air so bad. I did my dog paddle like never before, kind of frantic, and bumped my head again, and again, and again! And then something amazing happened. I heard Birdie’s voice, even though it was impossible to hear anything except the pounding of the storm. Bowser. It’s okay. Stay calm.

  Just like that I was calm. I stopped swimming so frantically and paddled in my normal way. And in what seemed like no time at all, I popped to the surface and breathed in lovely air. No chance to enjoy it, because a wave grabbed me and raised me up high. From there I spotted Birdie, not far away, and Junior beside her. Just then Snoozy bobbed up, too, on the same wave as me, but lower down. Things surfaced around us—plastic bottles, seat cushions, the wooden-handled gaff. There was no sign at all of Dixie Flyer or of Deke.

  Snoozy and I swam over to Birdie and Junior. I put my paw on her shoulder and licked her face. Birdie! Birdie! Birdie! Nothing else was going on in my mind at that moment.

 
“Easy, Bowser, easy. We’ve got to stay—”

  I never learned what that was going to be about, because a wave came bashing over us, and another wave rose high above, and in the middle of that wave, his head sticking right out into the air, was Mr. Nice Guy, now free of the hook. He made a snapping motion with his huge mouth, and … and what looked like a tangle of long, stringy hair attached to some bloody skin disappeared down Mr. Nice Guy’s throat.

  Junior screamed. Snoozy’s eyes opened wide in terror. I barked a bark that meant business in no uncertain terms, and bared my teeth, just to show Mr. Nice Guy he wasn’t the only one bringing a mouthful of sharpies to the table. The wooden-handled gaff floated by. Birdie grabbed it.

  Our wave rose up. Mr. Nice Guy’s wave came down. Those little eyes were on us, no doubt about that, and they liked what they saw. Mr. Nice Guy shot toward us, his mouth, bleeding from the lopsided scar, wide open. There was lots of screaming—by Junior, maybe by Snoozy, and I barked a bark that sounded kind of scream-like—and at the last second Mr. Nice Guy twisted around and went straight for Birdie. The look on her face! I’ll never forget it. Was she afraid? Oh, yeah, but there was something else, something so hard and determined, the face of someone fighting back.

  Fighting back: What a beautiful thing to see! Birdie held that gaff in both hands, so steady in all the wild commotion. At the very last moment, when Mr. Nice Guy was almost on top of her, she struck with all her might, jabbing him right on the nose with the metal end of the gaff. The rounded part of the hook, not the sharp part. How was that going to do any good? But then came a surprise. Mr. Nice Guy hit the brakes. His little eyes looked kind of confused. Birdie bopped him again, even harder this time. Mr. Nice Guy got the message. He turned, dove, and vanished into the depths.

  We waited in silence, treading water, peering all around, but mostly down, down into the deep. Whatever was happening in the depths seemed to be staying down there.

  “Wow!” said Snoozy, shouting over the storm. “How’d you know to do that?”

  “Grammy,” Birdie told him. “Bull sharks are used to prey that turns tail. Anything else makes them cautious.”