by Carl Hiaasen
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.
I woke up with my forehead resting on the steering wheel of the houseboat. Some people were talking, and they weren’t part of the dream. Peeking out the cabin door, I saw only birds and butterflies in the trees along the bank. I crept to a window and moved the sheet slightly, so that I was able to look downriver.
Two figures were approaching in a small boat. At first I thought it was a kayak, but as they drew closer, I saw it was a canoe.
The canoe.
The one that the gator had carried off. There was no doubt in my mind.
Malley sat in the bow. Phony Talbo was paddling in the back. I recognized his blue Rays cap and mirrored Oakleys from the airport video. He didn’t look like a huge guy, though I couldn’t be sure from a distance. Malley was in a typical Malley slouch. She was wearing some floppy Australian-type bush hat and pink bracelets on each wrist—not her usual style, but I was totally amped just to see her alive, out in the open.
Yet what about the canoe? The sight of it hardened my sad suspicion that Skink was dead. If he wasn’t, he would be the one with Malley, and Online Talbo would be the one in the river.
Whatever conversation my cousin and her kidnapper had been having ended abruptly. In silence they were coming straight toward the houseboat. I grabbed the nine-iron and lay down in the hatch. When I lowered the heavy cover, my arms were basically pinned to my body.
The hatch wasn’t much wider than a coffin. The darkness and stale heat were smothering. Every breath I took sounded like the huff of a locomotive. Every heartbeat was like a thunderclap. The air was an acrid mix of mold and gas fumes. I’ve never been claustrophobic, but I knew I couldn’t stay there. One of the anchor prongs was digging into my butt, and the nozzle from t
he fire extinguisher was poking me in the neck. Some sort of insect, possibly a cockroach, casually crawled across my eyebrows, but I couldn’t even reach up to brush it away.
In a panic I kneed open the hatch cover, scrambled out and ducked into the boat’s head—basically a small closet built around a mini-toilet. It didn’t smell like a spring garden, but I sat down and shut the door. It wouldn’t lock because the latch had been pried off.
There was a sharp clack when the aluminum canoe nosed against the houseboat, followed by muted thumps as my cousin and Online Talbo stepped aboard. The two of them entered the cabin, the deck squeaking as they walked. Somebody turned off the radio.
“Light the stove.” It was a male voice.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re never hungry.”
“I won’t eat a catfish,” Malley said. “They’re so gross.”
“Gimme your hand.”
“No.”
“Give it here.”
“No!”
I heard a brief scuffle and then a click.
“You’re such an ass,” Malley snapped.
The fake Talbo called her the b-word. “I’ll go clean the fish,” he said, “but first I gotta take a whiz.”
“Oh nice.”
“Don’t go anywhere. Ha ha.”
Trapped on the toilet, I didn’t have any brilliant ideas. The guy needed to relieve himself, and the boat had only one place to do that. I reached for the doorknob and held on. With the other hand I started shaking the rattle on my neck.
A real rattlesnake can vibrate its tail more than fifty times per second, way faster than human finger muscles can move. I must have been trembling like crazy, because the eighteen buttons on that rattle started making some noise—enough to freak out the Talbo impostor.
He let go of the doorknob and yelled, “Whoa! You hear that!”
“What is it?” asked Malley.
“Diamondback!”
“No way. How’d it get on the boat?”
“They can swim, you dummy. Just like moccasins.”
“Where are you going? Don’t leave me here like this!”
“I’m gonna get that ax from the canoe,” Online Talbo declared.
I heard him stomp toward the transom. Rising slightly, I cracked the door just enough so that Malley could see me. Her eyes got wide.
So did mine. Her hair was dyed jet black, even blacker than her jeans. She looked scrawny, and both arms were covered with mosquito bites. The pink bracelets I’d thought I’d seen weren’t bracelets at all—they were raw marks made by handcuffs.
One of the cuffs was now locking her by a wrist to the steering wheel of the houseboat. She opened her mouth to say something, but I signaled her to be quiet. Then I sat down slowly on the mini-toilet and closed the door.
Online Talbo was returning with Skink’s hatchet, and I had nothing to defend myself with. The nine-iron was down in the deck hatch, where I’d stupidly left it.
I heard Malley say, “Don’t go in there, T.C.!”
“Hey, there’s only one way to deal with a damn rattler.”
“But what if you get bit?”
“Just shut up. I’m gonna chop that thing into a million pieces!”
I had maybe two seconds to make a decision, and what I decided was this: I didn’t particularly want an ax blade embedded in my forehead.
So I hollered, “Stop! I’m NOT a snake!”
Silence on the other side of the door, then murmurs of confusion.
Finally, Online Talbo spoke up. “Come outta there right now! Whoever you are!”
I did what I was told. He was poised to strike, holding the hatchet high.
“Chill out, dude!” I raised my hands.
Malley said, “He’s just a kid, T.C.”
He lowered the hatchet, though he didn’t put it down. “Who are you?”
“Carson is my name,” I answered.
Malley shot me a look, like: Where’d you get that one?
“Carson what?” asked the fake Talbo.
“Just Carson.” It probably popped into my head because of Rachel Carson, the author of Silent Spring.
“I can’t tell you my last name,” I said, “because you’ll call my parents.”
Malley immediately synced to my act. “So you’re a runaway!”
“Walkaway is more like it. Let’s just say I’m traveling.”
“How’d you get out to this boat?” demanded Online Talbo. “You didn’t swim, else your clothes’d be wet.”
“Hitched a ride with a gar man.”
“Bull!”
The bogus Talbo was several inches taller than me—as tall as my brother Robbie only not as muscular. He wasn’t ugly and he wasn’t movie-star handsome. Regular-looking is what he was, except for his smashed nose, all swollen and plum-colored. That explained the nasal twang.
His dusty brown hair was cut short, and he hadn’t shaved in days. His T-shirt was forest green, his jeans were frayed and his white slides were filthy. When he took off his shades I noticed that his dark eyes seemed small and jumpy, like mouse eyes on a rabbit face.
“What was that noise behind the door?” he asked.
I showed him the rattlesnake rattle, which he tore off the cord around my neck and held up in the light. “This the real deal?”
“For sure.”
“Too bad.” He sneered and threw the rattle out the window, into the water.
“Seriously, dude? That was a present from my grandpa.”
“Get offa my boat, dorkface.”
While Malley was cyberdating the fake Talbo, she would always brag that he was “deep, like a poet.” I’d never met any genuine poets, but I was pretty sure they didn’t use the word “dorkface” in everyday conversation.
I turned to my cousin. “How come you’re chained to the wheel?”
Bogus Talbo didn’t like the question.
Malley smiled tightly and jangled the cuffs. “Oh, it’s just a fun game we play sometimes. Right, T.C.?”
“Yeah,” he said gruffly.
“Now gimme the key, sweetie.”
“What?”
“Come on. Playtime’s over,” she said. “Carson can help you unload the canoe.”
She held out her free hand and wiggled her fingers. “Key?”
Online Talbo was in a jam. He didn’t want me to know he was holding Malley against her will. Then he’d be forced to lock me up, too, so that I couldn’t go tell anybody.
Still, he wasn’t foolish enough to give the key to Malley. He skulked over to the steering console and unlocked her.
“Hey, you can’t stay here,” he said again to me. The hatchet was in his left hand. He wasn’t waving it or anything, but the message was clear.
“I need something to eat, that’s all. Then I’ll go.”
“T.C. caught a big fat catfish,” my cousin said.
“I’ll help you guys skin it.”
“Awesome,” said Online Talbo, again with zero enthusiasm.
We walked out of the cabin toward the stern of the boat.
“What’s your name?” I asked Malley innocently.
“Louise,” she replied with a straight face.
I couldn’t stop staring at her tar-black hair. It made her look older, and pale as a witch.
“That’s a sweet canoe,” I remarked.
“Yeah, we lucked out. It just came floating around the corner this morning.”
“Weird. Nobody was in it?”
“Nope.”
“Finders, keepers,” said the phony Talbo.
His busted nose made me wonder if the canoe really had been empty. Maybe the governor had paddled up to the houseboat and a fight had broken it. Usually I could tell when Malley was holding something back, but it didn’t look like she was.
All I wanted to do was whisk her away from the kidnapper, which is what you call somebody who handcuffs a girl—a kidnapper, not a boyfriend. He was already ticked off about me being there, some smartass stowa
way interrupting his river cruise, but I didn’t mind keeping him off balance. Criminals make mistakes when they feel some heat. That’s what Detective Trujillo told me.
Maybe I should have tried a different strategy with the Talbo impostor—like pretending to make friends—but I couldn’t force myself to be nice to the man, not even fake nice.
I waited until he’d put the hatchet in his waistband before asking what “T.C.” stood for.
“Talbo Chock,” he replied smoothly.
I went back right at him. “Dude, I don’t think so. No way.”
“Whaaaaat?” He was scowling and trying to sound tough, but there was an edge of alarm in his tone.
“The only Talbo Chock I ever heard of is dead,” I said.
“Maybe there’s more than one. You think a that?”
I shrugged. “More than one guy called Talbo? Yeah, whatever.”
“Let it go,” snapped Malley.
“No problem,” I said. “Or as they say down south, no problemo.”
“I’m not lettin’ go of nuthin’,” snarled the impostor. “This little turd just called me a liar.”
All things considered, I stayed incredibly calm. “Talbo Chock got killed in Afghanistan,” I said. “He was in the Marines. They had the service down in Fort Walton Beach and even the mayor was there. No offense, man, but if you’re gonna swipe somebody’s name, don’t pick a war hero.”
The kidnapper’s face turned purple. “I oughta knock your damn teeth out!”
He took a wild swing, but I ducked.
My cousin stepped between us. “Mind your own business, Carson.”
“Sorry, dude,” I said to the phony Talbo. “No reason to freak.”
But freaked he was.
FOURTEEN
Malley said, “His real name is Tommy Chalmers.”
“You shut up!” he bellowed. “Right this minute! Shut up, or else.”
“And my name’s not Louise. It’s Malley.”
I couldn’t figure out if she wanted me to come clean, too. Honestly, I was fine with staying “Carson” for a while. It was better if Tommy didn’t know that Malley and I were related, or that I was the one she’d called with the woodpecker clue.
