Terror at Bottle Creek Page 2

  Jim passed the spotlight to Dad, and I chambered a round into the .22, made sure the safety was on, and handed it to Jim. Hoss took one hand off the rod and wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve.

  “Now, listen up,” Dad said. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. Hoss, you bow up on that rod and he’ll come up next to the boat. When he does, Jim—I mean, as soon as you see him—you put a round right between his eyes. You got one shot. You hit him wrong, and he’s gonna go nuts. Got it?”

  Jim stared at the water and nodded.

  “Go ahead, Hoss,” Dad said. “Lean back on it.”

  Hoss got to his knees, leveraged the rod in his crotch, and started cranking. Dad held the light on the thin, dripping line disappearing into the murky creek. Slowly, the line began to quiver and rise.

  “Safety’s on,” I said.

  Jim clicked the safety off, brought the rifle to his shoulder, and pointed the barrel at the water.

  The gator suddenly appeared out of the depths, rising like a black log beside us. Jim fired quickly, and the bull bucked and rolled.

  “Hold it, Hoss!” Dad yelled.

  The shot was a good one, and in a moment the gator hung limp next to us.

  “All right,” Dad said. “Good shot. Jim, you back off and let us get a line around him. Cort, get the rope.”

  I retrieved a coil of three-quarter nylon line out of the dry box. I squeezed past Hoss, leaned over the gunnels, and started running it under the gator’s neck. The moment my fingers brushed the scaly hide, No-name erupted. He bucked and twisted his head, and I smelled his rotten breath and saw a hundred yellow dripping teeth in my face. I was already falling backward when the tremendous jaws slammed shut inches from my shoulder.

  “Hey, son!” Dad yelled. “What the hell you doin’?”

  I lay on the cold aluminum deck, breathing hard, my mind racing and tangled with confusion.

  Dad yanked the rope out of my hands. “You wanna get yourself killed?”

  Hoss strained on the line, waiting for the gator to settle again. Dad stood over me, staring down at me like he wanted to make sure I was still alive.

  Dad let out a deep sigh. “Lord,” he said. “You know better than to dive in there like that.”

  I didn’t have anything to say. I did know better. A reptile’s reflexes last long after it’s dead. You can’t assume anything.

  “He all right?” Jim asked.

  Dad nodded and turned away from me. I could see he was shaken up as well. “Yeah, he’s all right … Everybody, just hold what you got and take a minute.”

  I was embarrassed and I was ashamed. Now, more than ever, I didn’t want to be out there killing stupid alligators with two men from Mississippi we barely knew. I just wanted to go home and go to bed.

  After a moment I got off the deck and went to sit beside Catfish in the stern. I stroked my dog’s back while Dad and the two men secured No-name.

  It was midnight before they had the gator fully lashed to the side of the jon and we started the slow haul back to the boat landing. Jim and Hoss popped more beer and celebrated and seemed to forget all about my close call. Dad steered us slowly through the dark, cheeping swamp, his mind on something. Whether it was me or Mom, I couldn’t tell.

  5

  Ten o’clock the next morning I heard Dad get up and make coffee. I lay on my back for a while, staring at the yellow water stains on the ceiling, thinking about the giant alligator mouth.

  When I heard Dad step outside I climbed down off my bunk, pulled on my clothes, and went into the kitchen. I saw him through the window, standing on the back deck, looking over the river. I went to the counter and turned on our small portable television. I watched the storm on the news, looking like an enormous saw blade spinning over the Gulf. Landfall was predicted some time on Monday with the cone of probability centered on Biloxi, Mississippi. That was nearly a hundred miles southwest of us, but it was only Saturday and there was still plenty of time for it to change course.

  I turned off the television and got a box of Raisin Bran out of the cupboard and poured it into a bowl. I was walking to the refrigerator for milk when Dad came through the door again. He went to the coffeemaker and poured another cup.

  “Hurricane’s headed for Mississippi right now,” I said.

  He took a sip of coffee and rubbed his eyes. “Yeah?” he said.

  “You wanna see it?”

  He studied me for a moment like more than one thing was going on in his head. “No,” he said. “I guess it’ll do whatever it’s gonna do.”

  Dad leaned against the counter and took another sip. He was still thinking about something else. “You know you almost got your arm bit off last night?” he said.

  I looked at the floor. “I know,” I said.

  “I mean, what was that all about?”

  I shrugged.

  “You got to always be thinkin’ out in that swamp. It’s a pretty place, but you pull back the curtain and it gets evil real quick. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He took another sip of his coffee and said, “Good.”

  “Figure we ought to start getting things ready?” I said.

  He didn’t answer me.

  “Dad?”

  “We got time,” he said. “I need to run some errands.”

  “How long you gonna be gone?”

  He got his cap off a nail on the wall and slipped it on.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll be back after a while.”

  * * *

  I finished my cereal and went outside and up into the dirt parking lot above the riverbank. Catfish swung in beside me and I knelt next to him. I rubbed his head as I ran my eyes over the landing. The property consisted of about five acres gently sloping down to the river. At the top of the hill was the Stovalls’ three-bedroom brick house. Their family had owned the property since the Civil War. Some of the giant, moss-draped live oaks were even rumored to have been planted by their ancestors. Just downhill from the house was a storage shed, a bait shop, and a grass parking area. Part of the parking lot was used as a boatyard where customers left their boats on the trailer for free. Below that was a launching ramp and a steel money box where they could shove five dollars through a slot and put their boats in. Beside the ramp were two rows of covered stalls where some paid twenty-five dollars monthly to leave their boats in the water.

  For seven years I’d lived in the same houseboat, moored at the same spot on the south end of the property. Five years ago Mr. Stovall had died of cancer, and ever since then Dad had maintained the grounds in return for free rent. The work mostly consisted of keeping the grass mowed, but we also made repairs when they were needed. When the river got high it sometimes tore out the catwalks. The north wind occasionally blew sheet tin off the roof of the boat stalls. Twice a year we hauled in gravel to fix the muddy spots in the road. Outside of these basic chores we helped people launch their boats and cleaned their fish and wild game. The place felt like it was ours, but all we really owned was the houseboat and the jon tied to the back of it.

  Dad used to talk about building a real house when Mom was around. Mostly because he knew that’s what she wanted to hear. Mrs. Stovall even offered to sell him a half acre up the hill, but Dad had enough problems just paying the bills he already had. There was not much money in being a river guide. With Mom it was always about the money, even though she was too lazy to work for it herself. She wanted Dad to change. She wanted him to leave the river and move into town and get a normal job that paid more. Even I knew that was impossible. The swamp ran in his blood all the way back to our Creek Indian ancestors. Taking the river away from him would be like taking the farm from a farmer.

  I stood and crossed the parking lot to an old basketball goal Dad had put up for me a couple of years before. The net was torn and barely hanging on, and the pole was slightly bent from someone backing a boat trailer into it. I picked up a mud-splattered basketball and brushed it off. I took a step back and flipped it
at the backboard. The ball passed cleanly through the hoop and landed with a dull, bounceless slap onto the dirt beneath.

  “Thinking about playing again?” I heard Liza say.

  I turned and saw her coming down the hill toward me. She always looked so fresh and clean and free of worries.

  “No,” I said.

  She came up to me and fingered her blond hair behind her ears. We’d known each other since we were kids, but in the past year I’d started to feel different around her. I got nervous and uneasy. Sometimes I wanted to be with her all the time, but then I didn’t want to be around her at all.

  “Looks like you just need some air in the ball.”

  I frowned. “And somebody to pick me up after practice.”

  “I told you we can give you a ride on Tuesday and Thursday after band.”

  I looked at the ground and scraped the toe of my tennis shoe in the dirt. “Yeah, I know. But that doesn’t solve the rest of the week.”

  “There’s got to be a way, Cort. You were so good.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe when this mess with Mom and Dad gets straightened out. We’ll see.”

  “You gonna be around today?”

  “I don’t know where else I’d go. Right now I’m just waiting on Dad to get back so we can get ready for the hurricane.”

  “You think it’s coming?”

  “The news says it’s probably going into Biloxi. That’ll put us on the east side of it. Dad says that’s the worst side to be on.”

  “Want some help?”

  “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do yet. Dad’s out running errands.”

  “Come up for lunch. Mom’s cooking spaghetti.”

  “I just ate breakfast. We were out late last night.”

  Liza gave me this cute little smile she always made at the edge of her mouth. It was enough to make a person feel better about anything. “Well, come eat again,” she said.

  I smiled at her. “Yeah, all right. I’m gonna walk around and check on things. I’ll be up in a bit.”

  6

  I crossed the yard to the bait shop and made sure the minnow tank pumps were running and the crickets had plenty of food. Then I looked out over the stalls and made sure none of the boats were hung up or listing. After everything appeared in order I made the short walk up to the Stovalls’ house and knocked on their door. Francie answered, holding her Elmo doll that she carried everywhere.

  “Hey, Francie.”

  “We saved some for you, Cort.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  I followed Francie into the kitchen, where Liza was at the sink wiping a pot clean. She turned to me and smiled. Mrs. Stovall was beside her, leaning over the counter making a grocery list. She was always calm and level-headed, nothing like my mother. Sometimes I wished Dad and Mrs. Stovall would get married and we could all just get together and be a normal family in a brick house.

  “Help yourself, Cort,” Mrs. Stovall said.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Sit down,” Liza said. “I’ll get it for you.”

  I sat at the kitchen table. Liza heaped a plate with spaghetti and set it before me. I ate hungrily while she watched. Mrs. Stovall set a glass of milk before me and stepped back to lean against the counter.

  “Think we’ll be okay, Cort?” Mrs. Stovall asked.

  I swallowed. “I don’t think the river will get up here,” I said. “But Dad might want us to board your windows.”

  “I think there’s still a bunch of plywood behind the shed,” Liza said.

  I took a swig of milk. “Yeah. There should be enough.”

  Francie climbed into a chair next to me and put her chin on the table. “Where’s Catfish?”

  “He’s out there waiting on you,” I said.

  “Does he stink today?”

  “Probably. Maybe he needs a bath.”

  I looked at Mrs. Stovall and she rolled her eyes.

  Francie got up and started for the door. “I bet he does,” she said. “We should call him Stinky.”

  Liza and I laughed.

  “Lord,” Mrs. Stovall said. “Sounds like there’s going to be two baths.”

  We heard Francie go out the door. I took another bite and turned to Liza. “What are you doing this afternoon?”

  “Going over to Laura’s. Nothing much.”

  She knew how I felt about being trapped at the landing all the time. Whatever she had planned, she didn’t rub it in. I was sure she was going to be with all her friends from school. They were probably going to a movie that night or meeting up some other place fun. Doing what normal teenagers do.

  “What’s your mom gonna do?” Liza said, changing the subject.

  I swallowed. “About what?”

  “About the hurricane.”

  “I don’t care what she does.”

  Mrs. Stovall frowned and turned back to the counter.

  “I can’t do anything about her,” I said. “We got enough to do already.”

  “You and your dad are welcome to stay up here,” Mrs. Stovall said.

  I heard a vehicle and looked out to see Dad’s truck passing the window. “Looks like he’s back,” I said. “I’ll let him know.”

  “You can’t stay on the houseboat,” Liza said.

  I shoveled the last of the spaghetti into my mouth and got up from the table.

  “Well, I’m not staying at Mom’s house,” I said. “I better head down there and help Dad get ready.”

  Mrs. Stovall turned and took my plate from me.

  “It was good,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime,” she said. “Come back for supper if you like.”

  I nodded to her and started out the door.

  “See you later, Liza.”

  “Bye, Cort.”

  7

  I first met Liza when we were both five years old. Until then my family’s houseboat had been tied at Live Oak Landing, a few miles downriver. Dad told me the property was sold and the new owner wanted the riverfront cleaned up and the houseboats gone. He knew Linda Stovall from grade school and had seen her family on the river all his life. He worked out a lease with Jerry Stovall, and we pulled the spuds and moved upriver.

  Jerry Stovall had been about the same age as Dad. He was raised in the pine forests of north Alabama and inherited the landing when he married Linda. Dad described him as fair and reliable. Especially when compared to Dad with all his high energy, Mr. Stovall seemed nice but boring.

  I remember Liza following him about the riverfront as he tended to the endless piddling and straightening required of the landing. She was always close to him, sitting on a five-gallon bucket or in the grass with her legs pulled under her, fingering her hair away from her face. Mr. Stovall talked to her in his soft-spoken way while she nodded and smiled and laughed. When they walked up to the house together, he put his arm around her and pulled her close. Dad did the same with me, but somehow Mr. Stovall’s words seemed to sink into a person a little deeper.

  We didn’t have other children our age nearby, so Liza and I were default playmates. I didn’t mind that she was a girl. She was always interested in whatever I was into. And with Mom not wanting me around, I was usually into something outside. We explored the creeks and woods around the landing and helped Mr. Stovall with repairs to the rental equipment and bait shop. Sometimes we entertained ourselves with simple, quiet things like collecting tadpoles, arranging the pump house into a pretend general store, and poking at the giant black lubber grasshoppers that chewed lazily on the marsh grass. Mr. Stovall had learned plenty about running a river landing, but he hadn’t been raised on the river like Dad. Liza was fascinated with what we knew about life in the swamp, and I was proud to show her the things Dad taught me.

  Liza was tough. I admired the way she could see a thing for what it was and laugh about it. She didn’t get silly and irritable like other girls I knew.

  Things changed when her dad died. I never saw her cry, not even then. But she got qu
ieter. Her eyes lost the spark of curiosity. She was no longer interested in black grasshoppers and poking about the landing. If she came down to the riverfront, it was only to check on Francie or to pass along a message.

  “I want to move away from here,” she once told me.

  The words hit me in the gut. Back then, I couldn’t imagine wanting to live anywhere else. And I had never imagined not having her in my life.

  “Why?”

  “Because everything reminds me of him.”

  For a while I expected them to leave, and the thought of it sat inside me like a small sickness. I knew that even if they wanted to stay, it wasn’t possible for Mrs. Stovall to run the landing and raise children at the same time.

  “Linda oughta dump this place,” Mom said. “Take the money and run.”

  “It’s been in her family for years,” Dad said. “She was raised here.”

  “Yeah, so what?” she said.

  I think Mom hoped they’d sell. So maybe we’d have nowhere to moor the houseboat and have to move off the river.

  Then Dad took to maintaining the grounds, and suddenly it seemed everything was going to work out. He even built a new row of boat slips to bring in extra rental income.

  “She’s gonna make more money off this place than she would workin’ at Walmart,” Dad added. “And she gets to stay home with her kids.”

  “Sure,” Mom said, “while we do all the work.”

  I never saw Mom work at anything except making Dad miserable. But he knew it was useless to argue with her. He just nodded and stepped outside.

  For now, it didn’t seem like the Stovalls were going anywhere. But I often wondered if losing her father had ruined Liza for life on the river.

  8

  I found Dad down at the houseboat loading a cooler into the jon.

  “What you been doin’?” he asked me.

  “Waiting on you.”

  “You got to wait on me for everything? We need to run that trotline and bring it in.”

  I could see he wasn’t in a good mood. When Mom had been around he had always been happy, even when she wasn’t. He was like a big kid, running from one thing to the next, excited about everything. Just the fact that she was there, that she was his, was all he needed. Now it seemed she’d torn his spirit out and gone up the road with it.