Sketcher (9 page)

Nine

When we got back home it was after dark, and the mosquito fire had gone out early, on account of a sudden evening shower. Moms was standin' on the dark porch in the doorway of the house. The light behind her made her look so witchy I felt better when the truck lights hit her and showed her face. She shielded her eyes and walked towards us before the truck even stopped.

“G'night, Lobo. Can I talk to you for one minute?”

Damn. Pa was in for a Valerie Beaumont lecture – and I was out of luck too.

“I don't know what you been telling my son,” Moms told Pa. “I don't care exactly. I just want to tell you that from here on, I'd like to keep some things private. You know how Alrick feels about tellin' them too much about...”

Pa scratched his beard and nodded.

“And one more thing, Pa. I don't appreciate you feedin' my children them swamp rats, y'hear?”

Dammit, she knew. That gossip Ma Campbell must've told her. Guess that explained why me and Doug were gettin' doused with cerasee tea for two days straight.

Moms continued. “Pa, you know. You've been there. Where I come from—”

“Yes, yes Val, I know, where you come from you don't eat that typa crap. I know. Y'all prefer a big plate of curried goat meat or some salted codfish for that blood pressure of yours,” he said, tryin' to laugh things off. But Moms wasn't amused. So Pa said he was sorry and offered to do anything to make it all up to her. She said she'd let him know as soon as she came up with some good punishment.

“And you'd better make sure you keep your word, cos I've got a witness.”

“Really? Who?”

“This same last boy of mine that you just hauled in here all odd hours of the night.” And she looks me dead in the eyes as if she wants to cast a dark spell on me.

I didn't get punished, though. So I took it that I should count my blessings and just get to sleep, even though I wanted to ask her a few things. But Moms, she kept rakin' Pa over the coals a li'le longer – and she was riled up with ol' Ma Campbell too. You'd think with all the trouble her fugitive son had been causin' up and down the Mississippi, Ma Campbell would want to mind her own business... but no.

Pause.
Remember that guy James “Couyon” Jackson I told you about? Well, before he was a notorious gang leader he was just poor ol' Ma Campbell's slow-learnin' son. When people in the swamp and the city talked about James Jackson, they kept their voice down like they were talkin' about Beelzebub hisself. That's because James Jackson was known all along the length and breadth of the Mississippi for a heartless way of huntin' animals – and it was even rumoured that he hunted humans. One night, he supposedly shot a fishin' partner for a tin of chewing tobacco and dumped him in the Rigolets waters under the train bridge. They say he called it an accident and got off scot-free cos of no evidence. And I heard that all that time he's talkin' to the judge, he's chewing the dead man's tobacco in the courtroom.

Now, I'll be the first to tell you that last part don't sound possible, but everybody said it's true, and you know that's how gossip turns to gospel. Furthermore, Pa said that good-for-nothin' boy was actually chewin' Court Case Root. That's some powerful herbal chew, similar to John the Conqueror root, if you know about that kinda natural magic stuff. I heard people sayin' that James spit a cheekful of Court Case
Root on the courtroom floor, repeated a Psalm and walked free. Judge didn't know what hit him.

Now Ma Campbell, she was so scared of what her son had become. Every time there was a nasty murder or robbery you could expect ol' Couyon Jackson to show up in the swamp and lay low for a few days. Poor Ma Campbell she'd be happy he was OK, but anxious for him to leave before Pa called the police or traded blows with him. Pa had grown James up like his own boy. He sent him to school and all that, but when James had trouble keepin' up with the other kids in school, Pa would say: “Ma, I told you that boy James is
couyon
.”

Now, you wouldn't want to be called “couyon”, even though it sounds like nice Cajun French. Well, neither did James, cos it simply means you're an idiot. As you would expect, James hated bein' called that name so much, he'd still go wild if you said it to his face. People say six dead men did.

Anyway, when we went inside, I followed Moms with my eyes. We were in the house all by ourselves. I was goin' to say somethin' sweet to her and make friends and just call it a night – but the night wasn't over by a long shot. She switched off the porch light and spoke without lookin' at me.

“Your brothers are out searchin' for Calvin. He didn't come for any food today. I just hope he's not gone back over into that man's yard.”

I didn't like the sound of that one bit, and I started itchin' to get out there and help. Well, before long she switched back on that porch light and said: “We're going out, and I need you to go on up ahead to the tracks and tell them to wrap it up until tomorrow. Calvin can bring himself home.”

I sure hoped she was right. We had to be feedin' the poor pups with medicine droppers, cos Backhoe Benet separated them from their mom, so I wouldn't want to imagine what else he would do. When we got closer to the tracks, I saw the flashlights first. Doug and Tony were out there. I guessed that as usual Frico had prob'ly been allowed to go do some weird
night-time sketchin' and could come home any time he wanted, but I was bein' given the cold shoulder for ridin' with Pa.

Anyway, I caught up with them at the slope: Tony was lying down on that little gradient that goes up to the actual rails of the train tracks, in a jeans jacket and hip boots with one of our walkie-talkies in his hand. Doug was on his belly in the wet dirt, in a zipped-up black sweater and hip boots as well. They had taken a small boat from Pa Campbell and rowed across from our house and come up the side of the bayou. They were scopin' out the Benets' place, and I said to myself: “Damn, Skid, you just ran into a full-scale military mission with the big boys.” This was the big leagues, so there was no way I was going to tell them that Moms said to come on home. You don't tell soldiers their mom says to come on home.

Well, exactly one minute after that decision I was mad as hell, cos Doug told me
they
were the ones who sent Calvin over to the Benets “on a mission”. Tony said he had heard Pops' van comin' into the swamp, and from up in the tamarind tree they verified that the Ford Transit was parked around the back of the Benets' house and Pops was inside talkin' to Backhoe. Somethin' strange was goin' on between them since that day with the puppies. So Tony came up with the idea to strap one of the HF-1200 walkie-talkies to poor ol' Calvin, duct-tape down the microphone key and then take him to the train tracks, turn him loose and let nature take its course. That dog was so hooked on the Benets' Border collie that he'd dash across the tracks once a chain wasn't holding him back. So there we were listenin' to the other doggie-walkie-talkie to see if we could hear what Backhoe and Pops were talking about.

“Shhh! Skid, keep quiet on the gravel. Doug, where's Calvin now?”

“Should be under the Benets' house. Expecting to hear audio any time soon.”

It didn't take long for all of us to agree that that walkie-talkie-Calvin thing was a bad idea. I couldn't believe these
dudes sent my dog into danger like that, but overall this was some cool stuff. And I wish I could call for back-up – but it was too late for Harry T to get down into the swamps and, like I said, gettin' through to Belly and Marlon took some serious long-distance communication.

So we were it. The team and the back-up. All we could do now is listen. But all we could hear was dog hair. Yep. See, if those geniuses had asked me, I woulda told 'em that Calvin would be draggin' hisself on his belly in the mud under the Benets' house and whimperin' and pantin'. That's not a good idea when you're tryin' to listen to something. Well, the dogdraggin' sound continued for about another minute – and then suddenly, as clear as day, we could hear Pops' voice from inside the house.

“I told you, Tracey... Backhoe... whatever you call yourself these days... there's nothin' over there!”

“Yew sho' you checked ag'in?”

“Yessir.”

“With all the nec'sary methods?”

“And then some more.”

“Now, Alrick, yew owe it to me to keep on lookin'.”

“I don't
owe
you jack
...
(
static
) We all 'greed on this a long time ago. Shared ownership of any gas we (
static
) or take the losses if we didn't find any – simple.”

“And I'm sayin', it's too early to call it.”

“We've been searching for twenty years, Benet!”

The radio frequency was actin' up. To make matters worse, the sky suddenly flashed on and off, and we felt the first drops of the rain returnin'.

We pressed our heads closer around the walkie-talkie. Backhoe was gettin' antsy.

“Look, Al. There's got to be somethin' over on your side. Look around and (
static
) already checked over this side. That side of the swamp is pure Mississippi limestone, there's got to be some gas pockets under there. Check again or (
static
)
your people off my land and let me get the pile drivers and the drills in here myself. I owe people and we're runnin' out of time. Remember, what's on my land... is mine. And I'm sure you don't want that to include sweet Mrs Beaumont, do you?”

We heard a scuffle comin' from inside the house or under it. Right at that minute, the noise overpowered everything.

“Tony, there's too much static!”

“That's not static, man: that's Calvin's backside.”

The static turned into a thump-thump that could only mean one thing: Calvin was under the house with Medusa tryin' to become a daddy again.

Tony spoke in his nerd voice. “It appears Agent Calvin has gone rogue and is cavorting with the enemy.” We started laughin' until we realized there was silence from inside the house.

Then all hell exploded. More raindrops were drummin' on the Benets' tin roof. Backhoe heard Calvin thumpin' through his floorboards and shouted to his sons, who ran around the back. They flung the groin-grabber under the house. Calvin yelped. They hauled him out. He was snarlin' and growlin', but we could hear when they ripped off the walkie-talkie and hit him in the head with it. He howled and bit somebody, or maybe the both of them, and they hit him in the head again and again. Then we heard Pops' van start up and saw him hightailing out of the swamp in the rain with the back doors still open and Backhoe runnin' behind the Ford Transit with a plank. Backhoe stopped when he saw that Pops was long gone. He put his hand to his forehead, looked at his fingers, then stomped off to go join his boys. I jumped up mad and excited at the same time.

“I'm goin' in!”

“No, you're goin' home.” Doug grabbed my collar and turned me in the direction of the house. Right then I heard a
zing
by my ear. Either it had started rainin' horizontal,
and the drops were balls of fire or... Then there was another sound. Somethin' you feel through your pores before your ears recognize it. One. Two. Six. Eight gunshots. I made for the tamarind tree and monkeyed up onto it. Calvin came out from under the Benets' house and bolted across the tracks – ears back, tail under. Then came the whole Benet family, stridin' after him. They were gun-confident, steppin' fast across the border, blazin' shots at our dog in the dark. Hot nozzles coughed out deadly red. Each time the poppin' lights showed the Benets' faces for a few seconds before they turned into shadows again. The explosions bounced among the cypress trees like pinball. I couldn't believe this was happenin'. Doug and Tony dropped flat again and crawled in the mud towards the footbridge a little ways off.

“Skid!”

Doug was shoutin', but I was long gone up in that tamarind tree, and I wasn't comin' down. I was watchin' the whole thing from above, soakin'-wet and scared as hell, but I held on and kept my head down.

In the flickerin' from the sky, I saw everything frame after frame. Backhoe swung down the barrel of his rifle and started workin' the lever, pumping shots as Calvin zigzagged through the trees. That dog was a champion runner. Backhoe was cursin' mongrels, but somethin' told me this madness had more to do with Pops than with our dog. Then Moms, who was waitin' for me the whole time, she heard the shots and came runnin' and screamin' at the Benets from the other end of the footbridge – but either they weren't hearin' or they were too pissed off to care.

Backhoe had crossed the train tracks and came chargin' down the slope, rifle-ready, Broadway and Squash flankin' him like outriders. They had a six-shooter each, hammerin' out bullets that cut down leaves and slammed into tree trunks. They blew three rounds each and then fell back to reload without even lookin' down at the handguns. I saw
clearly what they were plannin' to do next. While their daddy looked around for Calvin, they focused on the footbridge. As soon as Tony and Doug raised up to run across that bridge, those Benet boys took aim at my brothers and started squeezin' off shots. Their father thought it was the dog and joined in with the rifle. Bullets tore up one end of the bridge. I called out loud, and Moms put her hands up high in the dark at the other end, either callin' on the Lord or castin' a spell. Maybe she was just tryin' to make them see her and her boys, I don't know. But the smoke in their eyes from all that shootin' and the water and noise from the sky wasn't helpin'. There was gunpowder in my throat, and my hollerin' went silent for a second, like in those terrible dreams you get when you have a fever.

As Tony and Doug hurried over the bridge, Broadway and Squash ran after them like it was a feedin' frenzy. My brothers leapt off the bridge and stood in front of Moms. They faced the Benets. Squash walked up slowly. He laughed a little, then got serious, pulled back the hammer of the pistol and took aim. His eyes grew wide.