Skink—No Surrender: Chapters 6–11

“Chat rooms are on the computer,” I said. “Come on, dude, they’re virtual.”
“Stop calling me ‘dude’ or you’ll virtually regret it.”

Some people would have given him a gold plaque for getting that lowlife off the beaches.

Anybody who swiped license tags would have no qualms about stealing a credit card.

Next thing I knew, the sun was up and I was alone in the Malibu, which was parked on the bank of a small brackish bay.

I’m going to give you a phone number. The gentleman on the other end will tell you as much about me as he prudently can.

“That used to be a drawbridge,” he said dejectedly.

On the front seat of the car was a printout of the pastor’s eulogy recalling the short life and brave death of Earl Talbo Chock.

A convoy of speeding police cars might spook the bogus Talbo Chock into doing something drastic.

Probably the same expression he wore when he heard the scrape of Dodge Olney’s trowel in the sand.

“He might coax a mile or two out of it.”

You understand why I’m not enthusiastic about this impulsive trip of yours.

Mr. Tile has promised to stay in contact, but I’m still very apprehensive about this road trip you’ve embarked upon.

Based on past experiences, I’m betting she’ll be back in Loggerhead Beach as soon as she gets bored with this latest escapade.

The bird’s most striking feature was a sharp crest on the back of its head—black for females, bright red for males.

What people often see (and get excited about) is really a pileated woodpecker, which also has a vivid red crest.

Because ivorybills vanished so long ago, no color photographs of the birds exist. Malley helped me draw a likeness on my poster board.

Not so long ago, researchers from two big-time universities published a study listing fourteen reliable sightings of the ivorybill in the Choctawhatchee basin, as well as three hundred recordings of distinct calls and bark drumming known to be made by the elusive woodpecker.

“Let the cops find Malley. What are you—like, mister secret agent bounty hunter?”
The difference was that bounty hunters chase down people to get the reward money; I was tracking my cousin because I was worried about her.

I aimed the light toward a ditch, and that’s where he was sprawled.

So I cradled the little stinker in the crook of my arm while the governor gimped out of the ditch and retrieved his boot, which no longer fit over his mangled toes.

The critter was so blind that he had to spin her around until she was pointed toward the mother. Off they went, two black bushy tails trundling single-file through the scrub.

“Come on! You make a splint while I douse the fire and pack our stuff.”

He laughed ruefully. “Sounds like a fine plan, Richard, except for one small problem.”

The governor hobbled back through the woods toward our campfire.

“The highways of this state are teeming with mental defectives.”

When my foot met the accelerator, the car lurched forward and I yelled a word that my mother wouldn’t have appreciated.

I lay down and replayed in my head the fleeting sight of that white Toyota.

Somewhere deep in the trees a pair of screech owls called back and forth, like two lovesick horses whinnying.

He snapped off a couple of stout branches and fashioned a splint for his lower leg.

He used his knife to slice his smashed boot into a crude sandal, which he fit over his injured foot.

Lush trees lined the banks, and a pair of ospreys coasted back and forth searching for mullets.

Now the submerged car was obscured by a milky cloud of mud, stirred by Skink’s explorations.

From the governor’s mumbling, it was obvious that he hadn’t thought up an actual disease for himself, so I piped up and said, “Gramps’s got emphysema.”

Mortified, the doctor and his wife clambered into their minivan and sped off in a hail of gravel.

It had a small outboard engine and one person aboard steering with a tiller.

To say my stepfather isn’t an outdoorsman is a kind understatement. If Trent hits a golfball into the woods, he won’t go looking for it because he’s basically terrified of nature.

His Bigfoot fixation is what made me think of him while the governor and I gathered kindling for a campfire.

If Online Talbo was near enough to hear the growls, he’d think there was a rabid panther roaming the forest.

“It’s called full disclosure,” he said.
“But there’s lots of your secrets I don’t know.”

Our small fire smoldered and hissed.