The Bass Wore Scales (32 page)

* * *

My truck pulled up at Ardine McCollough’s trailer just as the sun was beginning to drop below the tree-line. There were still a couple of hours of sunlight left, but the shadows of the hardwoods crisscrossed the driveway like a Japanese art print. Pauli Girl was sitting on the front porch in a pair of cut-offs and a t-shirt, drinking a can of Cheerwine, and looking for all the world like Daisy May, the poster-girl for Fleetside Mobile Homes. She waved to me as I slammed the door of the pick-up.

“
Hey there, Hayden.”

“
You’re not working today?”

“
Naw. Them gummint boys—those ones from Fish and Wildlife—they came in for a pizza and found me out. I’m really not even old enough to wait tables.”

“
Ah, sorry.”

“
That’s okay. I didn’t really like working anyway.”

“
Spoken like a true fourteen-year-old.”

She laughed. “I guess. You want to see Mama? She’s not home yet.”

“
I was hoping to see Moosey.”

Pauli Girl furrowed her brow. “I saw him a little while ago. I think he was running through the kitchen. He might be out back in the woods.”

“
Thanks. I’ll see if I can find him.”

* * *

“
Moosey!” I called. “Moosey! Can you hear me?”

The McCollough’s trailer backed up to the Pisgah National Forest, half a million acres of beautiful and rugged mountain scenery that covered a large portion of the western edge of the state. Moosey was probably well acquainted with a couple hundred of them. If he wanted to play hide and seek, I’d have a hard time finding him without a couple of bloodhounds.

“
Moosey! I know you can hear me. I’ll wait up at your house. Don’t be too long.”

I turned and walked back to the trailer.

* * *

Ten minutes later, a breathless Moosey banged in the back door. I was sitting with Ardine and Pauli Girl in the living room, admiring Ardine’s latest quilt. Ardine made and sold three or four a year to supplement her meager income at the Pine Valley Christmas Tree Farm.

“
Hey Mom,” said Moosey. “Did you just get home?”

“
Yes. Just now. I think Hayden wants to talk with you.”

I saw a worried look cross Moosey’s visage just for an instant. Then his happy-go-lucky demeanor was back front and center.

“
Okay. What’s up?”

“
Let’s go out on the porch,” I said.

“
Sure.”

We went out on the porch and sat down, our legs hanging off the edge, my feet planted firmly on the ground—Moosey’s dangling above the dirt, swinging back and forth. I looked at him. He was nervously chewing the inside of his cheek.

“
You know,” I started. “I was out at Dr. Jackson’s this morning. Someone stole Kokomo from his cage.”

“
Hmm,” said Moosey.

“
Whoever got him out used a set of padlock shims. Do you know what those are?”

“
Hmm,” said Moosey.

“
You know, Bud had a set of those. Remember when Nancy caught him a couple of years ago breaking into houses? Have you seen those shims?”

“
Hmm,” said Moosey.

“
You know what else? When I was looking around the cage, I found this.” I pulled a Milky Way wrapper out of my pocket and showed it to Moosey. “I wonder if I could get any fingerprints off this?”

“
I don’t think so,” said Moosey. “I’ll throw it away for you if you want me to.”

“
Now listen to me, young man. I don’t know where you put Kokomo, but you cannot be around him for a while. There are going to be hunters all over town tomorrow and out in these woods, too. You’re coming with me. I’ll pick you up at seven in the morning. Understand?”

Moosey nodded.

“
Is Kokomo locked up?”

Moosey shook his head. “He said he didn’t want to be.”

“
He’s talking to you?”

“
Yeah.”

“
How did you get into the fence?” I asked.

There’s a loose place in the back. You can undo the wires and pull the fence away from the pole. That’s how I always get in.”

“
You’ve been in before?”

Moosey nodded. “Sometimes I go in to look at the bears. Then, when I leave, I just hook the wires back.”

“
How did Kokomo get out?”

“
Sheesh!” said Moosey. “You should have seen him. He just climbed right over that fence like it wasn’t even there.”

“
What about the razor wire on the top?”

Moosey shrugged. “Don’t know. He just went right over it.”

“
Did you see any cuts on him?”

“
Nope. He’s fine.”

“
Is he in the woods?”

“
There’s an old school bus…” Moosey pointed to the woods behind the trailer. “Back there. About a mile down the holler. Some boys used to use it for camping, but no one’s been in it for a couple of years. You can’t even see it unless you know where it is.”

“
Did you leave him some food?”

“
Yeah. Lots.”

“
Not candy,” I said.

“
Not candy.”

“
Did he say anything else?”

“
I asked him what happened.”

“
You did?”

“
Well, sure. He said ‘Kokomo scared. Tiger bad.’ I don’t know what that means.”

“
Wasn’t Tiger the name of his kitten?”

“
Yeah,” said Moosey, with a nod. “Kokomo didn’t kill that man, though. That’s why I rescued him.”

“
I know. And I think you’re right about Kokomo. He didn’t kill Brother Kilroy. Do you think he’d talk to Nancy and me?”

“
Maybe. I’ll ask him.”

“
Not unless I go with you. If we bring him back, he’ll be shot, so he’s on his own for a couple of days. Got it?”

“
Got it.”

Chapter 20

I had to find Betsy. She was a sitting duck or maybe a cooked goose, a dying quail, a squatting swan, or something equally as fowl. If The Minimalist got to Betsy before I did, he’d squeeze her like a custard frog on St. Beadle’s Day. I took the stairs two at a time, carefully wiping my mouth as I got to the bottom. Right then and there, I made a solemn vow. Fishy Jim had been a good bass, and his skeleton would get the burial it deserved.

Marilyn was waiting for me with the car running.

I hopped into the jump seat. “What are you doing here?” I asked, curious as an altar boy at a “True Love Waits” convention.

“
I thought you could use a little help. You wanna get some dinner?”

“
No thanks. I just ate.”

“
Okay. Where to?”

“
Let’s get over to Moby Mel’s. I need to find Betsy.”

“
Harumph. I don’t know what you see in her.”

“
Other than a drop-dead gorgeous face, a body that Aphrodite would envy, a personality that makes Katie Couric seem like Leona Helmsley, a double-doctorate in Anthropology and Medieval English, and seventeen million dollars?”

“
Yeah. What’s she got that I haven’t got?”

“
Other than a drop-dead geor…”

“
Shut up,” said Marilyn.

* * *

“
When do they announce the Bulwer-Lytton contest winners?” asked Meg.

“
Next week. It could be as early as Monday.”

“
So I’ll have to take you all out sometime next week.”

“
Yes, I suppose you might if you happen to win. However, I had an e-mail from Scott Rice, the head of the contest. He’s very impressed with
my
submissions.”

“
Is that the one that says ‘Your submissions have arrived and will receive the treatment that they deserve?’”

“
Umm…yes, that’s the one. But then he sent another e-mail as well.”

“
Did it say ‘You latest inflictions have arrived?’”

“
Yes,” I sighed.

“
So,” said Meg. “You received two
form
e-mails.”

“
Well…okay, but it’s the
way
he said it. Your latest
inflictions
have arrived.”

“
Ah yes. Now I see. I shall start quaking in my Reeboks any moment.”

* * *

I was at the Police Department at 7:30 in the morning with Moosey in tow. I knew that the Slab wouldn’t be open, so we stopped by a fast-food place at the edge of town and loaded up on our minimum-daily-requirements of sugar, carbohydrates and grease. Moosey was still finishing one of his cinnamon rolls as we got out of the truck and walked into the station. Dave, usually here every morning at seven sharp, was nowhere to be seen. Nancy, however, usually in her chair no earlier than nine o’clock on a normal morning, was front and center, her uniform starched and as crisp as a new dollar bill.

“
Good morning,” I said, ushering Moosey into one of the visitor chairs.

“
Morning,” said Nancy. “I need to ask you something.”

“
Okay, shoot.”

“
Can we…uh…talk alone?”

“
I’d like to, but I have to keep an eye on this one.” I gestured toward Moosey. “There’s a gorilla loose, and there’ll be hunters galore in a couple of hours.”

“
Soon as people read the paper,” said Nancy, handing me a copy of the
Watauga Democrat.
“Page four.”

I flipped the paper open and saw a full-page ad. It looked like a “Wanted” poster from the Old West. There was a gorilla’s picture in the middle of the page. Across the top was emblazoned “Wanted—Dead.” Underneath the picture were the details. I read them quickly, but carefully.

“
$5000 reward to whoever kills this wild gorilla. 5’ 8” tall—480 lbs. Extremely dangerous. Last seen at the animal shelter in St. Germaine, NC. A warrant has been issued to destroy this animal and a hunting license is needed. A Gorilla License is available at the Courthouse in St. Germaine for $80. Dogs okay.”