2 Brooklyn James (15 page)

“What was that?” she spins in its direction, her body crouched and alarmed.

“Bullfrog.” Max smiles, pleased at her awareness.

She looks down to her feet, her boots settling into the moist sand, a sticky, clay-like substance surfacing at the ends of her toes and heels. “This isn’t going to swallow me up, is it?” She grinds her black militant footwear further into the soil testing its give.

“Not if we move fast enough,” Max jests, reaching for her hand.

She ardently places her palm inside his thinking nothing of its familiar cool contact. Urging him along, they begin a fast stealthy trek. “I think I’ve seen this before,” she says apprehensively, her head swiveling from side to side as if
Swamp Thing
might be hiding, camouflaged in the sprawling brown and green landscape. “On
A&E...The Discovery Channel...
Croc People? Where shirtless men wearing denim bib-overalls ‘aim to catch ’em a big one,’” she reverts to a poorly executed Cajun accent making Max laugh heartily.

“I believe
Swamp People
is what you’re referring to. It’s on
History Channel.”
He shakes his head.

“Hope you have a big knife and an Australian accent,” she jokes, half serious, referencing
Crocodile Dundee.

“We don’t see many crocs in this bayou. Just gators, mainly.”

“Oh, well, then I feel much better,” she sputters, slapping her hand loudly and rhythmically against her thigh.

“What are you doing?” Max continues to drag her along at a speedy pace.

“Making noise. Letting them know we’re here. Animals attack when startled, right?”

He raises his eyebrows, chuckling. “This is your story. You tell it.”

Chacha chacha chacha,
the rattling sound engages her spine, causing her to shiver momentarily. “What was that?” she whispers, lunging nearly upon his back, her free hand gripping his forearm.

“It could be a Cicada.” He pauses. “Or an Eastern Diamondback.” Pleased with her reaction, he revels in her closeness and uncharacteristic dependency in unfamiliar surroundings.

“You better hope a gator gets us,” she continues to whisper leaning over his shoulder, wound so tight against his frame not even a pin would fit between. “Otherwise, I’m going to strangle you for bringing me out here.”

“I thought you would enjoy the adventure, tough girl,” he jibes, muffling his quiet laughter.

“The city is jungle enough for me, thank you very much. Besides I think I have too many teeth to be traipsing around out here. Isn’t that some sort of prerequisite to life on the
bayou?”
she exaggerates the unfamiliar term. “Anything more than ten functional teeth residing in one’s mouth is an instant disqualifier.”

“You sure would bring a pretty penny,” he eggs her on, ignoring her insults as they break the clearing into the marsh.

“Whoa.” She balks against Max, staring out at the vast murky body of water. “Where’s this boat you speak of?”

“Right there.” He points to a row of humble airboats docked for local transport. Dragging her onto one of the flat-bottomed, free-sided vessels, he cranks the engine engaging the propeller, creating a gust of wind and a loud ruckus.

“Are you sure we aren’t better off swimming?” she raises her voice over the propeller, never having experienced such a boat.

“You tell me.” He points to a gator resting atop a bundle of spike rush off in the middle of the marsh.

With hands defiantly resting on her hips, she gazes in the direction of his index finger. The gator slithers off into the murky wetland, causing neighboring lily pads to disperse and shift atop the water. She gasps, clutching his shoulders thrusting herself up into the elevated seat at the back of the boat desperately attempting to keep track of the gator and its course. Max rocks the boat easing it from the solid embankment down into the dark, dingy abyss, allowing it to pick up speed before he hoists himself into the remaining elevated seat at Emily’s side. The gusting propeller behind them hungrily sucking wind through its fan causes Emily’s hair to dance in the breeze. She gathers it together in her palms securing it against itself at the back of her neck, disturbed at its fullness and wispy ends as the heavy air counteracts her purposely straightened sleek locks. She grabs Max’s leg, pulling herself back to equilibrium, with the surge of the boat catching its efficient wind. He places his free hand over hers giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s only a few miles across the water,” he consoles, their final destination his grandfather’s house.

She nods, removing her hand from under his, clenching it and its mate against her seat bottom. Looking to the riverbank at the other unattended airboats, she questions, “People just leave them here?”

“Integrity still means something in the bayou,” he answers. “If it’s not yours, leave it alone. But if you need it, you’re welcome to it.”

“Hmm,” she huffs, impressed, eyeing the silver metal contraption. “Is this what your grandfather uses to fish?”

“Yep. Now that he’s retired. Says it’s all he needs.” Max shrugs. “He used to captain the big boats. He was a commercial fisherman. Knows Bayou La Batre like the back of his hand.”

“Bayou La Batre,” she repeats. “This is Bayou La Batre?” she further indulges, enjoying the French flair of the name rolling off her tongue.

Max shakes his head, his hand lightly maneuvering the steering stick through the middle of the marsh, aiming for the embankment on the other side. “La Batre’s in Alabama. Pee-Paw worked away for weeks at a time. Lots of folks around here do that. Gotta follow the money train.”

Pee-Paw,
she internalizes the foreign moniker drawing her own conclusions. “What about Mee-Maw?” she inquires, wondering if her deducing skills are up to par.

“Very good.” He extends her a smile. “Mee-Maw passed a few years back.”

“Was she a fisherman, too?”

“No. She was a quilter.” Taking note of the furrow across her brow, he explains, “She made quilts...blankets...like the one on my bed.”

“Oh.” The colorful patchwork design floods Emily’s memory as she tries to wrap her mind around the uncanny occupation.

“She was nearly full-blooded Choctaw. Quilting was a revered skill in Native American culture. Especially Mee-Maw’s quilts.” He smiles, growing antsy to arrive at his grandfather’s, sure Emily will find him intriguing.

Emily scans him, his high cheek bones and squared jaw now fully making sense, given his lineage. “How’d you get those baby blues?” she asks, clearing her throat, the ingenuous question escaping unchecked. “I mean, most Native Americans and Spaniards have dark eyes, don’t they?” she follows up as if the inquiry is simply the result of her scientific curiosity for genealogy.

“You noticed,” he says, flattered. “Pee-Paw’s technically Castilian. Not a brown-eyed one in the bunch.”

“Who knew the bayou was so cultured,” she thinks aloud.

“Rich and decadent.” He winks.

“Although I could do without the diverse animal population.” She mimes holding a long rifle, aiming it at a formidable black snake slithering around in the cloudy water at the front of the airboat. She pulls the make-believe trigger as it disappears from view underneath the flat-bottomed vessel.

“You’re safer out here than in town dwelling among the two-legged variety.”

Probably,
she thinks to herself. “What?” she questions the immediate concern in his expression.

“What the hell?” he muses, the boat rounding a desolate corner.

Emily trails his line of sight to what appears to be a burned-down shack on the bank of the highland. He steers the airboat straight ahead, letting it bottom out beside the flat wooden beams anchored to the edge of the marsh. The ripples from the boat send the boards awash, shifting atop the current. Max piles out onto the solid turf briskly approaching the wreckage, his head craning, assessing the scene. A stone sign etched with the words
Castille’s Casa
hangs limply off an erected wooden two-by-four. Emily ponders,
Castille? Where have I heard that before?
She takes off after Max, ducking and diving under trees sporting low-hanging limbs.

“Pee-Paw?” he calls, his hands busily picking up toppled beams, his eyes searching. Emily stumbles over the ash, her attention drawn to a set of short, melted ivory keys, at one time most likely part of an accordion. A charred picture frame lies among the rubble, the glass broken. She bends to pick it up, her introduction to Pee-Paw and Mee-Maw, their smiling faces marred by the wilted photo stock. She stands helplessly watching Max in debris up to his knees, his hands and arms covered with black dust, frantically digging and flinging the waste from his path. “Pee-Paw!” he yells, turning circles. “Goddammit,” he wails, falling on all fours, searching through tear-stained eyes.

Emily approaches him warily, kneeling in front of him. “Maybe he wasn’t here,” she consoles, feeling that her heart may tear itself from her chest looking at him in such turmoil, his steel blue eyes saturated.

He nods, gritting his teeth, continuing to shuffle through the remains of sixty years of life.

“You’re not gonna find him,” a rough, dark voice sounds, appearing from the trees in direct line of Emily.

She squints, identifying the ink marker on the man’s neck, a black spider web tattoo. Her mind working in snapshots—
Castille...Brianna...Gina...spider web tattoo...Manny Briggs.
“Get in the boat,” she orders Max, circling around him, facing her adversary. “Go!”

Manny Briggs laughs triumphantly. “I fed him to the gators before I burned the place down.” He runs his fingers through his stringy, greasy hair. “Gotta hand it to the old fuck, he took it like a pro. No squealing or begging. Not even a tear.”

Max spins around in Manny’s direction. Emily pushes against his chest, holding him at bay.

“Bet you’d take it like a pro.” Manny eyes Emily, licking his lips.

Max lunges at Manny, his momentum stalled mid-stride as Emily initiates her kinetic wiles on his body. His face and eyes murderous in their intent, undelivered as she holds him captive.

Manny claps facetiously. “Very impressive.” He rubs his hands together, his eyes instantly ablaze, red and scorching. “You hold him nice and still for me,” his voice melding into something distorted and demonic.

Emily releases Max. Hell Hound’s scorching fireball just missing him as his body jolts forward with his initial momentum. Emily follows the whizzing red ball of fire with her eyes, watching it whirl toward the airboat.
BOOM!
It connects with the gasoline reservoir, blowing the boat to bits, the pieces scattering outward. Naturally, she guards her face with her arms, watching the tiny flames fizzle out upon the wet marsh. The sound of Max’s footsteps digging into the ground recaptures her attention. She channels Hell Hound, attempting to mute his reaction.

Manny laughs, grabbing Max by the neck as he lurches in his direction, slamming him onto the ground.

“Ugh,” Max expels, the air knocked from his body.

“Doesn’t work on me,” Manny says, his head pivoting side to side and up and down akin to a serpent. His red eyes searching the outline of Emily’s face, the heat from his stare radiates over her body. “I’m a different breed.” He maneuvers toward her, his body loose and slinky.

Max turns over attempting to recover his footing, the heat from Hell Hound warming his otherwise icy flesh. Emily stoops defensively, coming up off her heels onto light toes bracing to dodge the next blazing fireball, sure she is the projected target. Manny inhales deeply, his back and neck arching, his pointed tongue exposed to the air tracing the scent of his prey. With his exhale, a flaming sphere lobs through the air end-over-end, headed straight for Emily’s chest. She tracks it with her eyes waiting for the precise moment to duck, the heat causing her to break out instantly with perspiration.

The fireball stops midair, its molten crimson exterior crackling. Shades of blue forming at its bottom spread quickly around the globe, sealing it at its top as cooling vapors cloud around its form until it shatters, splaying tiny shards of ice over the ash in which she stands. Darting her eyes in Max’s direction, his steel blues sparkle, casting intermittent specks of white reminiscent of a diamond’s brilliance.

Hell Hound turns swiftly in Max’s direction, dumbfounded and irate at his interference. A low rumble escapes his throat as he slithers toward Max, his body coiling and striking out. He flies through the air nearly parallel to the ground and connects with him. They grapple end-over-end through the cluttered remains of the house, the wood and ash popping and fizzing with their alternate contact, fire and ice.

Do something!
Emily scolds herself, unsure of what to do, her powers seemingly void without Gina to channel them through. She looks about the rubble pulling from it a large iron rod. Dancing around their twisting bodies, she seeks a clear shot at Manny Briggs. The rod positioned in her hands above shoulder level, she releases, bashing him in the middle of his spine. His attention pulled from Max, he stumbles to his feet. Emily connects again and again smack dab in the middle of his stomach, backing him up with each contact. The heat from his body causes the iron rod to bend, molding it into a crescent.