Wildcat Did Growl

By Russ Hall

Lea Palmer lives alone on a one-house cay in the eastern Abaco Islands of the Bahamas she inherited from her brother. Her days are peaceful and reflective, spent fishing or listening to the warm tropical wind rustle through the coconut fronds. When a small boat comes across the white-capped blue waves toward her island, everything is about to change. Folks have been telling her a woman shouldn’t try to live by herself out here, that paradise can have an edge some nights, with nasties about. These nasties, though, are about to find what it’s like to tangle with a wildcat. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Russ Hall
• Release date: Sep 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502264244

Russ Hall

Russ Hall lives on the north shore of Lake Travis near Austin, TX. An award-winning writer of mysteries, thrillers, westerns, poetry, and nonfiction books, he has had more than thirty-five books published, as well as numerous short stories and articles. He has also been on The New York Times bestseller list multiple times with co-authored non-fiction books, such as: Do You Matter: How Great Design Will Make People Love Your Company (Financial Times Press, 2009) with Richard Brunner, former head of design at Apple, and Identity (Financial Times Press, 2012) with Stedman Graham, Oprah's companion. He was an editor for over 35 years with major publishing companies, ranging from Harper & Row (now HarperCollins) to Simon & Schuster to Pearson. He has been a pet rescue center volunteer, a mountain climber, and a probable book hoarder who fishes and hikes in his spare moments.

Book preview

Outside in the distance a wildcat did growl. Two riders were approaching, the wind began to howl.   All Along the Watchtower, Bob Dylan

Chapter One

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Lea Palmer stood at the cleaning station on her dock. She watched the boat lift high in the air, its white bow angling up, then slamming down into the next set of waves. It looked tiny, but determined, still two miles out from her and coming toward her island.

Living in solitude, as she did, had simplified her life. She was alone, but no longer lonely. She sensed more than heard an irregular beat to the slap of the waves.

A breeze swept across the white-capped water, lifting her short tufts of auburn hair. She could smell salt, kelp, and perhaps a bit of the finned creature world hidden beneath the water’s glittering surface, where the only rules of survival were enforced with teeth.

Her face was smooth. It neither flinched nor showed emotion in the afternoon sun and wind. She had seen a good deal of weather for someone only thirty-three years old. She reached for the next fish, a queen triggerfish. The bright blue of its sides and yellow of its belly had faded. Its wide glassy eye stared up at nothing. The long silver blade went in beside the dorsal fin, slid down along the bones and over the spine. Its tip pushed out beside the front of the ventral fin. Lea sawed the blade as she slid it toward the tail. The blade came clear, a few scales clinging to it. She wiped the knife on a rag and reached for the diamond sharpening stone. The skin of a triggerfish could dull a chain saw. Behind her the coconut fronds and wide sea grape leaves rustled in a nervous clatter. The boat was still coming right for her. Damn!

She turned and glanced up at the hill behind her, the wind off the water grabbing and tugging at her hair again as her head turned. She could not catch so much as a glimpse of the house from here and knew that neither could anyone from the boat’s perspective. The bobbing boat was steering toward the island, not the house.

The house was supposed to be invisible. Frank had designed it to be. The exterior of the house was a blend of natural wood tones. The roofing was a green that matched the surrounding vegetation. The coconut trees and lower brush grew almost to the house, even stretched their fronds to rub against it in places. Though she had lived in it a year now she still thought of it as the house that Frank built. Nestled at the lower bend of and a short distance from the bottom of a hard-as-lava coral cliff wall, and surrounded by trees high on the hill from the dock, its blend into nature would have made Frank Lloyd Wright proud.

What was hardest for Lea to picture was Frank living in a tent while he built most of the house by hand. Him, the sibling and boy from some of her earliest memories, with his shirt off planing boards smooth and hammering each nail of the sturdy house. No, that was not the little boy she could see when she closed her eyes.

There was a lot she would like to ask Frank. They had barely spoken during the last five years, only a civil word now and then as required. He had become an enigma to her. How could you know someone your whole life, have a history with him that goes all the way to your earliest childhood memories, and then understand him as little as she did Frank?

Lea let her gaze drift back to the stretch of water in front of the cleaning platform, then upward. A dark cloud the shape of an anvil had a white hammer-shaped cloud in the distance behind it, both with their edges tinged pink. They hung in the pale blue sky over the boat. As it neared the island, its bouncing slowed.

Lea had saved the yellow-tail snappers for last. They were easiest to clean, tasted best, and had been what she was after. But she had kept the mutton snapper and a couple of triggerfish that had not been able to pass up the chunks of ballyhoo she used for bait. She glanced up. The boat had slowed, seemed to be sizing up the island. Its motor was still going, but it slid into the luff of the waves and rocked from side to side. She could not make out faces from where she stood. Two men sat in the craft. It was a twenty-four footer that looked like Stick Edgecombe’s boat. But that was not him out conching.

She picked up one of the yellow-tails, careful to avoid the gill covers that could cut her like a razor. The seven-inch long silver blade slipped in from top fin to bottom and slid all the way to the tail. She lifted the flap and cut it loose, flipped it and held the small end down with her fingertips. The blade sawed between skin and flesh until the pale white pink fillet slid loose. She tossed the fillet into the tray she kept covered so no gull could swoop and have a meal. The skin she tossed into the bucket beneath the cleaning platform on the dock. That would be for later.

The boat hesitated, then swung toward the house again. It swept over the shallow side of the entrance. Whoever steered the boat could not know that an hour earlier in the rising tide he would have hit the bit of reef that guarded her docking. On many mornings, she awakened to the feel of the change of the tides and stood with her cup of coffee on the dock, watching mists roll in over the reef, sweeping in soft gauzy waves close to the surface and heading toward the house. Then from the fluffs of white there came the swimming dark shape of a pelican, or the arching fin of a dolphin, appearing suddenly in the open cut of water and as soon gone again, leaving her wondering if she had seen or imagined it.

As the boat got closer, Lea reached for her fishing cap. Her hair had been tossed around by the wind all day. She slipped on the hat and reached for the wooden box that held the sharpening stone. She ran the long blade across the stone, getting both sides as sharp as she could. There was a spot under the cleaning board where she could slide the knife between the post and board like a sheath, out of sight. She put it there now without bending her body, then picked up the shorter bait knife and held it over the half cleaned fish in front of her. The boat pulled close enough to the wooden pilings for the smaller man to leap off and throw a couple half-hitch loops over the end post. The bigger of the men stared at her.

The smaller man took quick short steps, his head darting left then right in antic, bird-like twitches. Her small Boston Whaler bounced on its rope. Its tender was clipped to a line on a pulley between one of the pilings and another pole. He glanced at the way it was rigged, started to walk along the dock, then stopped and looked back into the boat. The bigger man turned off the key. The day fell quiet without the burble of the engine. Lea heard a gull make it’s kree, kree sound high above them.

Where’s Frank? the big man asked. His voice boomed like a low clap of thunder.

Dead, Lea said. Who wants to know?

The two men looked at each other, the smaller one still waiting on a cue from the big one. Neither of them looked hurt by the news, just surprised, vexed the way they might be if a plane schedule had changed on them.

Well, that’s the way it is then. The big man turned to get something from the boat.

The way what is? Lea had been experiencing the pent-up anticipation she always felt when anyone came near the island—half resentment at being disturbed, half fear she would babble from the sheer reclusive life she had picked for herself.

When the big man got out of the boat he carried a leather grip half as big as a duffle, as if the unannounced two of them planned to move in. He walked up the dock beside the other one. She could see how big he was: six-foot-five, maybe six-foot-seven, and heavy. Where he stepped the thick weathered boards of the deck bowed. She realized he was looking directly toward the sun as he walked toward her. She had been reading his squint and furrowed forehead as pure menace.

Didn’t mean to give you a start like that, dropping in out of nowhere and what. The big man’s voice had softened, as if he struggled to keep it under control. What was that accent, the crisp way the words tumbled out? Australian perhaps. She had heard that some of the best mercenaries came from there. But she was letting the flutter in her chest have its way.

What do you want here? she said. Her eyes were drawn to the smaller man. His hair was cut very short, with irregular patches as if he had done the job himself in front of a moving mirror. He had a small round face. The stubble on his chin and cheeks showed whiter hairs against the red of a sunburn. He wore no hat and there were tiny puss-filled blisters running in a sprinkle along his hairline. He shifted his feet and kept running his hand along something under the front of his shirt tail that hung out over the top of his shorts. There was little to remember about him if you saw him in a crowd, but out here he stood in the shadow of the big man, who would be hard to miss.

We were told Frank would be here. The big man shrugged.

There was a lot of muscle in his shoulders to move. Lea’s eyes swept across the expanse of him. He looked like he might have played pro football, or been doorman at a speakeasy. All his features were oversized—eyes, nose, the huge fingers that gripped the bag. His unruly black hair and thick beard hid much of his face. He smiled, and his teeth were unusually white and lay in even rows behind the thick black fur that surrounded them.

I’m Bart, he said. He nodded toward the other man. This is Skippy.

Black Bart, she thought—a pirate’s name. But he had the voice of an opera tenor.

What do you want here? she repeated.

Where’s the . . .?

What we want, Bart cut off Skippy, is to freshen ourselves. We’re not seagoing men. We didn’t bring enough water, and someone, he glanced at Skippy, ate what little food we packed. If you could spare us a bite, and a drink, we’ll be on our way and won’t bother you further.

Skippy looked a question at Bart, which the big man ignored.

Out across the water she could not see any other of the other islands or to civilization. She was too far out. But she could see that the chop on the water had picked up. On the horizon there was a lifting line of black that filled the lower part of the sky. She watched the boat they had come in toss at its loose tie-up. Neither of them had bothered to throw out a stern anchor.

Do you plan to make it back before night? she asked. She did not know where back was, whether they had come from Hope Town or all the way from Marsh Harbour.

Sure, Bart said. Sure thing. Skippy had been ready to speak, but had been beaten to it by Bart. We’re just thirsty and starved.

Yeah, starved, Skippy said.

She could believe it to look at him. He was about the same height as she was and she doubted if he weighed a hundred pounds. His elbows and knees beneath his tattered cutoff shorts were the kind of knobby ones she had seen in ads for third world countries where the people were crying out for help.

She finished cleaning the yellow-tails, which was not all that easy using the bait knife. She made rough work of it in a spot or two. As before, she put the scraps in the bucket below, even though that would draw a few flies before the tide. When she was finished she put her tackle, the left-over bait and water, and the pan of fish fillets into the wheelbarrow. Without asking, Bart put the bag he carried on top of her things.

Here, let me, he said, and picked up the handles. His eagerness to ingratiate himself with her did not help her relax. She started up the path, leading the way.

The walkway was made of dried chunks of coral cut into flagstones. Cement joined the stones into a rough but passable walk that snaked in switch-backs all the way up to the house, making the climb up only a slight grade instead of one steep one. Young coconut plants lined both sides of the walkway, made a green wall over which she could see a hammock slung between two palms, the shiny yellow red leaves of a croton plant, and high in one tree the thick red blooms of a bougainvillea vine. At night, small lights lit the edges of the walkway like fireflies. There was no need for the lights now.

She thought about coconuts. She always did going up the path. When she first arrived she had eaten so many of them she could now open one in moments if she chose, though she had lost her taste for them. Just looking at them now reminded her of the smell of coconut sun-bathing lotion. But she had not been able to resist how easily trees grew from the fallen seeds. A coconut left on the ground of the tropical growth around the house was soon sprouting a green tongue of a new tree. For a while, when first exploring the island, she had picked up fallen coconuts and shaken them. If they sloshed, she carried them back to the house, dropped them in rows to sprout and grow along either side of the walkway to the dock, even though it meant going through with a machete often to cut an inside path through the thick early growth. The fecundity of the island amazed her and helped her think of life instead of her brother’s death.

The top of the walkway opened into a patio paved in the same manner as the walk. Pots of plants and a couple of lounging chairs made of cane stood beside the door. Bart and Skippy looked up at the two-story cottage.

So this is it? Bart said.

You’ve never been here before? she said.

No. We only heard about Frank, never met him. You his wife?

Frank was my brother. He left the place to me. Here, set the wheelbarrow down along the wall. I’ll put the tackle away. She took the fish in first, to get the fillets soaking in a pan of saltwater by the sink. Bart and Skippy stood inside the living area while she put the tackle where it belonged. One wall held a row of rods on brackets; drawers below held reels and other gear. The other walls were lined with shelves of books. A drawing table stood in front of the picture window that let her look down the walkway. Tubes of blueprints had been high piled beside it.

This stuff your brother’s? Bart asked.

Yeah. He was an architect. She looked at Skippy. He was looking at titles of the books lined along the teak shelves, easing closer to the kitchen.

I’ll cook up supper in just a few minutes, she said, soon as I get everything stowed.

She went over to the sink and rinsed off the two reels she had used. Oh, she said. You wanted water?

Any beer? Bart made the question casual.

No. I can’t afford it. I eat what I catch and strain my own water for drinking. It comes from a cistern. When it rains the spoutings catch what they can and it runs down into the holding well.

Skippy was casing the place. He seemed to see little of any value on the first floor, though the building was very solid and well-made. It could take whatever storm the ocean threw at it. He glanced toward the stairway that went up to the sleeping quarters.

What’s that sound? Bart asked.

Generator, she said. There’re no power lines out to this island. There’s just . . .

She stopped herself, not eager to have these men know just how alone she was. For a year she had slept and lived by herself, but had never felt more alone than she did with these two men here.

Bart and Skippy took turns washing their faces and hands in the small half-bath on the first floor. She fried potatoes and onions in one pan, the fish fillets in another. She put equal amounts on three plates and set them on the small table in the center of the living room along with glasses of water and a bottle of ketchup.

I’m afraid that’s all there is, she said.

Umpf, Bart said.

The two men ate like the starving humans they had claimed to be. Lea could eat only one yellow-tail fillet and a slice or two of her potatoes. She said, Could either of you . . .?

She expected Bart to reach for the plate she held extended and was surprised to feel the plate grabbed by Skippy. She watched his hungry eyes dart around the room the whole time he ate.

It’ll be getting dark soon. You fellas had better be heading back unless you have better running lights than I do. She knew their boat had none.

Bart leaned back in his chair. It creaked beneath his weight. His hands rested on his stomach, thick fingers interwoven. He breathed deeply and looked around. I don’t know, he said. It’s kinda nice here. He looked at her, and his eyes narrowed.

She turned to look at Skippy. He had a last piece of potato on the end of his fork and was wiping it across her empty plate, sopping up the last bit of oil and ketchup from it. He lifted it to his mouth and chewed, looking at her. If he intended his face to show