Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [113]
The reporter interrupted him. “What were you doing on the river when you encountered Mr. and Mrs. Michaels?”
Verl spoke up. “We’uz frog gigging.”
The reporter waved the microphone in front of a third man. It was Limpy, the tallest of the four with the high-pitched, devilish howl—the one Bob smacked in the face with the lumber. She asked, “Is this something you’ve done before?”
Limpy nodded. His mouth was a mess. One tooth up front was badly cracked and several others were missing. He whistled when he spoke. “Aw, yes, ma’am. Lots of times. Me and Buf here, we’s grown up doing it.” The camera panned across the three men. The only one missing was shotgun man—the guy that had hit me with my own shotgun.
She continued, “And how many frogs had you gigged by the time Mr. Michaels allegedly attacked you?”
Limpy scratched his head. “Done what?”
Verl, the self-appointed spokesperson, piped in. “Shut up, dummy.” His hands accentuated his mouth. “See, they’uz a storm coming and so the frogs felt the change in the baron-metic pressure and so we had us like fi’teen or twenty. And we wuz coming round this bend when we heard this screaming…” He snapped his fingers. “Sounded like a woman in distress.”
Bufort tapped her on the shoulder. “Dat’s right. Di’tress.”
Verl continued, “Anyway, we wuz paddling up ’er near Brickyard—not the racetrack but the ramp—and we seen dis feller and dis woman. She didn’t have no clothes on, and she looked real sick, you know, and he didn’t have no clothes neither. We thought maybe they’s part of that resort upriver. So we paddled by, uh…and then got on the cell phone and dial 911…cause, uh, she look sick, and then we wuz coming in close to the bank, about to get out of the boat when he come running off the bank like a…like a Ninja Turtle.”
Bufort’s eyes grew wide and he karate-chopped the air. “Yeah. A Ninja Turtle.”
Verl pointed at his face. “Smacked me in the mouth, broke Buf’s nose and it was just an awful mess.”
She held the microphone to her mouth. “So, he attacked the three of you.”
Bufort nodded, then shook his head. “Yes. Well…no. I mean he jumped us’n three and Pete.” He counted on his fingers. “That makes four.”
She stared at the three of them. “Tell me about Pete.”
“He got knocked out when Mr. Michaels hit him upside the head with a…a iron pipe.”
“Is he in this hospital?”
Bufort shook his head. “Naw, he’s home drinking beer.”
She nodded. “I see.”
Bob laughed. “This is better than reality TV.”
She placed the microphone in front of Verl. “And what about the frogs?”
“Oh they, uh…they jumped back in the water when he done tumped the boat over.”
She raised both eyebrows. “I thought you said they had been speared.”
Bufort poked her in the shoulder. “Gigged.”
Verl thought a minute. “Uh…yeah. See we gig ’em just enough to sting them so they’s knocked out. We’re sort of like sniper-giggers. And, uh…when the boat tumped, they come to and runned off.”
She said, “What do you do with them?”
Verl nodded. “We eat them. They taste like chicken.”
Bufort elbowed his way into the picture. “And ya’ll need to be careful ’cause he’s armed and dangerous.”
Verl pointed at the camera. “That’s right. Armed and dangerous.”
“I see. Thank you, gentlemen.” She returned to the camera. “Back to you, Sam.”
Sam spoke to his teleprompter. “Barbara, any idea where Abbie Eliot and Doss Michaels are now?”
Barbara shook her head. “If, in fact, these gentlemen encountered Abbie Eliot and Doss Michaels, then the best guess is that they are making their way down the St. Marys River.” She shrugged. “But given the storm, exactly where is anybody’s guess.”
Sam narrowed his eyes and spoke to a second camera. “We take you now to Senator Coleman’s home in Charleston. Senator, any word on the location of your daughter and have you had any contact with her?”
The camera showed her dad in the front hall of their house—eight microphones stuffed in his face. Oddly enough, Rosalia hung quietly behind him on the wall. She was looking down on him. The senator cleared his throat. “We’re zeroing in on