what?”
“Naw, never mind. Johnny Faye’s the ringleader. His trial’s next month. Third time he’s up for growing. The guy is guilty as a Nashville hooker and I’ll bet you a nickel the jury lets him off scot-free.”
“I’ll double that,” the priest said, reaching for the flask.
The officer moved it out of his reach. “Scare us up a few bites first. I don’t know that I’ve seen a slower day. Maybe they hadn’t stocked it yet. Maybe we’re too early in the year.”
The priest looked at his outstretched hand, then turned it palm down and extended it over the water. “‘Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch,’” he said. He pulled up his line—empty—some turtle or fish had nibbled away the bait. He gave up, laying his pole in the boat.
“I get a fish, you get a drink,” Smith said.
At that moment the lake swallowed his floater whole, dragging the line after it. Officer Smith tightened his grip on his pole, barely saving it from following the line. “Jesus!” he cried. “Must be a fucking whale!” Under cover of the excitement the priest took a sip from the flask, then a second, while the officer struggled with the pole, bent almost to breaking. The line moved in a frantic zigzag. “I didn’t know this puddle grew ’em this big,” Smith said. He wrapped the line around one fist and dropped the pole, then began taking the line in hand over hand, past the floater, until he pulled up a slime-covered gray-green creature as long as and thicker than a burly man’s arm. “Holy shit,” Smith said. “What the fuck is that?”
“Call it a miracle.” The priest surveyed the fish. “Around here people call them mudcats, though where I grew up we called themhellbenders. They’re bottom feeders—they don’t usually move more than a few feet in their very long lives. No good for eating—you can’t get the mud out of the meat. You don’t want to let your hand near its mouth—they’ve got a nasty temper and sharp teeth. The question is, how did it get into this lake? My father told me that on wet nights they can crawl across land but I never believed it before now. Either that or it’s been here since before the dinosaurs.”
“Ugly motherfucker.”
“Officer Smith. Please.”
The officer pulled the gun from his holster. Taking the barrel in his fist, he slammed the butt down on the creature’s head. A trickle of blood flowed from its mouth, but the long muscle of a body still struggled and flapped and the fish glared up at them with baleful eyes. “Die, you fucker,” Smith muttered and pounded it until the boat rocked.
“Why do you have to do that?” the priest asked.
“It’s our God-given duty to rid the earth of vermin and I’d say this piece of shit qualifies. You said yourself, don’t get your hand near its mouth. Anyway, it’s dead,” and in fact the creature lay unmoving, a thick remnant of a time before time, blood oozing from its mouth. “Might as well save the hook.” Smith took up a pair of pliers and bent to the task. He was prying the hook free when the fish convulsed with a last twitching heave and clamped its bony jaws on the officer’s fingers. “Jesus fucking Christ!” Smith cried. He grabbed up his buck knife and cut the line and tossed the creature into the water, where it turned over and floated, white belly to the sky. He seized the flask and upended it over his bleeding hand, but under cover of the struggle the priest had drained the contents and only a few drops trickled out. The officer threw the flask into the bottom of the boat, pulled out his gun, and fired a round at the fish. The report echoed from the surrounding trees. The fish floated idly, untouched.
Smith sat to the motor and started it with a savage pull to the cord. “Last time I ask you to bless the waters.”
“Be careful what you pray for,” the priest said.
Officer Smith sucked on his wounded hand. “I’d just as soon be shut of the sermon, if
“Naw, never mind. Johnny Faye’s the ringleader. His trial’s next month. Third time he’s up for growing. The guy is guilty as a Nashville hooker and I’ll bet you a nickel the jury lets him off scot-free.”
“I’ll double that,” the priest said, reaching for the flask.
The officer moved it out of his reach. “Scare us up a few bites first. I don’t know that I’ve seen a slower day. Maybe they hadn’t stocked it yet. Maybe we’re too early in the year.”
The priest looked at his outstretched hand, then turned it palm down and extended it over the water. “‘Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch,’” he said. He pulled up his line—empty—some turtle or fish had nibbled away the bait. He gave up, laying his pole in the boat.
“I get a fish, you get a drink,” Smith said.
At that moment the lake swallowed his floater whole, dragging the line after it. Officer Smith tightened his grip on his pole, barely saving it from following the line. “Jesus!” he cried. “Must be a fucking whale!” Under cover of the excitement the priest took a sip from the flask, then a second, while the officer struggled with the pole, bent almost to breaking. The line moved in a frantic zigzag. “I didn’t know this puddle grew ’em this big,” Smith said. He wrapped the line around one fist and dropped the pole, then began taking the line in hand over hand, past the floater, until he pulled up a slime-covered gray-green creature as long as and thicker than a burly man’s arm. “Holy shit,” Smith said. “What the fuck is that?”
“Call it a miracle.” The priest surveyed the fish. “Around here people call them mudcats, though where I grew up we called themhellbenders. They’re bottom feeders—they don’t usually move more than a few feet in their very long lives. No good for eating—you can’t get the mud out of the meat. You don’t want to let your hand near its mouth—they’ve got a nasty temper and sharp teeth. The question is, how did it get into this lake? My father told me that on wet nights they can crawl across land but I never believed it before now. Either that or it’s been here since before the dinosaurs.”
“Ugly motherfucker.”
“Officer Smith. Please.”
The officer pulled the gun from his holster. Taking the barrel in his fist, he slammed the butt down on the creature’s head. A trickle of blood flowed from its mouth, but the long muscle of a body still struggled and flapped and the fish glared up at them with baleful eyes. “Die, you fucker,” Smith muttered and pounded it until the boat rocked.
“Why do you have to do that?” the priest asked.
“It’s our God-given duty to rid the earth of vermin and I’d say this piece of shit qualifies. You said yourself, don’t get your hand near its mouth. Anyway, it’s dead,” and in fact the creature lay unmoving, a thick remnant of a time before time, blood oozing from its mouth. “Might as well save the hook.” Smith took up a pair of pliers and bent to the task. He was prying the hook free when the fish convulsed with a last twitching heave and clamped its bony jaws on the officer’s fingers. “Jesus fucking Christ!” Smith cried. He grabbed up his buck knife and cut the line and tossed the creature into the water, where it turned over and floated, white belly to the sky. He seized the flask and upended it over his bleeding hand, but under cover of the struggle the priest had drained the contents and only a few drops trickled out. The officer threw the flask into the bottom of the boat, pulled out his gun, and fired a round at the fish. The report echoed from the surrounding trees. The fish floated idly, untouched.
Smith sat to the motor and started it with a savage pull to the cord. “Last time I ask you to bless the waters.”
“Be careful what you pray for,” the priest said.
Officer Smith sucked on his wounded hand. “I’d just as soon be shut of the sermon, if
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