The Bass Wore Scales (37 page)

“
Moosey,” I said. “See if he’ll answer some questions for us.”

“
He says ‘yes,’” said Moosey, intently watching Kokomo’s gestures.

“
I forget he understands what we’re saying,” whispered Nancy. “Man, I just can’t get used to this.”

“
Kokomo,” I said. “Do you know who hurt Brother Kilroy?”

“
That’s it,” said Nancy, under her breath. “Get right to the point. No use beating around the bush.”

“
That red,” signed Kokomo, brushing Moosey’s shirt with his free hand.”

“
Yes,” said Moosey. “That’s red. Did you see who hurt Brother Kilroy?”

“
Friend,” signed Kokomo.

“
Yes, he was your friend,” said Moosey. “Who hurt him?”

“
Tiger bad,” signed Kokomo.

“
He says ‘Tiger bad,’” said Moosey. “Just like I told you.”

“
You mean Tiger, your cat?” I asked.

“
Tiger man,” signed Kokomo.

“
Tiger man,” translated Moosey.

“
Tiger man friend hit,” signed Kokomo. Moosey translated again. “No like tiger man. Kokomo dream tiger man devil scared. Red.”

“
Red again?” I asked. “Blood? The water was red?”

“
Water red,” came the answer. “Friend red. Devil Tiger.”

Suddenly Kokomo stood up to his full height, pounded on his chest and, with a roar, disappeared back into the thicket with a crash and the sound of breaking limbs.

“
That went well,” said Nancy. “At least
my
pants are still dry.”

“
Ditto,” I said. “Does he have enough food?” I asked Moosey. “I don’t want you coming back up here alone until we have this sorted out.”

“
Oh, I almost forgot. I brought this.” Moosey held out his brown paper bag. I opened it up and looked inside. It was full of Communion Fish.

“
They’re
Barabba-que,”
said Moosey, pronouncing the name carefully. “Pete thought that Kokomo would like ‘em.”

“
I’ll bet he will,” I said.

* * *

Dave came into the office about mid-morning, dropped into a chair, pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped it across his brow.

“
It’s hot.”

“
Yes, it is.”

“
Did you and Nancy interview Kokomo?”

“
Yep. All we got was ‘tiger man, devil tiger, water red’—that sort of stuff. Nancy has it all written down.”

“
How about Bootsie Watkins?”

“
Bootsie Watkins,” I replied, “is conveniently out of town until Monday.”

“
Huh,” grunted Dave.

I looked out the front window, past the reverse, dark-blue lettering on the glass spelling out ‘St. Germaine Police Department,’ and into the park. I quickly counted thirty-four hunters—some going over maps, a few talking in groups of two and three, some walking toward their four-wheelers. Pete’s office was still selling gorilla licenses at the rate of about ten an hour. After the first rush, the hunters came in slowly but steadily. Even some of the residents of St. Germaine, who didn’t hunt on a regular basis, had bought a license, just in case—as L.L. Sutherlin put it—“I happen to see that gorilla walking by my bedroom window.”

“
What a mess,” I said. “They’re going to find Kokomo eventually. We can’t stop them.”

“
What if we can find the real killer?” asked Dave, mopping his brow again.

“
That would help. Then we could get a judge to rescind the warrant. But the problem is that everyone won’t
know
it’s rescinded. Our best bet is to find the killer, arrange to have the warrant lifted, and then get that gorilla out of the state. Hey! Did you find that miniature Bible?”

“
Nope. It wasn’t there. I went through the whole mess. I threw every piece of trash from the new dumpster back into the first one. I was careful. As far as books were concerned, there were a couple full sized Bibles, some hymnals, some kind of Bible dictionary, a complete set of New Testament commentaries—all twenty-six volumes, and a bunch of other stuff. But no miniature Bible.”

“
All right, then. I’m on my way over to talk to Burt Coley.”

* * *

“
Hey, Burt. It’s good to see you again.” I said, shaking his hand. “I didn’t get much of a chance to speak with you when we were busy with that gorilla. How have you been?” Burt had sung for me in the St. Barnabas choir about ten years ago. He’d been a good tenor enrolled in the music department at Appalachian State. He was one of my scholarship singers.

“
Pretty good,” said Burt. “I got out of music and into law enforcement. Following your lead, I guess.”

“
Ah, but I never got out of music,” I said, with a smile. “Just changed it to an avocation. Listen Burt, I’ve got to ask you some questions about Brother Jimmy Kilroy.”

“
Yeah,” said Burt. “I know.”

“
You want to just tell me what your relationship was and why you were there on the Friday before he was killed?”

Burt took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ve been called to the ministry. I guess you know that.”

I nodded.

“
There’s a discernment process that I have to go through to get into the school that I want.”

“
What school is that?” I asked.

“
Tabernacle Bible Institute. It’s a conservative Bible college in Kingsport. Anyway,” Burt continued, “there are three pastors on my committee. The college contacts three ordained men of God from your area, and they interview you and listen to your testimony. Then they decide if the Lord has actually called you to the ministry.” He shrugged.

“
So, what did your committee say?”

“
Two of the pastors said I was fine. Brother Kilroy wasn’t so sure. He wanted me to come in every Friday for three months to talk.”

“
So did you?”

“
I tried to. I did it for a couple of weeks, but then we got busy. I can’t just take every Friday morning off for three months.”

“
And so you told him you were going to stop coming?”

“
I told him that I couldn’t come in every Friday. He said that if I wanted to be a pastor, there was nowhere I needed to be that was more important than in his office every Friday.”

“
What did you say?”

Burt shrugged again. “I didn’t say anything. I just left. I called the Institute. They said I could reapply in the fall.”

“
I’ll bet that made you mad.”

“
It made Todd madder than it made me. He’s my uncle, you know. Mom’s brother. Dad died when I was eleven.”

“
Sergeant Todd McKay? Your partner?”

“
Yeah. Todd’s not a religious man, but he’s been really good to me and Mom.”

“
No, I didn’t know. I’ll bet he’s proud of you,” I said.

* * *

I was driving back to town when I passed the Piggly Wiggly and saw the commotion. There were half a dozen people in the parking lot, including Roger the manager, the three checkout girls, Hannah, Grace and Amelia, and a guy dressed in a stocker’s uniform whom I didn’t recognize. As I pulled up, I saw Hannah, a sixty-two-year-old grandmother, hold up her pistol, drop the magazine out of it into her free hand, check it, and snap it home. I turned off the truck and got out.

“
Hannah, put that thing away! What’s going on?”

“
That gorilla just came into the Pig!” said Roger. “He was huge!”

“
Yeah, he’s a big one,” I agreed. “What happened?”

“
We didn’t see him come in. We’ve got these automatic doors, you know. Then Hannah spotted him down by the pickles on aisle three.”

“
I knew it was the gorilla,” said Hannah. “Although he looked a little like Beaver Jergenson, but with more hair. Luckily, us girls got these pistols from Ken’s Gun Emporium a couple of months ago. We keep ‘em under our registers.”

“
Can I see it?” I asked, holding out my hand. Hannah handed me the gun. It was a Beretta .38 caliber automatic—a lightweight pistol with quite a punch.

“
You all have one of these?” I asked. The three checkout girls nodded.

“
I don’t,” said the stocker, “but I wouldn’t mind having me one. Look at my arm! That gorilla hit me with a pipe!”

“
You’re not getting a gun,” said Roger. “Only the cashiers. That’s store policy.”

“
He hit you with a
pipe
?” I asked.

“
Yeah. He ran by the feminine hygiene products, turned the corner and hit me. I just saw him out of the corner of my eye. It was a gorilla though. He was aiming for my head, but I threw up my arm like this.” The stock boy demonstrated. “It may be broken,” he said. “I’m going to have to get about six weeks off. With pay, of course.”

“
Shut up, Wally,” said Roger. “You’re not hurt.”

“
Did you see him?” I asked Roger. He shook his head.

“
Where are
your
guns?” I asked Grace and Amelia. They both sheepishly produced pistols of their own from behind their backs. I shook my head, cleared Hannah’s pistol, clicked the safety on and handed it back to her.

“
Did you shoot him?” I asked her. “Did you shoot the gorilla?”

“
Well, I tried to,” said Hannah. “Once I started firing, though, he took off through the store. I think that I hit a bunch of pickle jars.”

“
You sure did,” giggled Amelia. “I shot all my bullets at him, too. How about you, Grace?”

“
I’m pretty sure I missed him. I saw him over there on the cookie aisle. I fired a couple of times, but I was just too nervous.”

“
It sounded like a war!” exclaimed one of the customers. “I heard gunshots and breaking glass. I hit the floor.”

“
Me, too,” said a lady wearing a flowered scarf over hair rollers. “I saw that gorilla run right past me with a package of Oreos.”

“
I saw him run out the door,” said a male customer. “I was at the back of the store. He didn’t even wait for it to open. He just hit it with his shoulder.”

“
Anyone hurt inside?” I asked. “Y’all didn’t shoot anyone in the store by accident did you?”

“
Oh,” said Hannah, in surprise. “I don’t think so. I hope not.”