Another new character, perhaps my favorite in The Commune, is Skeeter, a down-on-his-luck airboat pilot and owner of Skeeter’s Airboat Charters, an organization that figures heavily in the new story. 

Gibson, Louisiana: 3:35 PM, Tuesday, December 11th, 1984

Skeeter’s Airboat Charters was little more than a mouldering shack on the outskirts of Gibson. There was a single air boat in a dock behind the shack, and a thin, dirty-looking white man out on the front porch, whittling away at a chunk of driftwood, cigarette hanging out of one corner of his mouth. A wooden sign sat at the edge of the road, announcing the place in large, peeling white letters. I pulled the cruiser into the drive.

“Damn Rev, you got a coupon or something? This place is a dump,” Rae commented as she looked around.

I handed her the card. “Found that in Walsh’s desk. I suspect Skeeter over there knows exactly where Walsh is.”

Understanding bloomed in her eyes, and she nodded. “Hope his boat is in better repair than his office,” she said.

Me too, I thought.

As we approached the shack, the white man squinted up from his sculpture, which looked to be the start of an alligator. “Help you folks?” he asked in an accent that would have fit right in at a tractor pull.

I nodded, handing over a card. “I’m Rev, and this is Rae. We’re PIs, and we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The man looked down at my card for a moment, then back to me. “Well butter my ass and call me a biscuit,” the man said as he stood, wiped a hand on his dirty jeans, and thrust it out at me.

I shook, finding the man’s grip surprisingly strong despite his lanky frame. The heavy callouses rubbing against my palm told me that despite his appearance, the man was clearly no stranger to hard work.

The man turned and shook Rae’s hand as well, making a little bow and adding “Miss,” almost deferentially. Rae’s eyes softened and she offered him a slight grin in return.

“Nice to meet you folks. I’m Skeeter, and I reckon I been my whole life without meeting a PI. Now I done met two in one day. Say you folks ain’t here to take me in, are ya?,” he asked, an innocent look on his face.

Before I could respond, Skeeter brandished finger-guns and leaned to the side, pointing at me. In a horrible impression of a Chicago gangster, he added “You’ll never take me alive, copper!” then laughed self-consciously at my expression.

“Ah, I’m just joshing with you folks. Live way out here in the sticks, ya gotta get your fun where you can, know what I mean?”

I nodded, a grin on my face despite myself. “We’re actually here looking for a friend. You know Father Peter Walsh?”

“Short man, bald as a cue-ball, nuttier than squirrel turds?” Skeeter asked, the cigarette bobbing in the corner of his mouth as he spoke.

I shared a look with Rae.

“We don’t actually know what he looks like,” Rae said before I could respond. I winced a little internally.

Skeeter didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, well, that’s interesting. Must be awful strange to be such good friends without ever meetin' one another.” His eyes had gone a little hard, and I could see that the dumb redneck bit was at least partially an act.

I held up a hand placatingly, still grinning a little. “You got us. We don’t actually know Father Walsh, but we were hired by the church to find him. He was supposed to return last week, but no one’s seen him. I found your card in his room, along with this map,” I said, as I removed the map and handed it over.

Skeeter took the map, glancing at it skeptically until he saw the dot. Then he handed it back.

“Well, that’s his map, alright.” Skeeter thought for a moment. “Yea, I’ve probably taken him to that little bayou town half a dozen times. He called it some crazy name too…”

“Psikinépikwa?” I offered.

Skeeter’s eyes lit up. He pulled the cigarette from his lips and pointed it at me. “That’s the one, that’s just the one.”

“What do locals call the place?” Rae asked.

Skeeter scratched at his messy, straw-colored hair. “Not many locals know it exists, but those of us that do call it ‘Skelly’s Hole’.”

“Skelly’s Hole? Why?”

“’Cause of the big damn sinkhole that swallowed half the town. Skelly Oil came through here back at the turn of the century and went drilling for oil. They hit some kind of salt dome or something, and when it collapsed, it took the drilling equipment, workers, and most of the damn town down with it.”

“Skelly’s Hole,” I repeated, nodding. “Did it have some other name, before?”

Skeeter chucked to himself. “Yep. ‘Tranquility’, if you can believe that. Tranquility, Louisiana.”

I pulled out my notebook and wrote this down.

“Can you take us there?” Rae asked.

“Sure,” Skeeter said, “but you probably best waiting till the morning.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“On account of the time,” Skeeter said, pointing at the sky.

I stared back uncomprehendingly.

Skeeter shook his head, let out a breath. “See, the place is way down south in the bayou. Gonna be getting dark by the time we get there, even if we leave right now.”

I looked over to Rae, then back at Skeeter. “We’re not afraid of the dark.”

Skeeter shook his head like I was missing the point. “They ain’t got ‘lectricity, runnin’ water, hotels. And I don’t know those folks well, but I’d reckon that they’re slap-damn-out of hospitality, what with Father Walsh all up in their business, and ain’t likely to stock up soon. You two strangers show up down there, at night? May not go so well.”

He thought for a moment, then added, “‘Sides, finding my way back from there after dark is like trying to put socks on a rooster.”

“So Father Walsh is still there?”

“Unless he up and swam off, or the townsfolk got sick of his jawing and fed him to a ‘gator.” He seemed to only be half-joking. “I dropped him there about two weeks ago, and he said not to come back till the first of the year.”

I shared a look with Rae. “Any other ways to get there? Maybe some back road that isn’t on the map.”

Skeeter chuckled. “Only road that ever went to that little place was washed out years ago. Camille did it in when she came through.”

“You mean Hurricane Camille?” Rae asked.

Skeeter nodded. “That’d be the one.”

I looked from Skeeter to Rae. Rae shrugged.

“Tomorrow morning, then?” I asked.

Skeeter nodded, grinned, and held out his hand. “You got yourself an appointment, folks.”