Chomp (21 page)

They tracked the other boat’s watery path until the saw grass gave way to a wide, lily-covered pond. With one arm Link made a stirring motion, so Wahoo began to steer in ever-widening circles, searching for signs of Jared Gordon.

Lightning crackled overhead, and Link turned toward the flash. “Bad” was all he said.

Wahoo read his lips and nodded. It was dangerous to stay exposed on the marsh prairie during a violent storm: in a split second they could all be fried.

The next lightning bolt produced a thunderclap that sounded like a bomb. Tuna let out a frightened cry, and Wahoo stomped on the accelerator.

“We’re getting off the water!” he yelled.

They barely made it. The engine blew a piston and died just as they were closing in on an island. Under a pelting deluge, the airboat coasted sluggishly to the bank.

Within minutes the three of them were huddled under an oilskin tarp that Link found in a dry box bolted beneath the seats. By pure luck, they’d landed at the flat scrubby end of the tree island, a safe distance from the forty-foot cypresses that might attract lightning strikes.

Dejectedly, Wahoo said, “I can’t believe I cooked the motor.”

“Wasn’t you,” Link muttered. “That Bradley Jumper, he don’t take good care of his ’quipment.”

“Did you bring a phone?”

They were a long way from a cell tower, but Wahoo thought it was worth a try. Link dug into a pocket and retrieved a flip-top cellular that turned out to be waterlogged—and useless.

Tuna eyed it gloomily. “I hope you got insurance, dude.”

Link was shivering. He had no shirt, and the rain had soaked through his trousers. Wahoo took off the slick
Expedition Survival!
jacket that Raven Stark had given him.

“Here, put this on,” he said.

The jacket was way too tight and the sleeves were short, but Link was grateful. He reached back and fingered the gauze that Wahoo had taped over the bullet wound.

Then he turned slowly to Tuna. “Why’d your pappy try’n kill me?”

“It wasn’t you, Link. He was just shootin’ wild, like a whacked-out fool.”

Then, in a rueful voice, she added: “He promised me on a stack of Bibles that he pawned that stupid gun. Obviously he lied.”

Wahoo couldn’t shake the image of Jared Gordon holding the revolver to his father’s neck as their airboat sped by. The guy was definitely out of control.

And, thanks to the falling iguana, Mickey Cray wasn’t his usual indestructible self. One of those crushing headaches could dull his reflexes—and his judgment. Worse, a spell of double vision might cause him to crash the boat.

Wahoo tried not to dwell on the dire possibilities. He knew the storm had reduced to almost zero the odds of
catching up with his father before something serious happened.

Link said, “I cain’t breathe so good.”

Every time he inhaled, they heard a rasping in his chest. Wahoo wondered if a fragment of the bullet slug had punctured a lung. If so, there was only one thing to do: as soon as the weather cleared, they had to rush Link back to Sickler’s place for medical help.

Leaving Mickey Cray alone to deal with Tuna’s crazed father, somewhere out in the boggy wilderness.

“Lookie here,” said Tuna, plucking a cocoa-striped snail from a bush. “This would be the lovely
Liguus fasciatus
.”

In spite of everything, Wahoo had to smile. “You’re too much, Lucille.”

The wind yanked at the corners of the oilskin while the rain drummed down. Another boom of thunder made them all flinch at once.

“I’m gone pray,” Link wheezed.

Tuna patted his arm. “Excellent plan,” she said.

Raven Stark occasionally puzzled over her loyalty to Derek Badger, who was bossy and demanding, and who didn’t appreciate all her hard work. But she was a team player, and she took personal pride in the success of
Expedition Survival!
As exasperating and childish as Derek could be, he was still the star—and her main responsibility.

“Never heard of him,” said the police sergeant, whose name was Ramirez.

“Are you serious?” Raven asked.

“I don’t watch kiddie TV.”

“It’s not ‘kiddie’ TV. Fifty-seven percent of our viewers are adults!”

They were sitting inside Derek’s motor coach, sipping coffee, hoping for the weather to clear so that a proper search could begin. Every passing minute was frustrating for Raven, knowing Derek was alone somewhere in the wilderness. Given his lame sense of direction, he had virtually no chance of finding his own way back to civilization.

“I understand your concern,” Sergeant Ramirez said, “but we’ve got a violent suspect out there who’s holding at least one hostage. That’s our first priority: catch the guy before somebody gets hurt.”

In her heart, Raven knew the policeman was right.
Derek had run off on his own, but Mickey Cray had been kidnapped against his will. And those two kids—what if the gunman caught up with them?

It’s a disaster
, Raven thought.

The Everglades show was in chaos, completely out of control.
Real
reality had thwarted TV reality.

A local news crew had shown up at Sickler’s place five minutes behind the police, and by tomorrow an army of media would be camped outside. The director and the cameramen were making morbid bets on how long it would take for Derek’s body to be found. What else could go wrong?

Meanwhile, back in California, Raven’s boss didn’t seem to be losing much sleep over his star’s disappearance. It was show business, after all. Anybody, no matter how famous, can be replaced. Raven knew the cold-blooded rules of the game.

Ever since signing on with
Expedition Survival!
, she’d hoped to someday become a big-time TV producer, like Gerry Germaine. Now that dream would likely never come true, thanks to Derek’s latest fiasco. The script had said nothing about eating a bat!

Raven partly blamed herself. Who knew Derek better than she did? The man would do anything to shock his audience and to make himself appear fearless.

In truth, Raven wasn’t totally crushed that she’d lost her opportunity to become a producer. Being stuck in a Hollywood office all day long—taking meetings, yakking on the telephone—it didn’t sound like loads of fun.

Coddling an egomaniac like Derek was a chore, but Raven did enjoy traveling to exotic locations and working outdoors. Maybe another job like that would open up at a different network.

“This particular individual, Jared Gordon, we busted him a year ago for a DUI,” the police sergeant was saying. “He tried to punch one of our officers and got himself Tased.”

Raven said, “His daughter had a black eye when she got here. I think she’s running from him.” It was something the authorities should know.

“The witnesses said he stunk of beer,” Sergeant Ramirez remarked. “He also stole a twelve-pack from Mr. Sickler’s store. Alcohol and firearms—not a good combination.”

The sergeant kept peering out a window to see if the rain was letting up. “Soon as we catch a break, we’ll get the chopper airborne,” he said. “Who knows—maybe they’ll come across Mr. Beaver while they’re looking for the others.”

“It’s
Badger
,” Raven said.

“I never met a ‘survivalist.’ How do you get a job like that, anyway?”

She smiled wanly. “First you need a TV show.”

The more she thought about it, the more ashamed she felt for suggesting to the police that finding Derek was more urgent than capturing the dangerous Jared Gordon.

“What do you know about the hostage?” Sergeant Ramirez asked.

“See for yourself,” Raven said. She placed a disk into the
DVD machine and played the uncut footage of Derek being thrashed by Alice, the wrangler’s giant alligator.

The sergeant was fascinated. “Who’s the chubby dude with the orange hair?”

“That would be Mr. Badger.”

“And the crazy guy who jumped in to save him?”

“That’s Mr. Cray. The one who got kidnapped by the gunman.”

Sergeant Ramirez cocked an eyebrow. “Could I see the video again?”

“Certainly.”

They watched the gator scene two more times. Afterward, Sergeant Ramirez said, “Wow. That Cray dude has no fear.”

“He’s an unusual person,” Raven agreed.

The sergeant put down his coffee cup. “I’m betting Jared Gordon’s got his hands full right now. What do you think?”

After T-boning the cypress log, the airboat crashed upside down in the grassy flats. Mickey Cray landed on a natural cushion of cattails ten yards away. Surprisingly, his head didn’t ache, and his vision was perfect.

When he saw the wrecked boat, he felt sure that Tuna’s father was either dead or badly injured—but he was wrong. Jared Gordon clambered from beneath the overturned hull and trained his pistol on Mickey.

“Don’t you move!”

“Anything you say, brother.”

“Come grab the beer!”

Jared Gordon had chipped a front tooth but otherwise was unhurt. The leather belt with which he’d strapped himself to the driver’s platform had held tight, saving him from being thrown under the weight of the boat. Mickey was amazed that the man had hung on to the gun.

“Let’s go!” Jared Gordon snapped.

“Take it easy.”

Together they set out through stinging rain in search of high ground. Mickey led the way, lugging the carton of beer. Overhead the sky continued to flash and quake.

The muck was so thick that it sucked the boots off their feet. Jared Gordon staggered and cussed, then staggered some more. Mickey kept watching for an opportunity to snatch the revolver, but not once did Jared Gordon fall. It was very discouraging.

After an hour, the lightning stopped and the downpour let up. They came upon an elevated ridge of hardwoods, and Tuna’s father insisted on stopping for “an adult beverage.”

Mickey handed him a beer, which he chugged down hastily. He signaled for another and asked, “Now what?”

“We wait.”

“For what?”

“Help.”

“I don’t need help,” Jared Gordon said. “I need to find my little girl.”

“Can you walk on water?”

“What’re you talkin’ ’bout? Course I can’t walk on water.”

“Me neither,” said Mickey, “which means we’re stranded.”

Tuna’s father waggled the gun menacingly. “Oh no, we ain’t.”

“What—you expect me to carry you through the mud? Like a baby?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Not happening, amigo.”

“Huh?” It dawned on Jared Gordon that his captive wasn’t particularly afraid, despite the threat of a loaded weapon.

“Without me,” Mickey said, “you’ll never find your way out of here. You’ll croak in this swamp—lost, drunk and all by your lonesome. That’s a fact.”

Even on a good day, Jared Gordon’s brain didn’t run like a smoothly oiled machine. And today wasn’t a good day; it was a rotten day. He decided to show Mickey Cray that he meant business.

“Git down on your belly,” he said.

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Mickey had been thinking hard about his situation and the smartest way to handle it. His main mission was to prevent Tuna’s father from finding Tuna and Wahoo, wherever they might be. For that reason, Mickey couldn’t afford to do something dumb and get himself shot. Until the police arrived, he was the only one standing between Jared Gordon and those two kids.

So, reluctantly, he did as he was told. In the wet grass he lay down, prepared to roll away violently if the man began firing at him.

However, Jared Gordon stepped off in another direction.

“Look here,” he said, and leveled the pistol at a tall white heron in the reeds.

Mickey raised his head. “Hey, don’t do that. I’ll catch us some fish.”

“Ha! This ain’t about lunch.”

It required every bit of Mickey’s self-control for him to remain still while Jared Gordon took aim. Herons were wondrous birds, sly and elegant stalkers of minnows. A curious young male sometimes visited the pond of the Everglades set behind the Crays’ house—Wahoo had named it Harry.

“What the bleep are you trying to prove?” Mickey said.

“Shut up.” Tuna’s father pulled the trigger and a single shot echoed.

The white heron flew away, squawking indignantly.

“Damn,” Jared Gordon muttered, lowering the gun.

Mickey thought:
Good. Only three bullets left
.

The rain eased to a drizzle and the thunder faded. Wahoo and Tuna couldn’t sit still anymore. They left Link resting under the tarp and ventured out to explore the island.

“Stay quiet,” Wahoo whispered.

“Duh,” said Tuna.

With caution they picked their way through underbrush.
Wahoo spotted a patch of poison ivy and detoured around it. The first major sign of life—and death—was a Burmese python coiled around a limp purple gallinule. The python was only a seven-footer, much smaller than Beulah, but still the bird had no chance.

Tuna stopped as if she’d walked into a brick wall. Never had she witnessed such a scene in person—only on TV nature programs. Unable to identify the reptile, she wanted to look it up in one of the field guides in her tote bag.

“No, let’s keep going,” Wahoo said.

“It won’t come after us later?”

“Don’t worry, Lucille. We’re not on the menu.”

He could see she was rattled. Memorizing the scientific names of wild species wasn’t the same thing as entering their world. The bird had died so that the snake wouldn’t starve.

“Pretty brutal,” Tuna said.

“Humans can be worse. They do things out of pure meanness.”

“Tell me about it.”

Wahoo heard the pain in her words. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he said.

“No big deal. Daddy is what he is.”

They circled the feeding python and moved on. Tuna’s flip-flops kept sticking in the mud, so she kicked them off. Because of the heavy downpour, the borders of the tree island had shrunk with the rising water. Wahoo pointed out a drag mark where a hefty gator had crawled up on the bank to sleep.

“Where’s he at now?” Tuna asked, looking around.

“Stop worrying.”

“I am
not
worried.”

Wahoo was the first to spy the empty airboat, its propeller blade showing through a gash in the cattails. He crouched low and pulled Tuna close.