Deadly Waters (3 page)

Over and over again, the dolphins shot up through the bow waves, turned on their sides, and slapped the white, foaming water. Once, when Bridger leaned out too far, one of the dolphins clapped its tail hard enough to splash him in an amber shower.

“Hey—
watch it!
” he shouted.

“They're rascals,” Frankie laughed. “Don't feel bad, Bridger, they've gotten me many a time, too. Dolphins are some of the smartest animals on this planet. Sometimes I think they've got us humans beat.”

Scowling, Bridger bent down to lift his Stetson from beneath his seat. Water dripped off its rim in a tiny rivulet. “Dang!” he muttered. “Soaked. My socks, too.”

“Say good-bye to the dolphins, kiddos. We've got to slow down again, and they'll only play with us if there's a wake to jump in.” When Frankie pulled back on the throttle, the waves died to a ripple. As if on cue, the dolphins glided away and disappeared from sight. Only then did Jack realize that he'd let them get away without taking a single picture.

Even though the boat rocked beneath her, Frankie seemed rooted to the deck floor. With one arm outstretched, she pointed to a narrow passage that sliced between two islands of mangrove trees.

“Down that way—see where I'm pointing? Some of the best fishing in the Everglades is in there. If you're not afraid, I'll take you to fish near a special spot called the Watson Place.”

“What do you mean, ‘afraid?'” Bridger asked. He shook his Stetson, trying to get the wet drops off the hat.

Frankie's eyes, clear and blue, glinted like jewels against leather. “Before I take you all the way down to the Watson Place, I need to know if you kids have heard any of the—stories—about what happened there. I myself pay them no mind, but if any of you is skittish, we can head to another fishing area.”

“If it's got the best fishing, then let's go,” Bridger announced. “Jack, are you with me?”

The answer was easy for Jack, since he'd never even heard of the Watson Place, but when he looked at Ashley, he could tell she knew something. Her eyes had widened, and she bit her lower lip. “I—don't know,” she stammered.

“Ahh, you've heard about Watson's landing, have you?” Frankie gave Ashley a knowing smile, then patted her shoulder. “Well, now, don't go believing everything you hear, although I myself have seen some strange things happen around that island.”

Bridger shook his head and muttered, “Girls! Now we'll miss the best fishing.” He aimed the comment at Jack as though he didn't want Ashley to overhear. Then, louder, Bridger said to Frankie, “OK, ma'am, you take us wherever you think's best.”

But Frankie wasn't listening. She peered ahead intently, somewhere off the starboard bow. Slowing the boat to a crawl, she shaded her eyes with her hand to get a better look.

“Over there…” she began, pointing.

“What?” Ashley leaned forward, shadowing Frankie, trying to see. Jack, too, jumped to his feet, staring over the glassy surface.

“In the direction of the Watson Place. I'll try to get closer. I can't tell what it is for sure, but there's something strange floating in the water.”

J
ack thought his own vision was sharp, but Frankie had noticed the mound floating in the water long before any of the three kids could make it out. She maneuvered the boat closer, and closer, until….

“It's a pelican,” she announced, her voice tight with worry. “All tangled up in a fishing line someone dropped into the water. I get so angry when this happens—that line's going to kill it!”

When Jack and Ashley hung over the side of the boat to get a look, the big bird frantically tried to flap out of the way. Its bright yellow eyes watched them like a beacon light. Only one of its wings could move at all; the other wing was held awkwardly against its body by the nearly invisible fishing cord. “We can cut it loose, can't we?” Jack asked. “Then it'll be OK.”

“If we can get it without hurting it. That'll be harder to do than you might think.”

No one had been paying much attention to Bridger, who was standing behind them. “How deep is the water right here?” he asked.

“No more than six feet,” Frankie answered.

Jack turned to see Bridger pulling off his left sock; the right one already lay on the boat's deck. Before Jack realized what he was going to do, Bridger eased himself over the side, so there wouldn't be a loud splash.

“Good boy, Bridger,” Frankie said. “He can't peck at you—his bill is tied tight against his neck. Just watch out for the loose wing so you don't break it. That's the way—come around behind him. I'll get my big net.”

Bridger's orange life jacket floated up from his chest, held by the straps. The drenching had plastered his blond hair against his forehead. He shook his head to get the drops out of his eyes, then quietly treaded water, slowly coming closer to the panic-stricken bird. His lips were moving; he seemed to be talking to it. Then, with a big splash, he threw his arms around the pelican's body.

“Gently, gently,” Frankie cautioned. Holding the net by its long handle, she slipped it into the water. “Try to get him in headfirst,” she told Bridger. “That's it. Good! Jack, as I raise the net, you reach over and grab the frame. Great! That's the way. Ashley, you give Bridger a hand.”

Ashley clung to the gunwale as Bridger took her hand and half leaped to haul himself into the boat, grabbing the gunwale with his free hand. Rivulets of tea-colored water dripped from his shirt and his jeans.

“We won't take the pelican out of the net,” Frankie was saying, “or we might hurt it more. Look, there's an even worse problem—that fishhook's torn a big hole in its throat pouch. Oh! That's bad, really bad. If that wound isn't treated with antibiotics, the pelican will get an infection and die. It's happened before.”

“Poor thing's scared to death,” Bridger muttered “Look at its eyes.” The round, glassy eyes rolled in their sockets as the bird struggled futilely to free itself.

Fingers flying, Bridger unbuttoned his long-sleeved plaid shirt. Beneath it was a white T-shirt, dripping wet like the rest of his clothes. Without saying anything, he wrapped his plaid shirt around the pelican's head, right over the net. For a long moment he held his hands steady on the bird's body. That seemed to calm it.

“Gotta think what to do,” Frankie murmured. “I should get this bird to the animal rescue people right away, but I don't want to spoil our day….”

For a moment Frankie stayed silent as Jack and Ashley exchanged looks. Then, looking up suddenly, Frankie asked, “Bridger, how old are you?”

“Fifteen in three more months.”

Frankie studied Bridger, who was struggling to pull off his wet T-shirt so he could wring it out. “I think you're a boy who takes a hard look before he leaps,” she said. “But you also react fast in emergencies. That's good. So here's what I'm considering. I'll take you kids over to the Watson Place—”

Ashley gave a sharp little gasp. No one except Jack noticed it. “It's not too far from here. There's a picnic table where you can spread out the lunch I brought, and then you can fish from the dock while I take this pelican back to Everglades City. If I go like blazes, I can get there and be back in an hour and 40 minutes, two hours at the outside. While I'm gone, Bridger will be in charge.”

Jack felt a pang of resentment. “Why Bridger? Anyway, Ashley and I don't need a baby-sitter, Frankie.”

“I'm the skipper here,” Frankie declared, her voice stern, “and I say Bridger's the first mate while I'm gone. Got it?”

Reluctantly, Jack nodded, resisting the urge to say “aye, aye” and salute.

“Now, Bridger,” Frankie went on, “I'm going to move the boat fast, so I think it'll be good if you hold your hands on the pelican like you did before, to calm it as much as possible. The engine noise is going to scare it something awful.”

As the boat picked up speed, Frankie shouted to be heard over the sound. “Couple of rules, here, kids. Stay in the clearing around the Watson Place. Don't—repeat,
don't
—go into the mangrove forest. These mangrove forests grow so dense that even folks who are used to these parts get lost in 'em.”

Frankie took one hand off the steering wheel to wave at the masses of trees growing on each side of the waterway passage, forests so impenetrable they looked like the tufts of a plush green carpet. Above the waterline, tangles of roots wove together like wicker cages, reaching down into water turned brown by tannic acid from the trees.

“One more reason to stay out of the mangroves—that's where the mosquitoes are really bad. They can suck you dry.”

Frankie stayed silent for a moment, slowing the boat so that it was easier to hear her. “Bridger, I said I'd tell you what ‘peccadillo' means. It means ‘foolish mistake.' Gene and I sometimes wondered if we were foolish to work here where mistakes can be deadly. Tropical storms, snakebites, mosquitoes that swarm so thickly after dark they can suffocate you—out here, if you guess wrong, bad things happen. But in spite of the risks, we decided it was worth it. This is where we wanted to be.”

Bridger nodded. “I understand, ma'am. My dad would understand, too.”

“So I'm trusting you,” she went on, “to make good decisions. Now look, over there on the right, up ahead. That's the Watson Place.”

They'd been moving fast enough that the breeze, plus the heat, had nearly dried Bridger's T-shirt. His arms were already starting to turn red from the sun, but he refused the sunscreen Ashley offered him. Why did Frankie think Bridger was so responsible, Jack wondered, when he did dumb things such as letting himself fry?

They eased the boat next to a rickety dock made of weathered planks; the dock stretched into a walkway that butted against a narrow shore of silty mud. Beyond that, Jack saw a clearing, filled with grass and ringed in a thicket of mangrove trees. Two picnic tables hunkered near the shoreline. Near them, on a pole, was a brown sign that said “Watson Place,” and beneath that, a warning: “No Campfires,” with a red circle and a line through it. The sign reflected upside down in the glassy water.

“OK, Jack, hop out and pull 'er close to the dock. Bridger, you'll need that cooler in case you get hungry or thirsty while I'm gone. Ashley, you start unloading the fishing gear. I'm going to try and secure this pelican.”

The four didn't talk as they busied themselves with their jobs. Frankie managed to knot one of the shirt sleeves to the pedestal at the base of the pilot's chair, which kept the pelican tethered. On the dock, the gear was lined up in a neat row alongside the stacked-up life jackets; the green cooler sat next to them. Jack's muscles strained to keep the boat wedged against the dock until Frankie gave the signal for him to throw in the line.

A moment later, as the
Pescadillo
accelerated, Frankie turned and cupped her hands to shout, “I'll be back in an hour and 40 or so.
Stay put.
”

“We will, Captain,” Bridger called back.

The three of them waved until the boat disappeared around a mangrove bend. Then Ashley glanced nervously over her shoulder, her lips pressed into a tight line.

Bridger smoothed the rim of his cowboy hat before pushing it firmly on his head. He'd already pulled on his socks and boots, and except for the missing plaid shirt, he looked exactly as he'd looked earlier. “I want to scout around the Watson Place before I start to fish,” he announced. “Want to come, Jack?”

“Sure.”

“Hey, wait, I'm not staying here on this dock by myself,” Ashley protested.

Bridger rolled back on the heels of his boots. “I figured you wouldn't want to check the island out, seeing as how jumpy you are.”

“That's because…you don't know….”

“Don't know what?” Bridger pressed.

“Nothing,” Ashley muttered, setting her jaw in a way that meant she wasn't going to talk anymore. From experience, Jack knew that if something was bothering her it would come out sooner or later. It was best to let Ashley settle things in her own mind. Whatever it was, she'd reveal it soon enough.

After they stepped off the dock and onto the shore, they headed for the ring of trees huddled around the edge of the clearing. Some of the trees were different from the ever-present mangroves, and Jack guessed someone must have planted other varieties to break up the monotony of the mangroves' black, gnarled limbs and webbed roots. Or maybe these were exotic trees, as he'd heard them called, that didn't belong there, that had washed in from the Gulf and threatened to take over the native trees.

As they walked, tall grass brushed against Jack's bare shins like thousands of fingers. He tried not to let himself think that snakes might be crawling in the dense underbrush. Bridger didn't seem bothered by the thought of bugs or reptiles; maybe it was because his boots would protect him from almost anything that could bite at an ankle.

The cleared space was cut in the shape of a half-circle whose edges touched the water. Jack saw grass crushed into flat circles and rectangle shapes. Campers must have stayed here. Even though the sign said “No Campfires,” charred tree limbs and a couple of burned spots told him someone had disobeyed the warning.

It didn't take them long to explore the open field. “What's that thing over there?” Jack asked. “Looks like a big pot with a bunch of bricks around it.”

“It's for making syrup,” Ashley answered.

Before Jack could ask her how she knew such a thing, Bridger broke in with, “There's some concrete over there that a house must have stood on once, but nothin's left.”

“Probably blew away in a hurricane,” Jack said.

They ended up back at the picnic table where their cooler now sat. Jack flipped open the latch and pulled out some colas, handing one to Bridger and one to Ashley.

Pushing back his hat, Bridger surveyed the landing and said, “Watson, whoever he was, must have cleared this spot. Would have been hard. I've cut my share of sagebrush at our place in Montana. Land always wants to go wild again.”

“This used to be an ancient oyster-shell mound,” Ashley said quietly. “From the Calusa Indians. Bloody Watson took it over and turned it into a farm in the 1890s. Behind that big poinciana tree is another 40 acres where he grew sugarcane and did…other stuff.”

Surprised, Jack asked, “‘Bloody Watson'? When did you learn about this place?”

“Yesterday, when Mom took me to Smallwood's Store in Chokoloskee to buy postcards. That's when the lady in Smallwood's told me all about it.”

“All about what?”

“The things that went on out here, at the Watson Place.” Biting her lip, she added, “I don't think you want to hear about it. We can't leave this place, at least not for a while.”

Bridger snorted. “Ghost stories? Girls are always believing stuff like that.” He winked at Ashley in a way Jack knew Ashley would hate and added, “I'm not afraid.”

“They're
not
ghost stories, Bridger,” Ashley shot back. “Everything I heard about is true. A Calusa medicine man warned that a lot of bad things would happen unless people listened to him and changed their ways. No one did. And the medicine man was right. The Watson Place was cursed!”

One corner of Bridger's mouth lifted slightly in a lopsided grin.

“I'd like to hear the story,” Jack told his sister. “Tell us what happened. Why'd they call him Bloody Watson? And what did the Indian medicine man say?”

Ashley pulled back the can's flip top and let the hiss escape into the muggy Florida air. “You're sure you want me to tell?”

“Positive.”

“OK. Just don't blame me if you want out of here when you hear the story.”