Chomp (23 page)

“How far?” Tuna whispered.

“Closer than before.”

Most likely, the gunfire was coming from Jared Gordon. Maybe a bobcat or a python had crossed his path—or maybe Mickey Cray was trying to escape. The thought made Wahoo’s stomach pitch.

A gust of wind brought a faint, swirling fragment of human conversation. They were male voices, two of them, which likely meant Mickey was still alive—at least that’s what Wahoo elected to believe.

Had
to believe.

“Sounds like they’re heading this way,” he said to Tuna.

Derek woke up and asked what was going on.

“We need to hide,” Wahoo told him. “Let’s move.”

“Hide from what? Vampires?”

“Worse,” said Tuna. “Lead the way, Lance.”

Once the weather began to improve, Sergeant Ramirez sent the searchers into action. Four airboats, each with a police officer aboard, departed at high speed from Sickler’s dock. A sheriff’s helicopter carrying infrared equipment was flying in from South Miami, and the Coast Guard was sending a chopper from Opa-locka.

Meanwhile, Raven Stark had locked herself in Derek Badger’s motor coach in order to hide from a throng of news reporters who’d learned that the famed survivalist was missing in the Everglades. The reporters were trying to make a connection between Derek’s disappearance and the “crazed gunman” who’d terrorized the crowd at Sickler’s store, but a spokesperson for the police department said the two incidents were totally unrelated.

The media frenzy got even more stirred up by the director of
Expedition Survival!
He blabbed to a tabloid columnist about Derek’s bloody encounter with the mastiff bat, sparking speculation that Derek had been stricken with rabies and was dying alone in the murky wetlands. Thousands of frantic fans posted messages on Derek’s Facebook page and Tweeted anxiously among themselves.

Raven was miffed at the director, but, back at his office in California, Gerry Germaine remained unfazed. The
executive producer believed that the publicity surrounding Derek’s predicament—no matter what happened—would increase the TV audience for
Expedition Survival!
That would lead to higher advertising rates, which would lead to bigger profits for the Untamed Channel.

In the semi-tragic event that Derek indeed perished from rabies (or some other tropical disease), Gerry Germaine was preparing to broadcast a two-hour tribute, with highlight reels. The ratings would be epic from coast to coast.

“Let’s release a statement to the media,” said Raven, “saying we’re confident that Derek, being such a skilled outdoorsman, is alive and well.”

“Not so fast,” Gerry Germaine cautioned. “It isn’t such a terrible thing to have the whole world worrying about him. Remember those trapped miners down in Chile? When they got out, they were total rock stars.”

The comparison was flimsy. The Chilean coal miners had been true survivalists, the real deal. Derek Badger wouldn’t have lasted twenty-four hours in that cold black hole without losing his marbles, as both Raven and her boss knew.

“It’ll be getting dark here soon,” she said. “That will slow down the search.”

“Hmmm.” Gerry Germaine was cleaning his fingernails with a sterling silver letter opener. Engraved with his initials, it had been a gift from one of
Expedition Survival!
’s biggest sponsors, the company responsible for Pit Power,
an underarm deodorant for “the raw adventurer in all of us.” Derek Badger refused to endorse the product, saying it smelled like rotten mangoes.

“With a little luck, the cops will come across Derek before they track down this lunatic Gordon,” Raven was saying. “If that happens, we’re golden. Derek will be the top story on every newscast in America!”

Gerry Germaine agreed politely. “Raven, dear, have you ever seen this reality show from New Zealand called
Snake Diver
?”

“What does that even mean, ‘snake diver’?”

“The star is a fellow named Brick Jeffers, and he’s quite good on camera—witty, down-to-earth and seriously ripped. He does the blindfolded parachute entrance, like Derek, only for real. No stuntmen.”

“What are you getting at, Gerry?”

“You know. Worst-case scenario?”

Raven was stunned. “You mean, if Derek doesn’t make it out of the Everglades, this guy would replace him on
Expedition
? This Brick Jefferson snake-diving nobody?”

“The name is Jeffers. And we’re flying him in from Auckland for an interview.”

“I can’t believe this!”

“Worst-case scenario, like I said. It makes sense to have a backup ready in case Derek can’t do the show anymore.”

“Like if he’s dead, you mean.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Well, he’s
not
dead,” Raven asserted. “I just know it.”

Gerry Germaine said, “Call me as soon as you hear something.”

Then he hung up the phone and asked his secretary to make some calls. He wanted to know which restaurant in Beverly Hills served the tastiest New Zealand lamb chops.

Wahoo had more patience than his father did, but Derek Badger was pushing him to the limit.

“You call this a hiding place, mate?”

“Keep your voice down,” Wahoo said.

They were hunkered in a thicket of sticky vines and coco plums. Derek wouldn’t quit griping. He insisted his fever was worse. He prattled on about muscle cramps and strange tremors in his feet.

Tuna fished in her tote bag. “Here, try these.” She handed him two of the same chalky pink tablets that she’d been giving to Wahoo’s father.

“What’s this?” Derek asked skeptically.

“Twenty milligrams of advanced formula Raguserup 2800.”

“Ragu-what?” He made a face as he swallowed the tablets. Yet soon he stopped complaining about his aches and pains, and within an hour he was napping again.

Wahoo asked to see the bottle. “What kind of medicine is Raguserup? I definitely need to stock up on this for Pop.”

Tuna laughed. “It’s not medicine, Lance. It’s just a sugar pill.”

“What?”

“Seriously—I made up the name myself. It’s
pure sugar
, spelled backward,” she explained. “I even printed up a label for the bottle.”

“I don’t get it,” Wahoo said.

“You ever heard of the placebo effect? That’s when doctors test a new drug by giving it to half the sick patients, while the others get a placebo—a pill with no medicine, just sugar. Nobody knows who’s on the real stuff and who’s not, but here’s the awesome part: some of the patients taking the bogus pills get better anyway. It never fails.”

Tuna smiled and tapped a finger to her temple. “The mind’s a powerful force for healing. If you believe something can cure you, it just might.”

“But if the pills are only sugar, why do
you
need them?”

“Oh, I feed ’em to Daddy. Sometimes it quiets him down,” Tuna said. “He gets lots of ‘headaches,’ too. And back pains, chest pains, neck pains, you name it. He thinks Raguserup is some sort of fantastic miracle drug. That, and the booze.”

Wahoo was troubled to think his own father’s symptoms were mostly mental and could be cured by fake medicine. “So, basically, both of our dads are whack jobs,” he concluded glumly.

“Don’t even go there,” Tuna said sharply. “They couldn’t be more different from each other.”

She was right about that part. “I’d better go check on
Link,” Wahoo said. “You okay staying here with Dracula Junior?”

“Aye, aye.” She crossed her heart and gave a salute. “You go. We’re good.”

Quietly Wahoo slipped through the woods, pausing every few steps to listen. There had been no more random gunshots, no more voices on the breeze. Either the men they’d heard earlier had changed their course or the wind had switched directions, smothering the sounds of their conversation.

In his father’s absence, Wahoo had come to feel responsible for the safety of everyone on the island—Derek, Link and especially Tuna. It was a new experience, being out of Mickey’s shadow. Things looked different to Wahoo now that he was making the key decisions. Gut-check time, as his dad would say.

Link hadn’t moved far from the glen where the kids had left him. He was sitting up, bare-chested, with Wahoo’s
Expedition Survival!
jacket draped over his knees.

“I tried to walk,” he said. “No gas in the tank.”

He looked drained, and his breathing was still ragged. “Food?” he asked.

Wahoo was carrying half of a granola bar. He gave it to Link and said, “Good news. We found your airboat.”

“Totaled?”

“Nope. Believe it or not, Derek didn’t wreck it.”

Link’s expression was one of pure relief. “Miracle,” he said.

Wahoo was glad the weather was breaking. Slices of clear sky were showing among the clouds.

“Did you hear those gunshots a while back?” he asked Link.

“Yep. Dey’s a ways off.”

“There were men talking, too.”

Link shook his head. “All I heared was some owl.”

Wahoo peeled back a corner of the bandage he had taped to Link’s back. The bullet wound remained fairly clean, and there was no fresh blood.

“Still hurt when you take a breath?”

“Some,” Link admitted.

“Worse than before?”

“Little.”

Wahoo was practically certain that one of Link’s lungs had been punctured. It was shocking that a little piece of lead could put down such an ox of a man.

“Hang in there,” Wahoo told him. “We’ll get you to a hospital.”

“How far’s my boat?”

“It’s a hike. Just stay here and chill.”

Link took a shallow gulp of air. “What ’bout the dude that shot me? The girl’s old man.”

“The police will catch him for sure. He’ll be in jail soon.”

“Jail?” Link grunted. “Das it?”

“Can I ask you something?” Wahoo said.

“Guess so.”

“I know you don’t like my dad, and that’s okay. He can
be a pain. But the other day, when he was in the water and you were driving straight at him …”

Link hacked out a chuckle. “Heck, I only meant to scare the man is all. You think I’s really gone run him over and put a big old dent in my airboat? No way.”

“You sure fooled me and Tuna,” Wahoo said.

“Not your pappy, though. He weren’t one bit ’fraid.”

Wahoo had to smile. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back in a little while.”

“You’s just a kid. What you gone do?”

“Get us all out of here.”

Link chuckled dryly again. “Here, take your jacket. It don’t fit me anyhows.”

“Listen!” Wahoo raised a finger in the air. “You hear
that
, right?”

“I do.”

“Airboats! A bunch of ’em!”

A hopeful spark showed in Link’s eyes.

“I was you,” he said to Wahoo, “I’d start me a big ol’ campfire.”

The problem was—and Mickey Cray would be the first to admit it—he wasn’t much of a “people” person. He preferred hanging out with animals (with the exception of his family, whom he adored unconditionally).

Because he spent so little time in social situations, Mickey wasn’t good at behaving passively when the circumstance
seemed to call for action. His experiences as an animal wrangler had taught him to respond on instinct—no fooling around. Psychology doesn’t work when you’re dealing with a stubborn six-hundred-pound gator or a cranky fourteen-foot python. The task calls for sure-footed commitment and quick reflexes, not mind games.

Mickey believed Jared Gordon’s brain was less complicated than that of the average reptile. However, the average reptile didn’t carry a loaded gun and guzzle beer.

“Gimme another one,” Jared Gordon barked. “I’m a thirsty soul!”

He didn’t seem to mind that the beer was as warm as spit. Most people would have been groggy after drinking so much, but he kept the pace, trudging along in Mickey’s muddy footprints. Every time Mickey glanced over his shoulder, he saw the pistol pointed at his back.

“Don’t try nuthin’ funny,” warned Tuna’s father.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They’d been hiking for a while, and soon the sun would be setting. Mickey hoped that by now Link had returned to Sickler’s dock and that Wahoo and Tuna were safe.

A swarm of airboats could be heard in the distance—the search teams, fanning out across the marshes. It was a welcome sound, but Mickey wasn’t ready to celebrate. Once darkness fell, the chances of being found would be slim. The Everglades by night was a tangled, boggy maze. Searchers would be relying on handheld spotlights and pure luck.

At the sound of the search boats, Tuna’s father appeared to sober up. His shoulders pinched tensely and his steps got heavier.

“This ain’t workin’ out so good,” he grumbled.

The plan to recapture his runaway daughter at gunpoint, which had seemed so brilliant in the early stages of Jared Gordon’s beer binge, now looked like a big mistake.

“They’ll catch up with us sooner or later,” Mickey told him. “That’s a fact.”

“Why don’t you shut up?”

Jared Gordon was no longer consumed with finding Tuna. He was focused on escape.

Sucking air through his teeth, he said, “Jest so you know—I ain’t goin’ to no prison.”

“You are if they catch you with that .38.”

“How far to the highway?”

“Too far,” Mickey said. “Too far, too deep, too everything. We can’t get there on foot.”

Tuna’s father jabbed him with the pistol barrel. “That’s okay, Sparky. I always got a plan B.”

“Does the
B
stand for ‘brew’?”

“Ha! You’re my ticket outta here and you don’t even know it.”

Mickey said, “There’s no ticket out, brother. The cops know who you are.”

“Don’t matter. When they git here, I’m gonna make ’em a deal they can’t refuse: your life for my freedom.”

“You watch too many movies.”

Jared Gordon was dead serious. “Like you say, they’re bound to find us out here—if not tonight, then tomorrow for sure. And when they do, I’m gonna stick this gun to your fat head and tell ’em to give up one of their airboats or else. Which they will do, ’cause it’d make ’em look real bad if they just stood back and let me shoot you dead. Am I right?”

“Go on,” said Mickey.

“Soon as we git a boat, you’re gonna take me direct to the big road.”