sky. A couple of pelicans turned languidly on the wind and settled near the reef to fish. If only he could catch a pelican and tie a rope to its leg, he’d have a perfect fish catcher. A darker shadow blotted the sky. The batlike wings of a frigate bird angled across his vision. Its thin tail moved slightly and the bird skimmed away. But its shape nudged his memory. He would have to be careful out here-there were vampire bats.
Xavier turned to him. “You get water from a tree-you will find a way to make a fire.”
“No, I don’t want to be rescued. And certainly not by any friend of yours.”
“My brother saved your life, not just mine,” Xavier snarled.
“Yeah, so I could babysit you.”
The two boys glared at each other. But then Xavier, understanding the truth of Max’s statement, nodded. “OK, so what do we do?”
Max gazed across the mouth of the river. The tide was turning; there was already a sandbank exposed in the middle. “We’re going to make a raft and get upriver; that way we might find a settlement. But first I have to get across there and recover whatever I can from the boat’s wreckage. That’s where the tide’s washed everything.”
“You’re a crazy boy, Max. Those mangroves”-he shook his head-“I don’t know. You get into trouble, I can’t help you.”
Max stayed fully dressed. That onshore breeze had done them a favor and kept mosquitoes away from them during the night, but it also disguised the fierceness of the sun. He knew that if he stripped off for the swim, his skin would burn badly in the water. And, even though it would be hard going, he wanted the comfort of his boots when he got into those mangroves. Using a fairly straight branch as a pole to help against the force of the undertow, Max edged forward, allowing the shaft to bear his weight as he tested the depth ahead of him.
He looked back over his shoulder, swimming on his side, warily keeping an eye open for crocodiles. He could not bring himself to think about what lay in the tangled roots of the mangroves ahead of him; the fer-de-lance, one of the world’s most poisonous snakes, inhabited this area, and a single bite from one of them would kill him. He told himself to control his imagination. Let that run riot and he may as well give up now and float out to sea to die. Wild thoughts could paralyze him with fear.
He had instructed Xavier to start pulling down palm leaves from the smaller trees, tear them into strips and tie the ends of each strip together; they could use this as binding. He caught a glimpse of him sitting on the narrow strip of sand, palm leaf held over his head, shading himself from the sun, watching Max struggling to swim across the estuary and the tide. Max groaned in frustration. This was going to be hard work in more ways than one. If he had had enough air in his lungs, he might have yelled at the boy to get busy, but he needed all his strength to push and kick ahead.
The water became shallower; now he could stand chest-deep, which helped push him on toward the foul- smelling mangroves exposed by the retreating tide. He waited, letting his eyes adjust to the shadows, desperately checking for any flurry of water that would tell him a crocodile had scented his presence. He edged forward, feeling the uneven ground beneath his boots. He stumbled once and went under, then pushed himself clear, gasping. The closer he came to the tangled undergrowth, the more disgusting the smell of the water became.
He could see bits and pieces of wreckage from the boat caught in the unyielding roots. After the explosion, there would be very little left, but some fragments would have survived. He had spotted a long white shape and suspected he knew what it was. It was not as pristine now as when he had sat on it speeding across the ocean. The bench seat’s leather cushion was scorched, but the stitching had held, and the foam interior had not been penetrated by any water. It was a good flotation device. Shattered wood from the destroyed boat bobbed beneath the mangroves. A useful length of rope had entwined itself, snakelike, around the roots.
Max had to make a choice-either get out of the water and clamber among the mangrove roots, which were as thick as a man’s arm and would take him a long time to negotiate as he picked up the boat’s flotsam, or stay in the water and risk the chance of not seeing the telltale ripples of an approaching croc. Being crazy was one thing; being stupid was another. He hauled himself out of the water, grateful for the slimy branches. Gagging at the stench, he clambered from root to root, seeking out anything usable from the wreckage.
Tattered remnants of cotton covers were snagged, caught up in the mangrove branches. A length of wood with a riveted piece of steel attached at its end, probably a part of the boat’s fittings, lay wedged in the entanglement. There was little else, except for a bobbing green plastic bottle. Fresh water. Max immediately remembered Alejandro scoffing at his concern when one of the drug dealer’s men had thrown plastic overboard. Ecological issues aside, at this moment Max was very grateful for plastic bottles.
Like a beachcomber, he gathered the bits and pieces. The length of wood with the steel fragment on it felt heavy. Perhaps it was from some part of the engine housing, but it would serve equally well as a boat hook or a spear. Either way, he felt more confident that he had something he could use to defend himself. He scooped up the rope while balancing precariously on the slimy branches with his face turned away from the foul stench, desperate to be back on the beach, with the clean sea breezes sweeping over him.
He snagged a couple of pieces of torn cotton cloth, rolled them up and tucked them into the four meters or so of coiled rope he had looped over his shoulder. The water bottle was more awkward to reach, but it was a temptation impossible to resist. He straddled the slippery branch, hooked a leg over it like a commando pulling himself across a rope and reached down. He was balancing precariously on this unstable perch, one arm stretched out in front of him, the other using the length of wood to bring the bottle closer. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, and he turned to see Xavier waving the palm branch. He was making a fuss, shouting something, but the wind and the waves breaking on the reef muted his voice. Max figured he’d probably seen him succeed in getting the bits and pieces together. Somehow he was going to have to get Xavier to pull his weight, because Max knew that he couldn’t get them out of this mess on his own. He turned his attention back to the bottle, his taste buds already anticipating fresh water. If he could just stretch a little farther.
* * *
Xavier shielded his eyes against the glare from the strip of sand and the glistening water. Max had made good progress, stumbling occasionally but soon getting himself back on his feet and moving toward the mangroves.
He screamed and waved, jumping up and down like a lunatic. Max could not see the approaching crocodile from where he lay across the branch. A horrifying memory flashed into Xavier’s mind. Once, when they had moored a go-fast boat in an estuary like this, he had seen a troop of howler monkeys moving downriver in the mangrove’s low branches. In a terrifying show of strength and speed, a crocodile had powered itself upward, using its tail to propel almost the whole length of its body out of the water. It had snatched an unsuspecting monkey from the tree and taken its screaming victim into the foul, dark depths.
Now there was a crocodile heading right toward where Max lay on a branch, barely three meters above the water. Xavier yelled at the top of his lungs, but Max showed no sign of hearing the warning.
Max stretched down, intent on reaching the water bottle, concentration totally focused.
A little farther.
Careful.
And then the water exploded.
Max yelled in fear.
The crocodile’s jaws clamped shut and tore flesh.
13
Sayid twisted and turned through the labyrinth that lay before him. He had written new code and created new trapdoors for anyone following him. Anyone, that is, who had realized that he had hacked into their system.
He had had no word from Max, but Mr. Jackson had relayed the information to him that Max had not been heading for South America after all but had made his way to Miami. Sayid knew all this, of course, but stayed silent under Mr. Jackson’s inquiring gaze. What bothered him was that no one had mentioned Max going on to Central America, as had been his plan. Sayid did not know that Mr. Jackson had kept the bad news from him: that Max’s belongings had been found in the downtown room but that there was no sign of Max.
Sayid’s mother had moaned at him for staying in his room and absorbing himself with whatever he was doing
