And he definitely needed it. During the off-season, he’d purchased a ninety-nine-foot yacht that was currently being refurbished at a boatyard in West Palm Beach. Among the additions were a billiard parlor, a mini-movie theater and a gymnasium that Derek probably would never use. It was an extremely expensive project, more expensive than he’d ever dreamed. Just painting a new name on the yacht’s transom-he was calling it the Sea Badger — cost eighteen hundred bucks.
Those cheap weasels at the network had offered to renew Derek’s contract with a 10 percent raise that he considered highly insulting, and well below what was necessary to maintain the proper lifestyle of an international television star (and now yachtsman). That’s why the Everglades episode had to be his best ever, a blockbuster. Then, fearing that another outdoor show might try to hire him away, the suits at the Untamed Channel would have no choice but to accept Derek’s extravagant demands.
The scene with Alice the alligator had turned out marvelously terrifying-by now Derek had replayed the clip at least twenty times-and he felt inspired to make the rest of the program equally memorable. Lolling in the Jacuzzi tub, watching the jets of water make his belly quiver like a bowl of vanilla pudding, he envisioned many future talk- show appearances for himself, captivating Jay Leno or Anderson Cooper with breathtaking tales from the Florida swamp.
Most people who were nearly drowned by a twelve-foot gator would feel grateful to be alive and not eager to repeat the foolhardy behavior that had gotten them into that situation. No such contemplations entered the mind of Derek Badger as he sipped French wine and admired through soapy toes the twinkling lights of downtown Miami. His reckless brush with death actually made him feel invincible.
Ironhearted.
Indestructible.
“Here’s to Alice,” he said, raising his glass in a private toast.
The decision not to use any more of Mickey Cray’s animals was risky, but risk was exactly what Derek desired. He knew that wild critters were more aggressive and unpredictable than captive ones. The disappointing python scene was a prime example-Cray’s lazy snake was about as fierce as a garden hose.
To capture maximum drama on video, Derek wanted the real deal, wild and raw. The caution and common sense that would govern the actions of a clear-thinking person were in his case overpowered by a blinding hunger for more fame and wealth.
He was very much looking forward to being poked, stung, scratched, clawed, chewed and chomped by authentic denizens of the Everglades.
And he would get his wish.
THIRTEEN
Wahoo was accustomed to his father’s snoring, which sounded like a dump truck stripping its gears. That’s not what awakened him.
It was a dream about Tuna.
Her dad was furiously chasing her around the Walmart parking lot, and Wahoo was trying to tackle him so she could get away. In the dream, Tuna’s father had no face-only a slab of pocked gray flesh where his mouth, nose and eyes should have been. Wahoo’s imagination simply couldn’t picture a man who would try to harm his daughter that way.
Wahoo crawled from his sleeping bag and emerged from the tent he shared with his father. A light rain had fallen overnight, and the sky remained overcast. The sun had been up for an hour, but the air beneath the tree canopy was cool and funky-smelling from the exotic vegetation. In the distance, a great blue heron croaked defiantly.
Mickey Cray arose with a series of wolverine snuffles. Anticipating a demand for hot coffee, Wahoo restarted the campfire. There was no breeze, and the mosquitoes were delighted to see him. Tuna came out of her tent, mumbled a sleepy “G’morning” and sat down cross-legged on the ground.
Wahoo’s father noticed the script in her hands and asked, “What’re you readin’, hon?”
“Shakespeare,” she answered, casually flipping over the script to hide the title page. “I’m playing Ophelia in a summer production of Hamlet.”
Wahoo was impressed by her quick thinking and the classy-sounding fib.
“Shakespeare, huh?” said Mickey, with no shred of interest. He reached for the pot of coffee. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have any more of those headache pills, would ya?”
Tuna said, “I’ll trade you two of ’em for a cup of that java.”
“Fair enough.”
“Pour one for me, too,” said Wahoo.
Mickey laughed. “Since when do you drink this stuff?”
“Take your pills, Pop.”
Tuna suggested that they go get breakfast at the main camp, from which tantalizing smells wafted through the bay trees. Wahoo’s father again insisted on cooking, a humble but tasty serving of bacon and powdered eggs. He said that dining with Derek Badger would ruin his appetite.
Soon they heard airboats, which meant that the crew of Expedition Survival! was preparing to load the gear and ride to the location of the opening scene. Tuna, Wahoo and Mickey hurried through the woods and joined up with the others, who were filling canteens with cold water from a fifty-gallon cooler and stuffing their pockets with granola bars. Raven Stark was there, though Derek had not yet arrived.
It took a while to pack the equipment and get everybody seated. Tuna, Wahoo and his dad were assigned to ride with Link, who wasn’t exactly overjoyed to see them.
“Not you,” he growled from the driver’s platform.
Tuna gave a friendly little wave. “Play nice,” she said, and wedged herself safely between Wahoo and Mickey.
Link poked Wahoo’s father in the back. “I keep my eye on you. We clear?”
Mickey ignored him. Wahoo looked up and said, “We are absolutely clear.”
“Clear as a church bell,” Tuna added.
The ride lasted longer than Wahoo had expected, the three airboats flattening pathways through a prairie of tall saw grass that hadn’t been crossed in a long time-at least not by humans. After almost an hour, the lead boat carrying the show’s director halted at the edge of a wide-open pond that was teeming with dragonflies and wading birds called purple gallinules. The other boats stopped in the same place, and all the passengers removed their earmuffs.
A walkie-talkie attached to Link’s belt began to crackle with instructions. Wahoo recognized the director’s voice.
“Four minutes,” he announced. “Be ready.”
In the first boat, a cameraman scrambled to position himself on the bow. At the front of the second boat stood Raven, wearing a flamingo-pink sun hat as wide as a sombrero. Derek Badger was nowhere to be seen.
“Where the heck is he?” whispered Tuna.
Mickey snickered. Wahoo pointed to an object in the sky. It was a helicopter approaching rapidly from the east, the thwock-a-thwock of its rotors growing louder.
“He’s gonna do the Jump!” Tuna exclaimed. “Sweet.”
Parachuting into the wilderness was one of Derek’s signature moves, although other TV survivalists occasionally used the same stunt. The difference was that Derek insisted on jumping from the aircraft while blindfolded. This was not only dumb but also pointless, as Wahoo’s father remarked whenever they watched the program.
The chopper slowed down until it froze in a hover high above the fleet of airboats. A familiar-looking figure could be seen at the open door, his boots braced on the skid. Poised beside him was another man aiming a video camera.
“Five,” said the voice coming over Link’s handheld radio, “four, three, two, one… and action!”
The figure let go of the helicopter and dropped free, spreading his limbs like a spider. A moment later the
