Again Derek blinked. Mickey instructed Wahoo to strip the leaves off a fern, which left only the soft green stem. Wahoo handed it to his father, who said, “Perfect.”
“What are you going to do?” Raven asked skeptically.
“Tickle it,” said Wahoo’s father.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I believe he is,” said Tuna.
Wahoo observed that the crew was preparing to videotape the delicate procedure. Normally Derek would have protested indignantly, not wanting his TV audience to see their super-masculine hero disabled by a creature weighing two ounces. On this occasion, though, he remained mute.
Mickey got down on the ground so that he was level with the bat, which regarded him unpleasantly with moist black eyes. It didn’t appear to Wahoo and Tuna that the bewildered animal was enjoying the flavor of Derek Badger.
Using the flexible stem of the fern, Wahoo’s father went to work on the bat’s belly, lightly prodding and stroking. Very soon the mastiff began to twitch and squeak.
“Zoom in for a close-up! Hurry!” the director ordered the cameraman.
Wahoo waved his arms and motioned for everyone to remain still. He feared that the agitated bat would let go of Derek and then glom on to his father.
In fact, the critter had only one item on its agenda: escape.
There are no scientific studies that address the question of whether or not bats can experience the sensation of being tickled, the way people do. But whatever Mickey was doing with the fern stem, it worked. With a shudder, the bat unhooked its fangs from Derek’s swelling tongue.
“Now kill it! Kill it quick!” Raven cried.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Wahoo’s father.
The animal made a spitting noise and repositioned itself on Derek’s spray-tanned forehead, where it stretched its bony wings. Unlike most other bats, mastiffs can lift off from a flat surface, and that’s what this one did. On the next gust of wind it took flight, zigzagging through the hot beams of the TV lights until it disappeared into the dark canopy of the hardwoods.
Wahoo and Tuna high-fived each other, while the director called out, “Bravo, Mr. Cray. Well done!”
Raven rushed anxiously to Derek’s side, babbling something about rabies and distemper. Wahoo’s father assured her that the bat wasn’t sick. “She bit Mr. Beaver out of self-defense, pure and simple.”
Derek showed no reaction to being called Beaver, another indication that he might have been in shock. Several crew members gathered around and carried him to his tent. Raven followed gravely, carrying a first-aid kit.
To Wahoo and Tuna, Mickey said, “Come on. Let’s get some sleep.”
A slashing rain chased them back to their camp. It poured all night long on the tree island, and no living thing stirred.
Except one.
SIXTEEN
The airboat awoke Wahoo. He figured it was coming to get Derek Badger and take him away for medical treatment.
Emerging from the tent, Wahoo saw Tuna reading a green book. It was a field guide to Florida mammals. She kept it in her canvas tote bag with several other books, journals and sketch pads. Tuna never let the bag out of her sight.
“Here’s our prime suspect,” she announced. “It’s called a mastiff bat. Eumops glaucinus floridanus.”
She showed the photograph in the field guide to Wahoo. “Yeah, that’s the one,” he agreed.
“I’m gonna learn the Latin names of all tropical bats, starting today.”
“You seen my dad?”
“He went for a hunt.” Tuna was eating a lame breakfast-trail mix and Mountain Dew. “I bet they’re taking Derek to Miami for rabies shots,” she said.
“Which way did Pop go?”
“Relax, Lance. He said his head feels fine.”
Their campsite was a mud pit because of the overnight rain. Wahoo didn’t bother trying to start the fire and cook some food. He settled for two snack bars and a lukewarm lime Gatorade.
“So, what happens now?” Tuna asked.
After seeing Derek’s trance-like condition the night before, Wahoo assumed that the Everglades episode of Expedition Survival! would be canceled and that his father’s wrangling job was over.
“I guess we pack up and go home,” he said.
“Home, sweet home.” Tuna chuckled bitterly. “I can’t wait.”
Wahoo noticed that the bruise beneath her eye had faded a bit, taking on a yellowish tinge. “Maybe you can stay with us for a while,” he suggested.
She was flipping through the bat chapter of the book. “I’m sure I’ll hear from Daddy, soon as he needs his laundry done. That’s the usual program. He’s the king of fake tears and phony apologies.”
“You’ve run away before?”
Tuna looked up. “Sure. Twice.”
“And you go back.”
“Yeah, but it’s not like forever. Mom’s serious about leaving him.”
Wahoo had an idea. “Soon as Pop and I get paid for this job, we’ll get you a plane ticket to Chicago.”
“No,” said Tuna, “but thanks anyway.” She turned away, trying not to choke up.
“School’s out for the summer. There’s no reason for you to stay here.”
She tucked the field guide in her bag and popped to her feet. “Look, I know you guys are tryin’ to help, but I’ll be okay. I can deal with my dad until Mom gets home.”
“All right,” said Wahoo, thinking: But the man’s got a gun.
Tuna broke into a smile when she spotted three striped butterflies, flitting in a casual ballet through the hammock.
“Hey, Lance, check it out!” she said. “Zebra swallowtails. Eurytides marcellus! ”
Wahoo wondered if the butterflies were traveling together or had met by coincidence. High overhead he saw a string of somber turkey buzzards, riding the thermals under a mat of gray-blue clouds. The sun had been up for some time, but the heavy sky gave no clue it was morning. Wahoo was tired of the lousy weather, tired of being wet.
His father stepped out of the scrub holding a pair of Everglades rat snakes. They were good ones-five-footers, dark orange with grayish stripes and butter-colored underbellies.
“Look who I found,” he said cheerily.
“Biters?” asked Wahoo.
“Big-time.”
Tuna agreed that the snakes were beautiful, but she kept a distance.
“All right, Lucille,” said Wahoo, “tell us what Mr. Linnaeus would call ’em.”
“Wait, I’m tryin’ to remember.” She closed her eyes in concentration. “The scientific name is Elaphe something-or-other. It’ll come to me.”
Wahoo grinned. “Way to go, Pop. I think you stumped her.”
Mickey wasn’t listening to the conversation. He heard something nearby-the heavy snapping of branches. “We got a visitor,” he said.
Link, the hulking airboat driver, stalked into the clearing. He wore a grime-streaked undershirt, faded Wranglers and rotted hiking boots with no laces. He scanned the campsite, sneering slightly when his eyes settled on Mickey and the snakes.
“Where’s he at?” Link demanded.
