careful to take it easy on the gas pedal. He had no idea what they’d do if they caught up to Jared Gordon. He hadn’t thought that far ahead.
From the driver’s platform, he could see better than Link and Tuna, and soon he forgot about being nervous. The sensation of gliding across wild water was thrilling, better than any theme-park ride. He didn’t mind the sting of raindrops on his face or even the ear-pounding roar of the big engine. Whenever he needed to move the steering stick, the airboat turned as fluidly as a hawk in flight. Wahoo felt totally in control and totally focused.
They tracked the other boat’s watery path until the saw grass gave way to a wide, lily-covered pond. With one arm Link made a stirring motion, so Wahoo began to steer in ever-widening circles, searching for signs of Jared Gordon.
Lightning crackled overhead, and Link turned toward the flash. “Bad” was all he said.
Wahoo read his lips and nodded. It was dangerous to stay exposed on the marsh prairie during a violent storm: in a split second they could all be fried.
The next lightning bolt produced a thunderclap that sounded like a bomb. Tuna let out a frightened cry, and Wahoo stomped on the accelerator.
“We’re getting off the water!” he yelled.
They barely made it. The engine blew a piston and died just as they were closing in on an island. Under a pelting deluge, the airboat coasted sluggishly to the bank.
Within minutes the three of them were huddled under an oilskin tarp that Link found in a dry box bolted beneath the seats. By pure luck, they’d landed at the flat scrubby end of the tree island, a safe distance from the forty-foot cypresses that might attract lightning strikes.
Dejectedly, Wahoo said, “I can’t believe I cooked the motor.”
“Wasn’t you,” Link muttered. “That Bradley Jumper, he don’t take good care of his ’quipment.”
“Did you bring a phone?”
They were a long way from a cell tower, but Wahoo thought it was worth a try. Link dug into a pocket and retrieved a flip-top cellular that turned out to be waterlogged-and useless.
Tuna eyed it gloomily. “I hope you got insurance, dude.”
Link was shivering. He had no shirt, and the rain had soaked through his trousers. Wahoo took off the slick Expedition Survival! jacket that Raven Stark had given him.
“Here, put this on,” he said.
The jacket was way too tight and the sleeves were short, but Link was grateful. He reached back and fingered the gauze that Wahoo had taped over the bullet wound.
Then he turned slowly to Tuna. “Why’d your pappy try’n kill me?”
“It wasn’t you, Link. He was just shootin’ wild, like a whacked-out fool.”
Then, in a rueful voice, she added: “He promised me on a stack of Bibles that he pawned that stupid gun. Obviously he lied.”
Wahoo couldn’t shake the image of Jared Gordon holding the revolver to his father’s neck as their airboat sped by. The guy was definitely out of control.
And, thanks to the falling iguana, Mickey Cray wasn’t his usual indestructible self. One of those crushing headaches could dull his reflexes-and his judgment. Worse, a spell of double vision might cause him to crash the boat.
Wahoo tried not to dwell on the dire possibilities. He knew the storm had reduced to almost zero the odds of catching up with his father before something serious happened.
Link said, “I cain’t breathe so good.”
Every time he inhaled, they heard a rasping in his chest. Wahoo wondered if a fragment of the bullet slug had punctured a lung. If so, there was only one thing to do: as soon as the weather cleared, they had to rush Link back to Sickler’s place for medical help.
Leaving Mickey Cray alone to deal with Tuna’s crazed father, somewhere out in the boggy wilderness.
“Lookie here,” said Tuna, plucking a cocoa-striped snail from a bush. “This would be the lovely Liguus fasciatus.”
In spite of everything, Wahoo had to smile. “You’re too much, Lucille.”
The wind yanked at the corners of the oilskin while the rain drummed down. Another boom of thunder made them all flinch at once.
“I’m gone pray,” Link wheezed.
Tuna patted his arm. “Excellent plan,” she said.
TWENTY-TWO
Raven Stark occasionally puzzled over her loyalty to Derek Badger, who was bossy and demanding, and who didn’t appreciate all her hard work. But she was a team player, and she took personal pride in the success of Expedition Survival! As exasperating and childish as Derek could be, he was still the star-and her main responsibility.
“Never heard of him,” said the police sergeant, whose name was Ramirez.
“Are you serious?” Raven asked.
“I don’t watch kiddie TV.”
“It’s not ‘kiddie’ TV. Fifty-seven percent of our viewers are adults!”
They were sitting inside Derek’s motor coach, sipping coffee, hoping for the weather to clear so that a proper search could begin. Every passing minute was frustrating for Raven, knowing Derek was alone somewhere in the wilderness. Given his lame sense of direction, he had virtually no chance of finding his own way back to civilization.
“I understand your concern,” Sergeant Ramirez said, “but we’ve got a violent suspect out there who’s holding at least one hostage. That’s our first priority: catch the guy before somebody gets hurt.”
In her heart, Raven knew the policeman was right. Derek had run off on his own, but Mickey Cray had been kidnapped against his will. And those two kids-what if the gunman caught up with them?
It’s a disaster, Raven thought.
The Everglades show was in chaos, completely out of control. Real reality had thwarted TV reality.
A local news crew had shown up at Sickler’s place five minutes behind the police, and by tomorrow an army of media would be camped outside. The director and the cameramen were making morbid bets on how long it would take for Derek’s body to be found. What else could go wrong?
Meanwhile, back in California, Raven’s boss didn’t seem to be losing much sleep over his star’s disappearance. It was show business, after all. Anybody, no matter how famous, can be replaced. Raven knew the cold-blooded rules of the game.
Ever since signing on with Expedition Survival! she’d hoped to someday become a big-time TV producer, like Gerry Germaine. Now that dream would likely never come true, thanks to Derek’s latest fiasco. The script had said nothing about eating a bat!
Raven partly blamed herself. Who knew Derek better than she did? The man would do anything to shock his audience and to make himself appear fearless.
In truth, Raven wasn’t totally crushed that she’d lost her opportunity to become a producer. Being stuck in a Hollywood office all day long-taking meetings, yakking on the telephone-it didn’t sound like loads of fun.
Coddling an egomaniac like Derek was a chore, but Raven did enjoy traveling to exotic locations and working outdoors. Maybe another job like that would open up at a different network.
“This particular individual, Jared Gordon, we busted him a year ago for a DUI,” the police sergeant was saying. “He tried to punch one of our officers and got himself Tased.”
Raven said, “His daughter had a black eye when she got here. I think she’s running from him.” It was something the authorities should know.
“The witnesses said he stunk of beer,” Sergeant Ramirez remarked. “He also stole a twelve-pack from Mr. Sickler’s store. Alcohol and firearms-not a good combination.”
The sergeant kept peering out a window to see if the rain was letting up. “Soon as we catch a break, we’ll
