“No big deal. Daddy is what he is.”
They circled the feeding python and moved on. Tuna’s flip-flops kept sticking in the mud, so she kicked them off. Because of the heavy downpour, the borders of the tree island had shrunk with the rising water. Wahoo pointed out a drag mark where a hefty gator had crawled up on the bank to sleep.
“Where’s he at now?” Tuna asked, looking around.
“Stop worrying.”
“I am not worried.”
Wahoo was the first to spy the empty airboat, its propeller blade showing through a gash in the cattails. He crouched low and pulled Tuna close.
“Is it them?” she whispered anxiously.
“I don’t know. Stay here while I check it out.”
“No way.”
“I’m serious,” Wahoo said.
“Me too, Lance. I go where you go.”
They approached with cat-like caution. Tuna’s legs were speckled with mosquitoes, but she didn’t dare slap at them for fear of being heard. Wahoo listened intently for voices-especially his father’s. The woods remained silent except for the murmur of raindrops on the leaves.
Wahoo halted a few feet behind the beached airboat. “Wrong color,” he said.
The one that Tuna’s father hijacked had a glam sparkle-green hull. This boat was hand-painted in dull camo colors.
“It’s Link’s!” Tuna said with relief. “The one Derek took.”
From deep in the underbrush came a grunt, followed by an odd, quavering chant.
Wahoo edged closer. “Mr. Badger?”
“Go away, mate!” The bogus Steve Irwin accent was unmistakable. Gah why, mite!
“It’s totally him,” whispered Tuna.
The off-key chanting resumed: “Eee-ka-laro! Eee-ka-laro! Gumbo mucho eee-ka-laro.”
“Are you hurt?” Tuna called.
“Get lost!” Derek barked. “If you know what’s bloody good for you!”
Tuna followed Wahoo toward the hoarse voice in the woods. They came upon the TV star scrambling awkwardly up a Brazilian peppertree. The punctured Helmet Cam sat crookedly on his head, and a burn hole was visible in his shorts. He looked haggard and wild-eyed.
“Come on down from there,” Wahoo said.
“No! I’ve got the curse!”
“What curse?” Tuna asked.
“Run for your lives, both of you! Chop-chop!”
Wahoo said, “We need that airboat, Mr. Badger.”
“Are you blind, boy? The bloody thing’s full of water.”
“You’re going to help us bail it out.”
“Just leave me alone!”
“Take it easy up there,” Tuna advised. This was her second up close encounter with the legendary survivalist-the first being his botched attempt at bat eating-and so far she hadn’t been dazzled. He certainly wasn’t much of a climber.
“Eee-ka-laro! Eee-ka-laro! Gumbo mucho eee-ka-laro!” he yowled from the peppertree.
Wahoo threw up his hands. “Who has time for this?”
“It’s the curse of the undead!” Derek decreed hoarsely.
More like the curse of the unglued, thought Wahoo.
They heard a sharp pop, like a car backfiring. Then a heron began to screech.
Tuna spun around. “Was that a-?”
“Gun. Yeah.” Wahoo tensed. They were downwind from the shooter, although the distance was difficult to guess. One hundred yards? Two hundred?
Something tumbled through the branches and landed with a thud at Tuna’s feet. It was the battered Helmet Cam.
“Help me!” cried Derek Badger, suddenly with no trace of Australia in his voice.
He was dangling upside down, arms flailing, one fleshy leg hooked over a bough that was plainly too thin to support his tubbiness.
“Are you shot?” Tuna yelled. “Hang on tight!”
“Somebody catch me!”
“Uh-oh,” said Wahoo, tugging Tuna out of the way. “He’s gonna fall.”
And fall he did.
TWENTY-THREE
Mickey Cray’s plan wasn’t complicated: trick Jared Gordon into wasting his last three bullets, then jump him.
“Hear that?” Mickey asked with false excitement.
“I don’t hear nuthin’,” Jared Gordon grumped.
They were slopping across the flats, following a line of scrubby trees. Once the rain had slacked off, Jared Gordon had become restless and insisted they continue moving. Mickey had tried to stall, saying that the chances of finding Tuna were about a million to one since they no longer had an airboat to carry them across the marsh.
Jared Gordon refused to be persuaded, his logic having been hopelessly polluted by beer. He was on a mission to catch and punish his runaway daughter.
“Wait!” Mickey put a finger to his lips. “You hear it now?”
Jared Gordon shook his head.
“Sounds like a bear.”
“Aw, no way,” scoffed Jared Gordon.
“Seriously. Sickler said this place is crawlin’ with ’em.”
“Bears?”
Mickey dramatically dropped to one knee. “There! Over in those bay trees.”
Jared Gordon craned his neck, but he couldn’t see a bear or any other varmint. His mouth was as dry as sawdust.
“Is it a big one?” he asked Mickey.
“How good are you with that gun, brother?”
“Jest show me where he’s at.”
Mickey pointed. “See those branches moving?”
“Yeah!”
There were branches moving everywhere, of course. It was only the wind.
“Go ahead-take a shot!” Mickey urged. “Even if you don’t hit him, you’ll scare him off.”
“You say so.” Jared Gordon fired.
The slug pinged harmlessly through the trees.
“Aim six feet to the right,” Mickey instructed.
“No sweat.” Tuna’s father pulled the trigger again.
“See that? You got him on the run!”
“Not for long!” Jared Gordon took his third and final shot.
As the echo of the gunfire died, Mickey rose up and said, “That’s darn good shootin’.”
“You sure he’s gone? Better go have a look.”
“Oh, he’s gone. Don’t worry.” Mickey was already eyeing the pistol.
“I’ll wait here,” said Jared Gordon, stepping back.
