label for the bottle.”
“I don’t get it,” Wahoo said.
“You ever heard of the placebo effect? That’s when doctors test a new drug by giving it to half the sick patients, while the others get a placebo-a pill with no medicine, just sugar. Nobody knows who’s on the real stuff and who’s not, but here’s the awesome part: some of the patients taking the bogus pills get better anyway. It never fails.”
Tuna smiled and tapped a finger to her temple. “The mind’s a powerful force for healing. If you believe something can cure you, it just might.”
“But if the pills are only sugar, why do you need them?”
“Oh, I feed ’em to Daddy. Sometimes it quiets him down,” Tuna said. “He gets lots of ‘headaches,’ too. And back pains, chest pains, neck pains, you name it. He thinks Raguserup is some sort of fantastic miracle drug. That, and the booze.”
Wahoo was troubled to think his own father’s symptoms were mostly mental and could be cured by fake medicine. “So, basically, both of our dads are whack jobs,” he concluded glumly.
“Don’t even go there,” Tuna said sharply. “They couldn’t be more different from each other.”
She was right about that part. “I’d better go check on Link,” Wahoo said. “You okay staying here with Dracula Junior?”
“Aye, aye.” She crossed her heart and gave a salute. “You go. We’re good.”
Quietly Wahoo slipped through the woods, pausing every few steps to listen. There had been no more random gunshots, no more voices on the breeze. Either the men they’d heard earlier had changed their course or the wind had switched directions, smothering the sounds of their conversation.
In his father’s absence, Wahoo had come to feel responsible for the safety of everyone on the island-Derek, Link and especially Tuna. It was a new experience, being out of Mickey’s shadow. Things looked different to Wahoo now that he was making the key decisions. Gut-check time, as his dad would say.
Link hadn’t moved far from the glen where the kids had left him. He was sitting up, bare-chested, with Wahoo’s Expedition Survival! jacket draped over his knees.
“I tried to walk,” he said. “No gas in the tank.”
He looked drained, and his breathing was still ragged. “Food?” he asked.
Wahoo was carrying half of a granola bar. He gave it to Link and said, “Good news. We found your airboat.”
“Totaled?”
“Nope. Believe it or not, Derek didn’t wreck it.”
Link’s expression was one of pure relief. “Miracle,” he said.
Wahoo was glad the weather was breaking. Slices of clear sky were showing among the clouds.
“Did you hear those gunshots a while back?” he asked Link.
“Yep. Dey’s a ways off.”
“There were men talking, too.”
Link shook his head. “All I heared was some owl.”
Wahoo peeled back a corner of the bandage he had taped to Link’s back. The bullet wound remained fairly clean, and there was no fresh blood.
“Still hurt when you take a breath?”
“Some,” Link admitted.
“Worse than before?”
“Little.”
Wahoo was practically certain that one of Link’s lungs had been punctured. It was shocking that a little piece of lead could put down such an ox of a man.
“Hang in there,” Wahoo told him. “We’ll get you to a hospital.”
“How far’s my boat?”
“It’s a hike. Just stay here and chill.”
Link took a shallow gulp of air. “What ’bout the dude that shot me? The girl’s old man.”
“The police will catch him for sure. He’ll be in jail soon.”
“Jail?” Link grunted. “Das it?”
“Can I ask you something?” Wahoo said.
“Guess so.”
“I know you don’t like my dad, and that’s okay. He can be a pain. But the other day, when he was in the water and you were driving straight at him…”
Link hacked out a chuckle. “Heck, I only meant to scare the man is all. You think I’s really gone run him over and put a big old dent in my airboat? No way.”
“You sure fooled me and Tuna,” Wahoo said.
“Not your pappy, though. He weren’t one bit ’fraid.”
Wahoo had to smile. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back in a little while.”
“You’s just a kid. What you gone do?”
“Get us all out of here.”
Link chuckled dryly again. “Here, take your jacket. It don’t fit me anyhows.”
“Listen!” Wahoo raised a finger in the air. “You hear that, right?”
“I do.”
“Airboats! A bunch of ’em!”
A hopeful spark showed in Link’s eyes.
“I was you,” he said to Wahoo, “I’d start me a big ol’ campfire.”
The problem was-and Mickey Cray would be the first to admit it-he wasn’t much of a “people” person. He preferred hanging out with animals (with the exception of his family, whom he adored unconditionally).
Because he spent so little time in social situations, Mickey wasn’t good at behaving passively when the circumstance seemed to call for action. His experiences as an animal wrangler had taught him to respond on instinct-no fooling around. Psychology doesn’t work when you’re dealing with a stubborn six-hundred-pound gator or a cranky fourteen-foot python. The task calls for sure-footed commitment and quick reflexes, not mind games.
Mickey believed Jared Gordon’s brain was less complicated than that of the average reptile. However, the average reptile didn’t carry a loaded gun and guzzle beer.
“Gimme another one,” Jared Gordon barked. “I’m a thirsty soul!”
He didn’t seem to mind that the beer was as warm as spit. Most people would have been groggy after drinking so much, but he kept the pace, trudging along in Mickey’s muddy footprints. Every time Mickey glanced over his shoulder, he saw the pistol pointed at his back.
“Don’t try nuthin’ funny,” warned Tuna’s father.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
They’d been hiking for a while, and soon the sun would be setting. Mickey hoped that by now Link had returned to Sickler’s dock and that Wahoo and Tuna were safe.
A swarm of airboats could be heard in the distance-the search teams, fanning out across the marshes. It was a welcome sound, but Mickey wasn’t ready to celebrate. Once darkness fell, the chances of being found would be slim. The Everglades by night was a tangled, boggy maze. Searchers would be relying on handheld spotlights and pure luck.
At the sound of the search boats, Tuna’s father appeared to sober up. His shoulders pinched tensely and his steps got heavier.
“This ain’t workin’ out so good,” he grumbled.
The plan to recapture his runaway daughter at gunpoint, which had seemed so brilliant in the early stages of Jared Gordon’s beer binge, now looked like a big mistake.
“They’ll catch up with us sooner or later,” Mickey told him. “That’s a fact.”
“Why don’t you shut up?”
Jared Gordon was no longer consumed with finding Tuna. He was focused on escape.
Sucking air through his teeth, he said, “Jest so you know-I ain’t goin’ to no prison.”
“You are if they catch you with that. 38.”
