Chomp j-4

by Carl Hiaasen

  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 get the chopper airborne,” he said. “Who knows-maybe they’ll come across Mr. Beaver while they’re looking for the others.”

  “It’s Badger,” Raven said.

  “I never met a ‘survivalist.’ How do you get a job like that, anyway?”

  She smiled wanly. “First you need a TV show.”

  The more she thought about it, the more ashamed she felt for suggesting to the police that finding Derek was more urgent than capturing the dangerous Jared Gordon.

  “What do you know about the hostage?” Sergeant Ramirez asked.

  “See for yourself,” Raven said. She placed a disk into the DVD machine and played the uncut footage of Derek being thrashed by Alice, the wrangler’s giant alligator.

  The sergeant was fascinated. “Who’s the chubby dude with the orange hair?”

  “That would be Mr. Badger.”

  “And the crazy guy who jumped in to save him?”

  “That’s Mr. Cray. The one who got kidnapped by the gunman.”

  Sergeant Ramirez cocked an eyebrow. “Could I see the video again?”

  “Certainly.”

  They watched the gator scene two more times. Afterward, Sergeant Ramirez said, “Wow. That Cray dude has no fear.”

  “He’s an unusual person,” Raven agreed.

  The sergeant put down his coffee cup. “I’m betting Jared Gordon’s got his hands full right now. What do you think?”

  After T-boning the cypress log, the airboat crashed upside down in the grassy flats. Mickey Cray landed on a natural cushion of cattails ten yards away. Surprisingly, his head didn’t ache, and his vision was perfect.

  When he saw the wrecked boat, he felt sure that Tuna’s father was either dead or badly injured-but he was wrong. Jared Gordon clambered from beneath the overturned hull and trained his pistol on Mickey.

  “Don’t you move!”

  “Anything you say, brother.”

  “Come grab the beer!”

  Jared Gordon had chipped a front tooth but otherwise was unhurt. The leather belt with which he’d strapped himself to the driver’s platform had held tight, saving him from being thrown under the weight of the boat. Mickey was amazed that the man had hung on to the gun.

  “Let’s go!” Jared Gordon snapped.

  “Take it easy.”

  Together they set out through stinging rain in search of high ground. Mickey led the way, lugging the carton of beer. Overhead the sky continued to flash and quake.

  The muck was so thick that it sucked the boots off their feet. Jared Gordon staggered and cussed, then staggered some more. Mickey kept watching for an opportunity to snatch the revolver, but not once did Jared Gordon fall. It was very discouraging.

  After an hour, the lightning stopped and the downpour let up. They came upon an elevated ridge of hardwoods, and Tuna’s father insisted on stopping for “an adult beverage.”

  Mickey handed him a beer, which he chugged down hastily. He signaled for another and asked, “Now what?”

  “We wait.”

  “For what?”

  “Help.”

  “I don’t need help,” Jared Gordon said. “I need to find my little girl.”

  “Can you walk on water?”

  “What’re you talkin’ ’bout? Course I can’t walk on water.”

  “Me neither,” said Mickey, “which means we’re stranded.”

  Tuna’s father waggled the gun menacingly. “Oh no, we ain’t.”

  “What-you expect me to carry you through the mud? Like a baby?”

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  “Not happening, amigo.”

  “Huh?” It dawned on Jared Gordon that his captive wasn’t particularly afraid, despite the threat of a loaded weapon.

  “Without me,” Mickey said, “you’ll never find your way out of here. You’ll croak in this swamp-lost, drunk and all by your lonesome. That’s a fact.”

  Even on a good day, Jared Gordon’s brain didn’t run like a smoothly oiled machine. And today wasn’t a good day; it was a rotten day. He decided to show Mickey Cray that he meant business.

  “Git down on your belly,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  Mickey had been thinking hard about his situation and the smartest way to handle it. His main mission was to prevent Tuna’s father from finding Tuna and Wahoo, wherever they might be. For that reason, Mickey couldn’t afford to do something dumb and get himself shot. Until the police arrived, he was the only one standing between Jared Gordon and those two kids.

  So, reluctantly, he did as he was told. In the wet grass he lay down, prepared to roll away violently if the man began firing at him.

  However, Jared Gordon stepped off in another direction.

  “Look here,” he said, and leveled the pistol at a tall white heron in the reeds.

  Mickey raised his head. “Hey, don’t do that. I’ll catch us some fish.”

  “Ha! This ain’t about lunch.”

  It required every bit of Mickey’s self-control for him to remain still while Jared Gordon took aim. Herons were wondrous birds, sly and elegant stalkers of minnows. A curious young male sometimes visited the pond of the Everglades set behind the Crays’ house-Wahoo had named it Harry.

  “What the bleep are you trying to prove?” Mickey said.

  “Shut up.” Tuna’s father pulled the trigger and a single shot echoed.

  The white heron flew away, squawking indignantly.

  “Damn,” Jared Gordon muttered, lowering the gun.

  Mickey thought: Good. Only three bullets left.

  The rain eased to a drizzle and the thunder faded. Wahoo and Tuna couldn’t sit still anymore. They left Link resting under the tarp and ventured out to explore the island.

  “Stay quiet,” Wahoo whispered.

  “Duh,” said Tuna.

  With caution they picked their way through underbrush. Wahoo spotted a patch of poison ivy and detoured around it. The first major sign of life-and death-was a Burmese python coiled around a limp purple gallinule. The python was only a seven-footer, much smaller than Beulah, but still the bird had no chance.

  Tuna stopped as if she’d walked into a brick wall. Never had she witnessed such a scene in person-only on TV nature programs. Unable to identify the reptile, she wanted to look it up in one of the field guides in her tote bag.


  “No, let’s keep going,” Wahoo said.

  “It won’t come after us later?”

  “Don’t worry, Lucille. We’re not on the menu.”

  He could see she was rattled. Memorizing the scientific names of wild species wasn’t the same thing as entering their world. The bird had died so that the snake wouldn’t starve.

  “Pretty brutal,” Tuna said.

  “Humans can be worse. They do things out of pure meanness.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Wahoo heard the pain in her words. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he said.

  “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.

  Mickey played along. He entered the cluster of bay trees and pretended to scout for tracks. He didn’t mind stringing out the act a little longer. His plan had worked perfectly-Tuna’s father had emptied the gun at an imaginary beast. Finally it was safe for Mickey to take control and put an end to Jared Gordon’s nonsense.

  He returned to the clearing and said, “Nice job, brother. That poor critter’s halfway to Shark River by now.”

  Tuna’s father wore a smug grin that featured his jagged front tooth. “I told you I was good!”

  “Well, you weren’t lyin’,” Mickey said, but the words trailed off in dejection.

  He was staring at Jared Gordon’s left hand. It held six shiny new bullets, which Jared Gordon loaded one by one into the cylinder of his revolver.

  “I always keep a handful of spares,” he said, “jest in case.” He clicked the gun shut and raised the barrel. “Okay, Sparky, let’s get movin’ ’fore the rain kicks up again.”

  Mickey Cray nodded heavily. “Onward,” he muttered.
<
br />   For once in Derek Badger’s show-business career, being chubby turned out to be a blessing. The flab cushioned his fall from the Brazilian peppertree.

  “I’m alive!” he gasped, his accent still missing in action. He lay flat on a spongy bed of wet leaves and stared up at the two pesky kids, who stared back.

  “You are definitely alive,” Wahoo confirmed.

  “Did I break my neck?”

  “I think you’d notice,” Tuna said.

  Derek was a mess. Without his TV makeup and spray-on tan, he displayed all the vivid damage from the Everglades fiasco-the nicked nose from the snapping turtle; the tooth marks on his chin, arms and thumb from the water snake; the scabbed lip and skinned knees from his wrestling match with Alice; the angry rash from the poison ivy; the punctured tongue from his bat encounter.

  “Where’s Raven? Oh, never mind.” Derek sat up.

  Wahoo said, “We need to go. Link’s been shot and my dad’s in trouble.”

  “No, you need to go,” said Derek, “before the sun sets.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Get out of here, both of you! I’ve got the dark curse, don’t you see?” His gaze settled on Tuna’s canvas tote. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have a bottle of sparkling mineral water?”

  “Why’d you run away from camp?” she asked.

  Derek struggled to his feet. “Because I was savagely attacked by a vampire bat. You know what that means.”

  “What attack?” Wahoo said. “It bit you because you tried to eat it.”

  Tuna added, “It wasn’t a vampire bat, Mr. Badger, it was a mastiff. The scientific classification is Eumops glaucinus floridanus.”

  “Which translates to what in the King’s English-‘hairy bloodsucking fiend’?”

  “So what’s this ‘curse’?” Wahoo asked.

  In an icy whisper, Derek replied, “The same one as Dax Mangold got. That curse.”

  Wahoo turned quizzically to Tuna, who said, “Oh-my-God.”

  “What?”

  “The Night Wing Trilogy.”

  Derek nodded. “Exactly! You know what happens next!”

  “Okay, I give up,” Wahoo said impatiently. “What’s the Night Wing Trilogy?”

  Tuna’s review was harsh: “I barely got through the first book. It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever read.”