Escape from the Everglades
© 2021 Tim Shoemaker. All rights reserved.
A Focus on the Family book published by Tyndale House Publishers, Carol Stream, IL, 60188
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The characters and events in this story are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
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ISBN 978-1-64607-026-8
ISBN 978-1-68428-322-4 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-68428-323-1 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-68428-321-7 (Apple)
Build: 2021-06-18 17:43:06 EPUB 3.0
To my three sons . . . Andy, Mark, and Luke . . . who encouraged me to write in the first place. Fiction is one of the most powerful ways to teach truth—because it reaches directly to the heart. I loved reading to you as you grew up . . . watching your eyes grow wide with the suspense and adventure. And when it was time to stop—I loved how you begged me to “read just a little bit more.” May you have the joy of reading to your kids. And always, always . . . read just a little bit more.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Epilogue
CHAPTER 1
Everglades National Park
Saturday, June 13
6:55 p.m.
PARKER BUCKMAN STOOD ON the airboat deck and searched the surface of the water. He didn’t actually see any alligators, but they were here. Watching. Reminding him that he was an intruder in their world. He was pretty sure the gators didn’t mind, though. A visitor could become a meal for some lucky alligator in one careless moment.
An uneasiness clung to him like the muggy air itself. It worked its way inside and wouldn’t let go. He couldn’t shake the creepy sense that he shouldn’t be in the Everglades today.
Which was crazy. He loved the outdoors. Even he had to admit that Everglades City and the neighboring island town of Chokoloskee were pretty much the armpit of America. But he still found things to love about the place—once you got past the mosquitoes, that is.
And Everglades National Park itself, the swampy wetlands that dominated some 7,800 square miles of southern Florida, was never boring. A place of contrasts. Bright sun that could burn your eyeballs out quicker than a solar eclipse, yet water so dark you’d think there was no bottom. Hardly a speck of ground above water in the wet season, yet trees and brush and grasses grew high above the surface as if there were no water at all. A place as wild and uncivilized as anyplace Parker had ever been, yet there was still an order to it. No streets, no signs, but a seemingly endless maze of watery paths crisscrossing the Everglades. Narrow alleys and routes beat through the sawgrass. As a park ranger’s son, he got to explore them as often as he wanted.
Wilson Stillwaters—half Miccosukee and pretty much all trouble—was totally in his element here. His tribe had been native to the Everglades long before any white man explored them—a fact he reminded Parker about often. “Where is Angelica? She’s the one who begged me to find the perfect place to mount her trail cam.”
Angelica Malnatti, better known as Jelly, had always been into shooting nature pictures wherever her family had been stationed. Mountains. Rivers. Anyplace without humans. But ever since her dad got transferred to the Everglades along with Parker’s, she’d been practically obsessed with wildlife photography. Apparently she wasn’t the only one. Parker had seen dozens of camouflaged cameras strapped to cypress trees in the Everglades and along the rivers leading into Chokoloskee Bay. Jelly wouldn’t miss a chance to set up her camera in some remote spot. “She’ll be here.”
“Yeah, well if she’s not here in two minutes, she’ll have to swim.” Wilson patted the control stick of the airboat. “Typhoon wants to whip up a tropical storm out there.”
The name Typhoon was written vertically down each of the twin rudders mounted behind the propeller cage. It was the perfect name for the airboat. With a 350-cubic-inch Chevy engine mounted to the non-skid aluminum deck, the airboat could kick up more than just a little squall. Wind generated from the prop reached upwards of 150 miles per hour—rivaling that of a Category 5 hurricane. “Your uncle’s airboat is gorgeous,” Parker said. “You’ve gotta let me drive this thing.”
Wilson jutted his chin toward the mangroves. “Here she comes. It’s about time.”
Sure enough, red braids bucking, Jelly pedaled like she was afraid they’d leave without her. With her dark-green Columbia shirt and cargo khakis, she totally looked like some kind of Everglades tour guide wannabe.
Jelly skidded to a stop and dropped her bike.
Seconds later she hopped aboard. “Are you two finally ready?” In one smooth move, Jelly snatched Parker’s cap and slapped it on her head as she passed.
Parker tried to nab it back, but she ducked out of the way. This hat-swiping thing was some new game of hers.
She tipped the visor of his hat and flashed Parker a proud smile. “What are we waiting for, Wilson? You promised me an Everglades run I’d never forget.”
Wilson tested the rudders and slid the key into the ignition. “You’re a real piece of work, Jelly.” He fired up the engine. “Buckle up.”
Which was impossible. Typhoon had no working seat belts. And Wilson wouldn’t have used his anyway. Parker climbed onto the elevated double passenger seat just behind the driver’s chair and sat next to Jelly. He dug a pair of foam earplugs from his pocket and twisted them into his ears.
Wilson laughed. “Miccosukees don’t need ear protection.”
“With the decibels airboats put out? You could damage your hearing, idiot.”
“What?”
“Exactly.” Parker backhanded Wilson’s shoulder.
Wilson grinned and revved the engine. The throaty rumble of the 350 sent powerful vibrations through the airboat that could loosen fillings. And somehow it loosened up Parker at the same time. Calmed him. Maybe all that uneasiness he’d been feeling wasn’t some kind of warning from his gut. Maybe it was just his own overactive imagination.
Wilson goosed the gas, and the airboat picked up speed as they entered the “sea of grass,” as some locals called it. Wilson waggled the rudders, causing Typhoon to fishtail back and forth.
Jelly kicked the back of Wilson’s seat. “We don’t have seat belts, remember? If I fall off this thing, you’re going to be soooo sorry.”
Wilson laughed and swung the airboat from side to side again.
The next hour was pure heaven—especially since Parker got to drive most of that time. The grass rake bow skimmed right over spots where new patches of sawgrass seemed to be filling in the waterways. It was like the Everglades was taking back the lanes.
True to his word, Wilson found a spot in the middle of nowhere to strap Jelly’s trail cam—which meant climbing out of the airboat into waist-deep water. Jelly was over the side without even the slightest hesitation. Somehow it didn’t seem right that she went in alone. What if something snuck up on her while she was focused on mounting the camera?
“I’ll give you a hand.” Parker followed and helped her secure the camera to a cypress—just above the waterline. He scanned the surface nearby, looking for telltale bubbles.
“It has infrared,” Jelly said. “If something moves within fifty feet of this sensor, I’ll get pictures. Even in the dark.”
Like he didn’t know that.
“This spot is perfect.” Jelly gave Wilson an approving nod. “The place is teeming with life.”
“And death,” Wilson said. “Never forget that.”
Parker gave Jelly a boost back on deck and hoisted himself up a moment later.
“Don’t get all morbid on me, Wilson.” Jelly toweled off and draped the thing over Wilson’s head.
“Hey.” Wilson tossed the towel back at her. “This is about respecting the Glades. My people understand that.”
The way he said “my people” always made Parker smile. With his blond hair—even long and wild as it was—he didn’t look one bit Miccosukee. Maybe that’s why he always had three or four micro-braids going—with bits of twine and beads worked in. Like he wanted to remind others of his native roots.
“People fish in the Glades,” Wilson said. “Hunt in them. Fly over them—like they have the right. Like the place belongs to them. But nobody owns the Everglades—and she keeps score. When the time is right, she collects a toll.”
“Ridiculous.” Jelly laughed. “Like a trespassing tax?”
He gave a slow nod. “Paid in blood. Human lives.”
“Don’t get him started,” Parker said. Wilson could go on for hours telling creepy stories about the Glades.
“If I didn’t know better,” Jelly said in that teasing way she was so good at, “I’d say Wilson believes there’s some kind of curse on the Glades.”
“My people say that’s exactly what it is.”
“It’s superstition,” Jelly said, “plain and simple.”
“Make fun all you want,” Wilson said. “There are strange forces at work in the world. Things we don’t understand.”
“Boys are on that list—and you two are at the top. Are you going to start this thing back up—or do we have to row?”
Wilson acted like he never heard. “Guess how many people have died in the Glades.”
“Here we go,” Parker said. Wilson gave him this little speech the first time they’d met. They’d been friends ever since.
“Hundreds. Maybe thousands,” Wilson said. He leaned forward. “Nobody really knows. Take airline crashes. 1972 . . . Eastern Flight 401—101 fatalities. 1996 . . . ValuJet Flight 592—all 110 aboard—gone. And then—”
“You need a shrink, Wilson,” Jelly said. “You’re not going to ruin this place for me with all your death-talk.”
“Ruin it?” Wilson slung his arm over the back of the driver’s seat and grinned. “The danger—knowing I cheat death every time I walk out of the Glades in one piece—that’s what I love about this place.”
“There you go again. You’re obsessed with death.”
“No,” Wilson said. “I’m obsessed with beating death. Big difference.”
“There,” Jelly said. “You just admitted you’re obsessed. Thank you for clearing that up.”
Parker smiled. There was no way Wilson could be a match for Jelly when she got like this.
Wilson levered the choke, grabbed the key—but stopped short of starting the engine. “Don’t underestimate the Glades, Jelly. There’s something absolutely evil about this place. A darkness. I’ve felt it.”
And in that instant, that weird feeling was back. The sense that they shouldn’t be there right now. Like the Glades were more restless than usual.
Parker eyed the water. Everything looked still. Quiet. Maybe too quiet. He couldn’t shed the strangest feeling that the Glades were on the hunt—and about to collect another toll.
The sun kissed the horizon and hovered there like it didn’t want to get any closer to the Everglades than it had to tonight.
Shake it off, Bucky. Whatever he was feeling, he was pretty sure it would disappear if they got moving again. “Getting late.” The water looked black now, as if it had turned to oil. “We better get back.”
Wilson nodded. Seconds later, he had Typhoon flying across the dark waters.
How Wilson knew his way back, Parker had no idea. Maybe he had some kind of Miccosukee GPS in his head. He pulled back the stick and put Typhoon into a sideslip. Parker leaned into the turn—and Jelly grabbed his arm and screamed. Spray showered all three of them and the airboat chattered to a stop.
“Yee-ha!” Wilson revved the engine and jockeyed the rudder stick back and forth—then tromped on the gas again.
The engine roared, and the propeller blast churned the water behind them into frantic ripples. Sawgrass whipped away from them in the prop wash.
Suddenly Wilson fishtailed to a stop and pointed. “Check it out.”
An alligator—a big one—no more than thirty feet away, sitting low and motionless in the water. Pale orange sunlight glinted off the wet rows of armored scutes lining its back. In its own way, the gator was like an iceberg: more danger below the surface than above—and eyes just as cold.
A monster.
Wilson cut the engine and grabbed a bag of French bread from under his seat.
Parker stood. The sun was gone now—and it would get dark fast. As much as he’d like to stay in the Glades, something definitely didn’t feel right. What was wrong with him? God . . . are you trying to tell me something?
Wilson twisted off a fist-sized hunk of bread and threw it halfway between them and the gator
. “Got your phone, Jelly? Get ready for a great photo op.”
The gator stared directly at them. It swept its serrated tail to one side, forming tiny whirlpools on the surface—and glided toward the airboat.
The beast was probably the biggest alligator Parker had seen—that wasn’t stuffed and hanging in some Florida souvenir shop, anyway. Honestly, he’d wanted to see one this big—in the wild—since moving here. A rush of excitement swept over Parker, but it quickly gave way to a warning that rumbled like distant thunder somewhere deep in his head. He could almost hear his dad’s voice. Don’t be stupid. You’re pushing it. Be smart—and do the right thing. Like we always talk about.
“Guys, I’ve got a weird feeling about being here.” There. He said it. And the feeling grew stronger. “I hate to bust up this party, but we should be heading back.” He looked to Jelly, hoping she’d pick up on whatever it was that he was feeling—and talk some sense into Wilson.
She gave Parker the pleading eyes thing—and already had her phone out. “Just a couple shots. I promise.”
So much for her being the voice of reason.
Parker eyed the beast. Or was it eying him? “You know what my dad—and Jelly’s—would say if they knew you were feeding gators?”
Wilson moved to the bow and coaxed the gator closer with another chunk of bread. “We Miccosukee make our own rules out here. Besides, they’re park rangers. They have to say it isn’t a good idea.”
Jelly nodded. “And I wouldn’t consider this feeding. It’s just some scraps of bread. Hardly enough to feed a gator that big. We’re just giving the thing a snack. An appetizer.”
“And we’re the main course,” Parker said. “We don’t want alligators approaching humans for food. We are food.” And this guy looked big enough to eat all three of them.
Wilson laughed. “Now you sound like your dad.”
Actually, to Parker, that was a compliment. His dad was big on doing the right things, even when others didn’t . . . something Parker was working on himself.
Jelly was on her feet, making her way toward Wilson up front. It was like neither of them heard a thing Parker said. “Just a few pictures, then we’ll leave. I promise.”
Wilson ripped off another hunk of bread. He threw it five feet short of the gator.
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