Wilson whipped the laces out of one of his shoes. “Tourniquet.” He worked the lace around Parker’s arm halfway between his elbow and shoulder. Tied it tight. Blood kept dripping.
“Gator . . . coming,” Parker said. “Get us out.” Typhoon rocked crazily, but the water’s surface was as smooth as hot tar, and just as black. Actually it wasn’t the airboat rocking—it was the sky. Weird.
Wilson pulled out his pocketknife. “If we don’t slow the bleeding you won’t make it to the dock.”
Comforting thought.
Keeping the blade closed, Wilson worked the handle under the lace and twisted. The makeshift tourniquet bit in. That Parker felt. Wilson grabbed Parker’s good hand and planted it on the knife. “Hold it there. Got it?”
Parker nodded. But his hand was shaking. No, make that his whole body.
“I can’t hold him in place much longer,” Jelly said. As if Parker wasn’t helping—and she was doing all the work.
“Jus—go.” His voice sounded slurred. What was going on?
Wilson looked at him like he thought Parker would keel over. He unclipped a lifejacket from the base of the seat. Whipped a nylon belt free from the loops. “Sit him on the deck.”
They were talking about him—as if he wasn’t there. I’m okay. He wanted to say it, but the words didn’t come out. So strange.
Jelly helped Parker slide down with his back against the legs of the passenger seat bolted to the deck.
Wilson wrapped the nylon belt around Parker and then the seat legs. He clipped the belt and snugged it tight. “Ready to fly?”
Parker nodded toward his arm. Tried to smile. “Bus-ted wing.”
Wilson swung back into the driver’s seat. Throttled the 350 to a roar. Gained speed. He plowed through a patch of sawgrass. The airboat hardly slowed. He didn’t bother following the natural lanes through the Everglades now. He barreled through, choosing the most direct course wherever he could.
Wilson had his phone out. Dialed it somehow. Talked frantically to someone. Who would he call? It’s not like paramedics made runs into the Glades.
“It’s bad,” Wilson shouted over the airboat’s engine. “I’ll get him to Wooten’s. He’s lost a lot of blood.”
Wooten’s Airboat Tours—where Wilson’s dad worked. Good spot. Lots of people. Right off the Tamiami Trail—the remote two-lane highway running east and west through the Glades. Great spot to meet the paramedics. Parker tried to keep the knife for the tourniquet twisted tight. But the strength seemed to drain from his good hand, and the pocketknife was wet. Slippery with his own blood.
Jelly pressed against him and gripped the leg of the chair with both hands. “Hang on.”
“Your . . . job.” Staying upright proved to be a challenge on even the slightest turn. Jelly was doing her best. But he outweighed her by what? Forty pounds? Blood flowed from the rivers of veins or arteries torn in his arm and spread out to form a red delta on the deck.
Wilson banked hard around a thick patch of grass surrounding a dead cypress tree.
This time Parker found himself sprawled on the deck, painted with his own blood. He lost his grip on Wilson’s knife and felt the blood whoosh into his forearm like somebody had just released a blood pressure cuff. Blood pumped right back out his arm in countless places.
He was bleeding out.
Jelly threw herself on him like she thought he would roll over the side. “Wilson—we’re losing him!”
Like—as in dying? Parker wanted to tell her that was ridiculous. But he couldn’t speak.
“Almost there,” Wilson said. “Hold on.”
But there was nothing to grab. Even if there was, he felt so incredibly weak. He couldn’t even lift his head. If not for the nylon belt tearing into his waist, likely he’d be over the side.
And the monster would get him for sure.
“You’re going to be okay,” Jelly said. “You’re going to be okay.” Her fingers stroked his hair.
Suddenly her face was inches from his. “Parker—where’s the knife?” Jelly sounded frantic. “We need that tourniquet!”
Long gone. The roar of the motor seemed distant. Muffled. The engine vibrations traveled through the deck and right through his body. Or was he having a convulsion?
As far as he knew, he never passed out. Somehow Wilson found Wooten’s Airboat Tours. Parker saw the docks as the airboat flew toward them. People there—thank God.
“Gator attack!” Even from fifty yards out Wilson was yelling for help. “He’s lost massive blood.”
Wilson roared in way too hot. He didn’t let off the accelerator until he was almost on the docks. He jerked his foot off the gas. The airboat slowed too fast, forcing the bow to dip hard for an instant. As the bow rocked back up, the wake washed over the transom—and kept pouring in.
Too late Wilson must have realized his mistake. He punched the gas, but the back end of the boat was sinking as if a monster gator was dragging Typhoon down to its lair.
Parker slid against the legs of the seat as the bow rose and the stern settled on the shallow bottom. His weight shifted, the nylon belt dug into his flesh, and his whole body twisted around so he was facing the engine. Jelly was thrown over the side and into the backwash.
The tips of the airboat prop beat the water, sending up showers of spray before the motor gagged and died in an angry blast of steam. Now the wake roiled over him. For the second time, he was in the water. The nylon belt held him fast. Parker fumbled desperately for the buckle with his good hand.
Absolute terror. Water rising. The gator had followed them. Parker was sure of it. He’d finish the job.
Typhoon’s stern hit bottom—the rudder tips just barely visible above the swamp water. The motor—powerless. Just like Parker.
Wilson was there, half crab-crawling, half swimming. Reaching for the belt trapping Parker. “C’mon. C’mon.”
Jelly swam back to the side of the airboat.
Parker felt the clasp release—then weightless. Helpless.
Wilson grabbed him under his armpits. “We’re outta here. We made it.” Wilson dragged him free of the boat and towed him toward the dock, where others waited to pull him to safety. Jelly swam beside him. “Fight, Parker. Fight.”
Fight? Did she see another alligator? Parker faced the Glades. He hiked his knees in close, ready to kick if a gator showed its ugly face. If he could even hit it with the way everything was spinning.
“Almost there,” Wilson said. “Ten feet.”
Seconds later strong hands lifted him out of the water and laid him on the dock. His head seemed heavy. So incredibly heavy. The boards felt warm under his cheek.
Wilson hoisted himself onto the dock and got close to Parker’s face. “You’re going to be fine.”
Wilson’s eyes flicked down to Parker’s arm, then back. There was something in his look that Parker hadn’t seen before . . . not in Wilson’s eyes, anyway.
Fear.
Parker closed his eyes. Needed sleep. Just five minutes. His dad’s voice played through his head. Wilson just might be immortal. But his crazy stunts are going to get somebody else killed. Of all the times for his dad to be right.
“Is he dead?” A stranger’s voice. Sounding so distant.
“No,” Wilson said. “Not yet.”
CHAPTER 5
Wooten’s Airboat Tours
Saturday, June 13
8:59 p.m.
ANGELICA WRAPPED BOTH HANDS around Parker’s upper arm to make a human tourniquet.
“Let me do that.” A man with a Wooten’s staff shirt took over, his rough hands clamped down out over hers. “Okay.” He nodded. “I got him. Pull free.”
Her hands—slick with blood—slipped out easily. She scooted out of his way. Stared at Parker’s mangled arm. Took his bloody hand in hers. “Don’t leave us,” she whispered. She bent down and kissed his hand. His blood . . . warm on her lips. His skin cold.
“Give us room,” tourniquet-hands said.
Ang
elica stood on shaky legs and watched. Parker’s eyes were closed. Mouth slightly open. Face pale as a gator’s underbelly.
“Stay with me, boy,” the man said.
Parker didn’t answer.
Somebody else took Parker’s pulse from his good arm. “I got nothin.”
Wilson locked eyes with Angelica for a moment, then raked bloody hands through his hair. Stepped back. Stared like a zombie.
The guy working on Parker’s pulse shook his head. “I think he punched out.”
No. No. No. A siren wailed in the distance. Too much distance. Angelica looked at Wilson and saw it in his eyes. The paramedics were too late.
CHAPTER 6
Saturday, June 13
11:33 p.m.
ANGELICA GOT OFF HER KNEES and sat on the edge of her mattress. Moonlight ghosted through her windows. Normally she’d have her bedroom lights blazing if she was awake. But not tonight. The darkness suited her mood. Parker was in the Naples Community Hospital. In good hands—at least that’s what everyone kept saying. He’d cheated death—three times. Or was it four? The alligator nearly killed him. He’d almost bled out on Typhoon. He’d been strapped to the sinking airboat and could have drowned. And his heart actually stopped at Wooten’s dock. Oh, yeah. Definitely four times.
The paramedics couldn’t find a vein for the IV. Kept saying things about Parker being “too dry for a good stick” and that he had “blown veins”—while Angelica stood there crying her eyes out. They’d actually drilled a connector port into his leg to get the fluids directly into his bone—then slapped the defibrillator paddles on his bare chest and gave his heart a jump-start.
Somehow he’d wrestled free from death’s grip. Four times. Wilson’s talk about an Everglades curse crept into her mind. Maybe there was something to it. What if Parker was marked somehow? Selected. Like he was the millionth person to go into the Glades or something—and he was the designated toll.
“You saved him, God. You know it—and I know it.” There was no other explanation as to why Parker was still alive.
She hugged herself . . . and never felt more alone—or stupid. She knew better than to feed alligators in the wild.
And the thing was, Parker had been so antsy to leave. She’d taken advantage of their friendship, knowing he’d have a hard time saying no to her.
Why did she do it? Parker loved the outdoors. And in every other place their families had been stationed together he’d never seemed too concerned about bear or cougar or any other predator roaming the wilds. Tonight—just before the attack—was the first time she could remember seeing him anxious to get back to civilization. Why did she trample over that?
Parker’s faith in God was so much stronger than hers. It wasn’t Wilson’s talk of some Everglades curse that made him want to leave. He didn’t believe in that kind of stuff. Did the Holy Spirit nudge him to get out? That was the only thing that made real sense. Even Wilson had a split-second warning just before the attack. He didn’t have a supernatural gift—but the guy was super-aware of his surroundings when he was in the Glades. All his talk of cheating death—or maybe his superstitions—kept him in a high-alert state when it came to mortal danger. More on edge.
The real question? What was wrong with her? She was the only one who didn’t see the danger coming. Wasn’t she supposed to have some level of women’s intuition? Why didn’t she sense something? Or could it be she wasn’t listening? She was so focused on getting the pictures she blew right past any warning signs she might have seen—and discounted Parker’s growing uneasiness. She absolutely had to have those pictures, and Parker paid the price. She’d led him right into the alligator’s jaws. Served him up on a platter for the beast.
You’re an idiot, Angelica. Parker was her best friend. They’d grown up together. She never thought she’d see the day when he died—or be the cause of it. But it was her fault. Her decision had killed Parker—even if he was only dead for a couple of minutes.
One of the paramedics said Parker was incredibly lucky. But Angelica didn’t believe in luck. Which was a good thing, because luck never held. It changed. And if this was all about luck, it was only a matter of time before Parker’s turned and he was doomed.
She would never, ever put her friend in harm’s way again. And she’d tell him tomorrow—if she could find a ride to the hospital. She’d never encourage him to go out into the Everglades again, either. In fact, she’d do everything in her power to keep him out of the Glades. Death did its best to steal Parker from her. She wasn’t about to give the reaper another swipe at him.
Angelica looked out the window at the empty driveway. Heard the night sounds of the Everglades even through the glass. She slowly traced her lips with the tip of her tongue. Tasted Parker’s blood—even though she’d wiped her mouth on her sleeve hours earlier. His life . . . on her lips. She wished she hadn’t wiped a bit of it off.
The thing was, the Everglades had a taste of Parker’s blood too. Literally. What if in some freakish, bizarre way there was a curse? What if the curse couldn’t be satisfied with a taste? Which was ridiculous. Jelly had never been superstitious, and she wasn’t going to start now. But what if there was something to the Miccosukee lore? What if Parker’s blood had only awakened the Glades’ appetite for more?
CHAPTER 7
Sunday, June 14
12:32 p.m.
ANGELICA WOULD NEVER ACCEPT a ride from Clayton Kingman again, no matter how desperate she was. How Maria could still be dating the guy was a total mystery, an absolute brain-bender. Even with her big sister sitting between them, the creep was way too close.
Maria’s best friend, Rosie Santucci, offered to give the girls a ride to the hospital in Naples—but Clayton insisted on doing it himself. Part of his little control games.
Clayton’s pickup had the extended cab with a second seat, but it was loaded with tarps, empty beer cans, a cooler—and who knew what all else. Angelica had actually hauled the cooler to the bed of the truck to make room for herself, but Clayton made her put it back.
“You’ll sit up front with us.” He just had to show her who was in charge—or he wanted to annoy her. Probably both. “And make sure there’s nothing sharp in your back pockets before you slide in.”
She stared at him. “Really?” Exactly what did he think she carried around, scissors or something?
The way he watched her climb up next to Maria could make a girl’s skin crawl. “I wouldn’t want you scratching the leather.”
Scratching his eyes out was a whole lot more likely.
Clayton was twenty-one—but he drove all the way to Naples like a senior citizen. He knew how desperate Angelica was to see Parker, which was obviously why he’d stretched an easy forty-five minute drive into something well over an hour, including a stop for gas. He even took the time to clean bugs off the windshield that had probably been baking there for a month. The guy was a total creep.
Angelica unbuckled her seat belt the moment Clayton pulled into the hospital parking lot.
Clayton draped his arm around Maria’s shoulder like there was no hurry at all. “Going to wait ’til I park to jump out, Angel?”
He was the only guy on earth who could make the name Angel sound disgusting somehow. “To you I’m Angelica,” she said. “My mom is the only one who calls me Angel.” She should have let it go, but Maria did way too much of that.
“Your mom is back . . . after all those months without a word?” He had that mock-sincerity thing going again. “When did that happen?” He leaned forward to make eye contact. “You should throw her a little welcome home party.”
She stared out the windshield instead. Don’t answer him. Don’t.
Maria patted Clayton’s thigh. “You know what she meant.”
“But the way Angel—sorry—Angelica said it, I thought for a moment that your long-lost mommy had actually returned to the family she’d abandoned.”
Out of Angelica’s peripheral vision she could see his eyes, the intense way they
bugged out when he was making a point. It was a family trait. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of looking at him. “Do you have to work at being so mean, Clayton?” Challenging him was always a mistake, but somebody had to do it. “Or does it come naturally?”
“Biting the hand that feeds you?” Clayton clucked his tongue. “Not smart, Angelica. Really stupid, in fact.”
The only thing she was biting was her own tongue. What would Clayton do if she really told him what she thought of him? The real question was what Maria would do. Then again, Angelica already knew where her sister’s loyalty leaned—and it scared the living daylights out of her.
“I think you owe me an apology, Angelica,” Clayton said.
“For saying you’re mean?” Why was it the moment she questioned something he said, she was expected to apologize?
He leaned forward to look around Maria, so that his eyes drilled directly into Angelica’s. They looked dark. Rabid. “I guarantee you, Angelica. You’ve never seen me mean.”
The threat in his tone unnerved her. She looked away. “I hope I never do.”
“That’s the first smart thing you’ve said this entire ride.”
Maria forced a laugh. “She’s sorry, Clay. I think she’s a little emotional about almost losing Parker.”
Was that the best Maria could do to stand up for her little sister? Angelica was sorry her sister was going out with Clayton—and sorry she accepted the ride from him—but not one bit sorry for calling him mean. “Look, I just want to get out of your truck and see—”
“Apology accepted.”
His voice carried a smugness. Like he’d won a victory. But if she knew Clayton, this wasn’t over. Not for him. He didn’t simply want an apology. He wanted her to grovel. And he’d likely keep at her until she did.
Clayton drove slow enough down the rows of parked cars to annoy her, but too fast for her to jump out. For the moment, she was his prisoner—a little fact he seemed to be enjoying. He passed an empty parking space. Then a second.
Escape from the Everglades Page 3