Escape from the Everglades

by Tim Shoemaker

  Was this a dig at his Christianity? Probably. “We’re going to stop a bad thing from happening. That’s how I’m looking at this.”

  “I like how you think.” Wilson gave him the side-eye. “What do you figure your dad would say if he ever finds out?”

  Parker hesitated. “Already talked to him about it.”

  Wilson stared at him. “You’re crazy—you know that?”

  There was no way he’d get Wilson to understand how important being a person of integrity was to Parker. To follow in the footsteps of his dad. His grandpa. How important it was to him as a Christian. He shrugged. “It was the right—”

  “Thing to do,” Wilson said. “Yeah, I’ve heard you say that a time or two.”

  The Kingman house was more of a palace, in Parker’s opinion. He’d seen it before—but not up close. Obviously some principals made good money. The house was massive, especially since it was only the two of them living there. The way Parker heard it, Kingman’s mom had slipped away one night a couple of years earlier. From what Parker had seen of Clayton and his dad, nobody would blame her.

  The palace was set way back from the road without another house within shouting distance. Apparently the principal liked his privacy.

  A crushed shell driveway wound its way through a deep stand of mangroves. The trees formed a thick natural barrier, blocking the house from sight. It was the perfect place to ditch their bikes. Parker propped his against a tree—pointing toward the road in case a quick getaway was needed. Wilson did the same.

  Without a word they made their way through the mangroves and jungle growth to a clearing. Between the mangroves and the palace, there was enough Florida thatch lawn to hold a baseball diamond. Or nearly an entire football field. Honestly, there had to be nearly seventy-five yards between the house and the trees.

  The house backed up to a lake. Small enough not to have a name. But big enough to have alligators. Even from here Parker could smell the swampy water. Foul. The scent of decay. Death.

  The night sky was dark enough to give them good cover, but they stuck to the deepest shadows anyway. The lights were blazing in the Kingman house. Clayton’s pickup was there, hopped up on its oversize tires. Kingman’s eighteen-foot Boston Whaler skiff—complete with a 115 Yamaha outboard—sat on a trailer hitched to Clayton’s truck. The word was, it was a high-school graduation gift from Kingman’s dad. The name King of the Glades was painted along the side of the hull near the stern in a typestyle that looked like it belonged on a Harley-Davidson T-shirt. A gator skull was painted below it with glowing eyes and huge, dagger-like teeth.

  Principal K’s Lexus was parked right in front of Kingman’s rig. Lights on the corners of the eaves lit up the entire drive.

  “A lot of good it did to wait until after dark,” Wilson said. “It’s bright as day on their driveway.”

  “Perfect,” Parker said. “We won’t need flashlights.”

  Wilson clapped him on the back. “I really do like how you think sometimes. Got the toothpicks?”

  “In my pocket.” Parker eyeballed the spare under the bed of Kingman’s truck. “As long as we let the air out of two of his tires, it should keep him home tonight.”

  Wilson nodded.

  They’d keep the truck between them and the house, but they didn’t need to take any unneeded chances. Parker scanned the windows along the front of the house to be sure nobody was looking out. That’s when he saw the surveillance system mounted high on the corners of the house—aiming right at the driveway. “Security cameras.”

  Wilson nodded. “I noticed.” He tucked most of his hair in his baseball cap and pulled it low over his eyes. “They’ll never recognize us.” For just an instant his eyes flicked to Parker’s arm.

  Instantly Parker tracked with him. “The scars. A dead giveaway.”

  Wilson pulled his long-sleeved fishing shirt over his head. “Switch.”

  Seconds later Wilson was wearing Parker’s black T-shirt. “We’ve got to move fast. If they have some kind of monitor inside, they’ll spot us right away,” Parker said.

  Wilson nodded. “Ready when you are.”

  Parker took a deep breath—and pushed back the part of him that kept asking if this was such a great idea after all. Right at this moment? The plan didn’t seem quite as simple and foolproof as he’d figured earlier. He’d never thought about Principal Kingman having security cams, which was a dumb mistake. But this was about helping Jelly do something she couldn’t do for herself. It was about doing something for Uncle Sammy. It was about keeping Maria out of danger, since she wasn’t smart enough to do it for herself. And honestly? It was definitely about a little payback to Clayton Kingman.

  Parker tightened the adjusting strap on the back of his cap, wishing it were a ski mask instead. Grabbed a handful of toothpicks from his pocket. “Let’s do it.”

  CHAPTER 22

  PARKER SPRINTED FOR THE PICKUP, staying low. Wilson ran a half step behind him. They both dropped down behind Kingman’s truck and hunkered close to the right rear tire. Parker had the valve stem cap off in three quick turns. Easy enough to do lefty. Holding the toothpick and forcing it into the valve to hold it open? Not so easy with his left. He switched the toothpick to his gimpy right hand.

  “C’mon, Parker,” Wilson said.

  The toothpicks dropped. Parker tried picking one up, but he might as well have tried to pick up a single hair. Would his hand ever be able to do the things he used to do without even thinking?

  “Gimme one of those.” Wilson snatched up a toothpick and scooted to the front tire.

  Parker was still trying to get a grip on a toothpick when he heard the hiss from up front. At least Wilson was getting somewhere.

  Wilson scrambled back beside him, grinning. “Ever hear a more beautiful sound?”

  The sound of their bikes churning up gravel on their way out of here would definitely top it.

  “Let me do that.” Wilson jammed a toothpick into the black stem, forcing the valve open.

  How long would it take before the tire would be flat? Five minutes? Ten? There was no way they’d be sticking around to find out. Parker glanced toward the house. Still no signs of life. Perfect.

  Wilson was watching too. “Should we do the other side?” He had that look in his eyes like he was having too much fun to quit yet.

  “Overkill,” Parker said. “Two tires flat. One spare. He’s just as grounded as if we got all four.” He eyed the Lexus. But what was to stop Clayton from borrowing his dad’s car? “If we want to keep him off the street, we’ve got to fix the Lexus, too.”

  Wilson’s eyes lit up. “I’m telling you, I love how you think.”

  Parker stayed low and ran to Principal Kingman’s ride. He twisted off the valve cap of the back tire and managed to pry the toothpick in place. Barely. Maybe it was because they were that much closer to the house, but the hiss sounded louder. Parker cupped his hand over the valve stem and peeked at the house through the Lexus windows.

  “If he figures out it was us, he’ll make us pay,” Wilson said. “Daily detentions ’til Christmas.”

  “That’s why we’re not going to get caught,” Parker said. But with every second that hissed by, the odds were rolling the wrong way.

  Wilson moved to the front of the Lexus and jammed the toothpick in place like a pro—if there were such a thing as professional tire-flatteners. Suddenly Parker’s tire stopped hissing. His toothpick sat on the driveway. For a moment Parker tried forcing it back into the valve stem, but the pick was getting soft now. Parker slid up his pant leg and yanked Jimbo from its sheath. He poked the pointy tip into the valve stem. The air blew out with more force than ever.

  Parker checked the pickup. The tires were definitely looking splashy on the passenger side of the truck. Another couple of minutes and the truck would be resting on its rims.

  “What’s wrong with this thing?” Wilson fumbled with the toothpick on the front tire. The air wasn’t flowing out with much force at al
l. Not like the other ones. He pulled out a new toothpick and tried forcing it into the valve with the other pick still there. It wasn’t helping. Wilson grabbed the tire at the ten and two positions like he was gripping a steering wheel. “C’mon you lousy stinkin’ tire. Deflate for me.” He gave the wheel a shake, his shoulder thumping the fender in the process.

  Instantly the horn sounded in a rhythmic blast.

  Wilson froze—eyes wide. “Ooops!”

  Honk.

  Of course the principal would have an alarm. Why hadn’t Parker thought of that earlier? He peered over the fender at the house. No movement.

  Honk.

  Wilson crouched like he was ready to bolt. “We gonna run for it—or what?”

  Honk.

  Parker stalled. The Lexus tires weren’t nearly flat enough. “Not until this thing is flatter.” He pushed the knife tip harder against the release in the valve stem.

  Honk.

  Wilson scooted next to him. “Gimme the blade. We gotta speed things up.” He grabbed the knife with both hands and thrust it deep into the sidewall of the tire. Air whooshed out.

  Honk.

  Parker couldn’t believe it. “Are you crazy?”

  Wilson scurried to the front tire of the Lexus and did the same. Air gushed out the instant he tugged his knife free. The back tire was already on its rim. The front tire would be in just a few seconds.

  Honk.

  Parker glanced back. Kingman’s truck was listing to one side noticeably now. The rear tire flat as an alligator’s tail. The front tire close enough. Parker darted to Wilson, snatched his knife back and slid it into its sheath. “Time to go.”

  Honk.

  The front door of the house flew open. “Uh-oh,” Wilson said.

  Honk.

  Instantly Parker and Wilson were on their feet and running—no, flying like a couple of bats out of a very dark cave.

  Honk.

  “Hey—HEY!” It was Principal K himself. “Get back here, punks!”

  Parker didn’t look back, but sprinted for the shadows with Wilson at his side.

  “STOP!” Principal K let out a string of obscenities that Parker had never heard tied together quite like that before.

  “I said STOP!”

  Like that was going to happen.

  Wilson took a slight lead. “If you get caught, I’m not stopping.”

  “If I can’t outrun the principal, I deserve to get caught.”

  Wilson laughed, and Parker closed the gap between them.

  “Give it up!” Principal K sounded winded—and not as close.

  Parker didn’t slow a bit, but made a beeline for the mangroves, Wilson right beside him.

  “I’ve got security cameras,” Principal K shouted. “Surrender now, and I won’t press charges.”

  Right. If he figured out who they were, he’d press charges no matter what. And if Principal K was so sure the security cameras would reveal their identity, there was no way he’d be chasing them so hard right now.

  Parker chanced a shoulder glance the moment they were in the mangroves. The principal was easily fifty yards behind them—but he wasn’t running anymore. He stood there, bent forward, hands on knees, sucking wind. Exactly what Parker wanted to do. But he didn’t let up, and neither did Wilson.

  They ran into the deep shadows. Close enough to see that their bikes were right where they left them. Only then did they stop to catch their breath.

  “Holy buckets, Parker.” Wilson gulped air. “I will never give you a hard time about bringing your survival knife—to anything.”

  Parker drove his fist into his side to relieve the cramp and laughed. “What happened to our plan? We were only supposed to let the air out of the tires.”

  Wilson grinned. “That was letting the air out of tires . . . Miccosukee style. We had to improvise, right?”

  Two expensive tires . . . destroyed. How was he going to explain that to his dad? From the cover of the trees, they watched what was going on at the Kingman palace.

  Clayton was outside now, stomping around his truck like he wanted to rip someone’s head off. The principal hobbled back to his driveway and got in a shouting match with his son—each blaming the other for not catching the vandals. It was like watching a verbal prizefight. Both of them champions of control and manipulation, squaring off against each other.

  Parker could just barely make out Wilson’s smile in the darkness.

  “Now that,” Wilson said, “was fun.”

  Parker agreed. “As good as getting shot at by poachers?”

  Wilson grinned. “Better. Think he recognized us?”

  “Not a chance,” Parker said. “He’d have called us back by name.”

  “What about the security cameras?”

  Parker studied the Kingman house. “We stayed on the shadow side of the pickup and the Lexus. We had hats. Dark clothes. There’s no way he’ll ID us.” He sincerely hoped that was true.

  Clayton Kingman did a quick walk around his truck, bent over to inspect the tires, then swung open the passenger door and leaned inside. When he turned back toward the mangroves, he was holding a shotgun. The thing was outfitted with a pistol grip—no shoulder stock. He cocked the pump action to chamber a round.

  “I know you’re out there,” he shouted. “And I’m going to find you. And when I do—”

  Principal K stepped in front of his son as if to hide the shotgun from view. Like he knew exactly the kind of thing Kingman might do—and wasn’t about to let that happen.

  Kingman shoved his dad to the side.

  Wilson took a step back toward the bikes. “Do you believe this? What kind of headcase pulls out a gun because of a flat tire?”

  Parker watched from the shadows of the mangroves. Stunned. He still couldn’t believe Kingman shoved his dad like that.

  Principal K was back—and shouting. “Put. That. Gun. Away. Do it now, boy.”

  Kingman hesitated for just an instant, then ejected the cartridge and caught it in midair. He tossed the shotgun inside the truck. But just as quickly he pushed past his dad and ranted at the tree line again. “I have a message for you.” He held the shotgun cartridge high. “When I find you, I’m going to give you a little taste of Everglades justice.”

  Principal K reached for his son’s mouth like he was going to clamp his hand over it. “That’s quite enough—”

  Kingman shoved him for the second time, and this time Principal K went down on his backside, hard.

  “What is wrong with him?” Wilson shook his head. “They’re just tires—and the Lexus got the worst of it.”

  “This goes a lot deeper than the tires,” Parker said. It was about a puppy—and the dad who took it away.

  “I knew the dude was bad,” Wilson said. “But he’s way beyond that. The guy is totally psycho.”

  “If Kingman would attack his own dad like that,” Parker whispered, “imagine what he’d do to us.”

  “He’d have to catch us first.” Wilson backed toward the bikes. “Uh-oh. Check out the principal.”

  Principal K was on his mobile phone. Talking loud. Waving one hand as he did, and pointing in their direction. “Calling the police?”

  Wilson nodded. “Time to fly, Bucky.”

  Parker would’ve loved a set of wings at that moment.

  A siren sounded in the distance. The police could be quick when there was nothing else going on.

  “I will find you.” Kingman stood there staring at the tree line, then turned back toward his truck.

  It was time to go. Actually, hopelessly past time. They grabbed their bikes and ran them out to the road before mounting them.

  Wilson let out a long breath of air and clapped Parker on the back. “We did it.”

  “I think the victory dance may have to wait,” Parker said. “We’ve still got to make it home without the police spotting us.”

  Avoiding the police in a little town like Everglades City would be tricky. Parker knew that. There would only be one pol
ice car out at night—which was a plus. But after Principal K told the cop what happened, that one cop could canvas a town this size incredibly fast. The streets were straight, the homes and buildings low, and the ground as flat as Principal K’s tires. A cop could see for blocks in any direction—and palm trees didn’t offer the kind of cover they’d need. Two guys on bikes would be spotted fast.

  They hadn’t gone three blocks before they had to duck in the shadows while the police car raced past on its way to the Kingmans’. “Ready for the ultimate game of hide-and-seek?”

  “Totally.” Wilson pulled out onto the street again. “Question is—do we hide, or beat it back to the island?”

  If they didn’t get out of Everglades City now, who knew how long they might get pinned down. “Let’s make a run for it.”

  Wilson agreed. “We’ve got to get across the bridge—fast.”

  More like a low causeway, really. A two-lane road to the island, three miles long. Low guard rails—where there were rails. Rocks leading down to the water on either side of the low bridge. Some areas of brush on either side, but also wide-open places with no cover at all. Which meant absolutely no place to escape—or hide—if the cop was smart enough to widen his search to Chokoloskee while they were still crossing. They’d be caught for sure.

  Adrenalin was a high-octane fuel, and Parker’s tank was full. He never felt more alive—or juiced. Sure, Kingman made some ugly threats, but how would he deliver on them? He would never find out who nailed their tires. Parker wasn’t going to tell a soul, and Wilson wouldn’t either. “Still having fun?”

  Wilson flashed him a grin. “Best night I’ve had in weeks. How long do you plan to keep Clayton and Maria apart?”

  Parker didn’t have to give that much thought. “As long as it takes.”

  “You really think a couple of flat tires will stop him?”

  Parker laughed. “It will tonight.”

  “And what’s your plan for tomorrow night, Einstein?”

  Parker had no idea. “We’ll think of something.” For now, he just wanted to get to Chokoloskee.

  “If it’s anything like your plan tonight,” Wilson said, “I’m in.”