Carl Hiaasen - Chomp

Derek muttered, “Thanks for the bulletin.” Then, to Raven: “Try the chopper pilot one more time. Make it fast.”

Mickey returned to his mini-camp, swallowed a couple of Tuna’s headache pills and stretched out on his sleeping bag for a nap. To prepare for the oncoming downpour, Wahoo and Tuna were staking a blue plastic tarp over the fire pit so the wood stayed dry. Just as they finished the job, a double flash of lightning lit up the clouds. A blistering crack of thunder followed.

The airboats all took off toward Sickler’s dock. Minutes later, the wind kicked up and the rain began to fall hard. Wahoo and Tuna scrambled into her tent and closed the flap, the squall drumming loudly on the canvas.

Outside, another heron squawked between thunderclaps, prompting Tuna to remark: “That would be Ardea herodias, commenting on the foul weather.”

Wahoo was mystified by this odd talent of hers. He said, “How many Latin names have you memorized?”

“I don’t know-a couple hundred maybe.”

“But why?”

“Because I like to,” she said. “Every single species on earth has been classified that way by science. I’ll never learn them all, but I’m gonna try.”

Wahoo couldn’t get over it. “My brain hurts when I’ve got to memorize one little poem for English class. What’s the secret?”

“I told you. I study a lot.” Tuna paused to wait out another roll of thunder. “Before the bank took our house, I’d just go in my room, lock the door and start Googling like a fiend. Some nights I worked on insects. Other nights it might be fish or amphibians, whatever. I’d sit there and say their scientific names over and over again until they stuck in my head.”

“Too much like homework. I couldn’t do it,” Wahoo said.

“Sure you could-if your old man was trashed out of his skull and acting like a maniac. Then you’d find a place of your own to hide,” she said, “and something to keep your mind off all the craziness.”

Wahoo felt his face turn hot and he thought he might be sick. He excused himself with a mumble and pawed his way out of the tent. Sucking raw shallow breaths, he began walking nowhere in particular, through the teeth of the storm.

The rain lashed his cheeks, and soon his clothes were soaked. Fingers of blue lightning split the sky, but he never flinched; he just kept tromping like a zombie. Tuna’s story had made him feel angry and guilty at the same time-angry at her father for hurting her, and guilty because his own life was so good, so easy. Compared to hers, Wahoo’s world was paradise, a day at the beach. Nobody ever got drunk and tore up the house. Nobody ever punched him in the eye.

“Get out of the rain, for heaven’s sake!”

“What?” Wahoo looked up and realized he was standing in the main camp.

Raven Stark motioned for him to come under the big fabric awning where the catering service was headquartered. Most of the crew members had gathered there to wait out the storm, which had somehow failed to disturb a single red hair on Raven’s head.

“What’s the matter with you?” she asked Wahoo. “All we need is for you to get barbecued by a lightning bolt. Then your crazy father would sue us.”

Wahoo was still in a sad daze. “Where’s Mr. Badger?”

“Over there.” Raven waved toward a white hexagonal tent that was being puckered by gusts of wind. The entrance had been zippered tight. “He’ll come out after the thunder stops,” she said. “Here, put this on before you catch cold.”

She gave Wahoo a shiny blue weather jacket that had the Expedition Survival! logo stenciled in gold lettering on the front. He peeled out of his dripping shirt and wrapped the jacket around his bare shoulders.

On a nearby table sat a telephone in a black case that looked waterproof.

“Do you get a signal way out here?” Wahoo asked.

Raven said, “It’s a satellite phone, dear. I could get a signal on Mount Everest.”

“Can I borrow it?”

She looked amused by the request. “Exactly who are you going to call?”

“Please?”

“Sit down, young man.”

As she toweled off his hair, Wahoo groped through his pockets until he located the piece of paper with the number written on it. The paper was wet, so he opened it slowly to keep it from falling apart.

Raven removed the phone from the case and turned it on.

“I’ll pay you back,” Wahoo said.

“No worries. This is a company phone.”

He handed her the number. “It’s in China,” he whispered. “Look, whatever it costs, you take the money out of my paycheck.”

She smiled skeptically. “Who can you possibly know in China?”

“My mom. She’s working there.”

“Doing what?”

“She’s a language teacher.”

Fortunately, Raven seemed to believe him. She checked her watch and said, “Your mother’s probably sleeping now. It’s the middle of the night in that part of the world.”

Wahoo nodded. “Yeah, I know. Please?”

The thunderstorm was sliding to the east, and the rain had softened to a drizzle.

As Raven dialed the number, she said, “Let me tell you a secret: I use this phone to call my mom back home every day, no matter where I am.”

“Where does she live?” Wahoo asked. From Raven’s accent, he figured it was someplace exotic, like South Africa or New Zealand.

“Fairhope, Alabama,” said Raven.

“You sure don’t sound like you’re from Alabama.”

She handed the satellite phone to him. “Ten minutes, okay?”

Susan Cray wasn’t sleeping; she was sitting up in bed, staring at a bulky old-fashioned telephone. When it rang, she knew who was calling even before she answered.

Ever since Wahoo was little, he and his mom had shared an unusual mental connection that was almost telepathic. One day, in kindergarten, he’d fallen on the playground and received a nasty gash on his head. Susan Cray had arrived at the school before the ambulance did-before, in fact, Wahoo’s teacher had phoned to tell her about the accident. Susan had confided to her son that a strange and anxious sensation had swept over her at work, and that she’d known instantly that he needed her.

The same thing had happened on the afternoon that Alice the alligator accidentally ate Wahoo’s thumb. Susan Cray had arrived at the house right behind the paramedics-and no one had called her about the mishap.

When she picked up the phone in Shanghai, the first thing she said was: “What happened?”

“Nothing, Mom. I just called to say hi.”

“Well, that’s very sweet,” said Susan Cray, “but I don’t believe you.”

“I’m fine. Pop’s fine. The job is going… okay.”

“But what?”

“I didn’t say ‘but’ anything,” Wahoo noted.

“You don’t have to. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Okay, there’s this girl-”

His mother groaned.

“Mom, come on.”

“I’m listening.”

“She sort of ran off with me and Pop.”

“Sort of?”

“Her dad beat her up,” Wahoo said.

Susan Cray was silent on the other end.

“Her mom’s gone. She didn’t have anywhere else to go.” Wahoo was still waiting for a response. When he didn’t get one, he said, “So we brought her along on the job. She’s out here in the Glades with us.”

Finally his mother spoke. “How old is your new friend?”

“She’s in my same grade at school.”

“Your father should have called the police.”

“He wanted to,” Wahoo said. “But if they locked up her old man, she’d be all alone. Mom, they live in the Walmart parking lot.”

“Get out.”

“I’m serious. In a crappy old RV.”

Susan Cray said, “The police wouldn’t let her stay there alone. They’d find someone to take care of her.”