Carl Hiaasen - Chomp

“Hmmm.” Gerry Germaine was cleaning his fingernails with a sterling silver letter opener. Engraved with his initials, it had been a gift from one of Expedition Survival! ’s biggest sponsors, the company responsible for Pit Power, an underarm deodorant for “the raw adventurer in all of us.” Derek Badger refused to endorse the product, saying it smelled like rotten mangoes.

“With a little luck, the cops will come across Derek before they track down this lunatic Gordon,” Raven was saying. “If that happens, we’re golden. Derek will be the top story on every newscast in America!”

Gerry Germaine agreed politely. “Raven, dear, have you ever seen this reality show from New Zealand called Snake Diver?”

“What does that even mean, ‘snake diver’?”

“The star is a fellow named Brick Jeffers, and he’s quite good on camera-witty, down-to-earth and seriously ripped. He does the blindfolded parachute entrance, like Derek, only for real. No stuntmen.”

“What are you getting at, Gerry?”

“You know. Worst-case scenario?”

Raven was stunned. “You mean, if Derek doesn’t make it out of the Everglades, this guy would replace him on Expedition? This Brick Jefferson snake-diving nobody?”

“The name is Jeffers. And we’re flying him in from Auckland for an interview.”

“I can’t believe this!”

“Worst-case scenario, like I said. It makes sense to have a backup ready in case Derek can’t do the show anymore.”

“Like if he’s dead, you mean.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Well, he’s not dead,” Raven asserted. “I just know it.”

Gerry Germaine said, “Call me as soon as you hear something.”

Then he hung up the phone and asked his secretary to make some calls. He wanted to know which restaurant in Beverly Hills served the tastiest New Zealand lamb chops.

Wahoo had more patience than his father did, but Derek Badger was pushing him to the limit.

“You call this a hiding place, mate?”

“Keep your voice down,” Wahoo said.

They were hunkered in a thicket of sticky vines and coco plums. Derek wouldn’t quit griping. He insisted his fever was worse. He prattled on about muscle cramps and strange tremors in his feet.

Tuna fished in her tote bag. “Here, try these.” She handed him two of the same chalky pink tablets that she’d been giving to Wahoo’s father.

“What’s this?” Derek asked skeptically.

“Twenty milligrams of advanced formula Raguserup 2800.”

“Ragu-what?” He made a face as he swallowed the tablets. Yet soon he stopped complaining about his aches and pains, and within an hour he was napping again.

Wahoo asked to see the bottle. “What kind of medicine is Raguserup? I definitely need to stock up on this for Pop.”

Tuna laughed. “It’s not medicine, Lance. It’s just a sugar pill.”

“What?”

“Seriously-I made up the name myself. It’s pure sugar, spelled backward,” she explained. “I even printed up a label for the bottle.”

“I don’t get it,” Wahoo said.

“You ever heard of the placebo effect? That’s when doctors test a new drug by giving it to half the sick patients, while the others get a placebo-a pill with no medicine, just sugar. Nobody knows who’s on the real stuff and who’s not, but here’s the awesome part: some of the patients taking the bogus pills get better anyway. It never fails.”

Tuna smiled and tapped a finger to her temple. “The mind’s a powerful force for healing. If you believe something can cure you, it just might.”

“But if the pills are only sugar, why do you need them?”

“Oh, I feed ’em to Daddy. Sometimes it quiets him down,” Tuna said. “He gets lots of ‘headaches,’ too. And back pains, chest pains, neck pains, you name it. He thinks Raguserup is some sort of fantastic miracle drug. That, and the booze.”

Wahoo was troubled to think his own father’s symptoms were mostly mental and could be cured by fake medicine. “So, basically, both of our dads are whack jobs,” he concluded glumly.

“Don’t even go there,” Tuna said sharply. “They couldn’t be more different from each other.”

She was right about that part. “I’d better go check on Link,” Wahoo said. “You okay staying here with Dracula Junior?”

“Aye, aye.” She crossed her heart and gave a salute. “You go. We’re good.”

Quietly Wahoo slipped through the woods, pausing every few steps to listen. There had been no more random gunshots, no more voices on the breeze. Either the men they’d heard earlier had changed their course or the wind had switched directions, smothering the sounds of their conversation.

In his father’s absence, Wahoo had come to feel responsible for the safety of everyone on the island-Derek, Link and especially Tuna. It was a new experience, being out of Mickey’s shadow. Things looked different to Wahoo now that he was making the key decisions. Gut-check time, as his dad would say.

Link hadn’t moved far from the glen where the kids had left him. He was sitting up, bare-chested, with Wahoo’s Expedition Survival! jacket draped over his knees.

“I tried to walk,” he said. “No gas in the tank.”

He looked drained, and his breathing was still ragged. “Food?” he asked.

Wahoo was carrying half of a granola bar. He gave it to Link and said, “Good news. We found your airboat.”

“Totaled?”

“Nope. Believe it or not, Derek didn’t wreck it.”

Link’s expression was one of pure relief. “Miracle,” he said.

Wahoo was glad the weather was breaking. Slices of clear sky were showing among the clouds.

“Did you hear those gunshots a while back?” he asked Link.

“Yep. Dey’s a ways off.”

“There were men talking, too.”

Link shook his head. “All I heared was some owl.”

Wahoo peeled back a corner of the bandage he had taped to Link’s back. The bullet wound remained fairly clean, and there was no fresh blood.

“Still hurt when you take a breath?”

“Some,” Link admitted.

“Worse than before?”

“Little.”

Wahoo was practically certain that one of Link’s lungs had been punctured. It was shocking that a little piece of lead could put down such an ox of a man.

“Hang in there,” Wahoo told him. “We’ll get you to a hospital.”

“How far’s my boat?”

“It’s a hike. Just stay here and chill.”

Link took a shallow gulp of air. “What ’bout the dude that shot me? The girl’s old man.”

“The police will catch him for sure. He’ll be in jail soon.”

“Jail?” Link grunted. “Das it?”

“Can I ask you something?” Wahoo said.

“Guess so.”

“I know you don’t like my dad, and that’s okay. He can be a pain. But the other day, when he was in the water and you were driving straight at him…”

Link hacked out a chuckle. “Heck, I only meant to scare the man is all. You think I’s really gone run him over and put a big old dent in my airboat? No way.”

“You sure fooled me and Tuna,” Wahoo said.

“Not your pappy, though. He weren’t one bit ’fraid.”

Wahoo had to smile. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back in a little while.”

“You’s just a kid. What you gone do?”

“Get us all out of here.”

Link chuckled dryly again. “Here, take your jacket. It don’t fit me anyhows.”

“Listen!” Wahoo raised a finger in the air. “You hear that, right?”

“I do.”

“Airboats! A bunch of ’em!”

A hopeful spark showed in Link’s eyes.

“I was you,” he said to Wahoo, “I’d start me a big ol’ campfire.”

The problem was-and Mickey Cray would be the first to admit it-he wasn’t much of a “people” person. He preferred hanging out with animals (with the exception of his family, whom he adored unconditionally).