Carl Hiaasen - Chomp

Because he spent so little time in social situations, Mickey wasn’t good at behaving passively when the circumstance seemed to call for action. His experiences as an animal wrangler had taught him to respond on instinct-no fooling around. Psychology doesn’t work when you’re dealing with a stubborn six-hundred-pound gator or a cranky fourteen-foot python. The task calls for sure-footed commitment and quick reflexes, not mind games.

Mickey believed Jared Gordon’s brain was less complicated than that of the average reptile. However, the average reptile didn’t carry a loaded gun and guzzle beer.

“Gimme another one,” Jared Gordon barked. “I’m a thirsty soul!”

He didn’t seem to mind that the beer was as warm as spit. Most people would have been groggy after drinking so much, but he kept the pace, trudging along in Mickey’s muddy footprints. Every time Mickey glanced over his shoulder, he saw the pistol pointed at his back.

“Don’t try nuthin’ funny,” warned Tuna’s father.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They’d been hiking for a while, and soon the sun would be setting. Mickey hoped that by now Link had returned to Sickler’s dock and that Wahoo and Tuna were safe.

A swarm of airboats could be heard in the distance-the search teams, fanning out across the marshes. It was a welcome sound, but Mickey wasn’t ready to celebrate. Once darkness fell, the chances of being found would be slim. The Everglades by night was a tangled, boggy maze. Searchers would be relying on handheld spotlights and pure luck.

At the sound of the search boats, Tuna’s father appeared to sober up. His shoulders pinched tensely and his steps got heavier.

“This ain’t workin’ out so good,” he grumbled.

The plan to recapture his runaway daughter at gunpoint, which had seemed so brilliant in the early stages of Jared Gordon’s beer binge, now looked like a big mistake.

“They’ll catch up with us sooner or later,” Mickey told him. “That’s a fact.”

“Why don’t you shut up?”

Jared Gordon was no longer consumed with finding Tuna. He was focused on escape.

Sucking air through his teeth, he said, “Jest so you know-I ain’t goin’ to no prison.”

“You are if they catch you with that. 38.”

“How far to the highway?”

“Too far,” Mickey said. “Too far, too deep, too everything. We can’t get there on foot.”

Tuna’s father jabbed him with the pistol barrel. “That’s okay, Sparky. I always got a plan B.”

“Does the B stand for ‘brew’?”

“Ha! You’re my ticket outta here and you don’t even know it.”

Mickey said, “There’s no ticket out, brother. The cops know who you are.”

“Don’t matter. When they git here, I’m gonna make ’em a deal they can’t refuse: your life for my freedom.”

“You watch too many movies.”

Jared Gordon was dead serious. “Like you say, they’re bound to find us out here-if not tonight, then tomorrow for sure. And when they do, I’m gonna stick this gun to your fat head and tell ’em to give up one of their airboats or else. Which they will do, ’cause it’d make ’em look real bad if they just stood back and let me shoot you dead. Am I right?”

“Go on,” said Mickey.

“Soon as we git a boat, you’re gonna take me direct to the big road.”

He was talking about U.S. Highway 41, the Tamiami Trail.

“Then what?”

“Then we say adios.” Jared Gordon smirked at his own cleverness. “You drop me off on a nice, empty stretch, and I disappear like a ghost. Sneak away to the Bahamas, whatever. There’s a place I saw on the Travel Channel called Harbour Island-you can ride horses on the beach. And the sand, they say it’s the color of an Easter rose. I could seriously get used to that.”

“What about your daughter?”

“Oh, I’ll come back and deal with her later. She’s the cause of all this trouble.”

Mickey had no intention of letting Jared Gordon get away, but he played along.

He said, “We should stop and make a fire. They’ll find us quicker that way.”

“Fine by me, Sparky.”

Not far ahead was a patch of hardwood trees that promised higher ground. When they got there, Mickey started searching for dry tinder. Most everything was still soggy from the long downpour, and the funky ground mulch had been disturbed by some type of animal activity. Mickey spied a single track in the dirt, and his heart began to thump against his ribs. It was a human footprint, belonging to a small person who wasn’t wearing shoes. Mickey quickly smudged over the telltale mark with one of his boots.

To Tuna’s father he said, “Too wet here. Let’s look someplace else.”

“It’s wet everywhere. I’m sick of walkin’.”

Mickey strained to hear the engines of the search boats. It was hard to tell if any of them had gotten closer.

Jared Gordon picked something off the ground and crowed, “Well, look here!”

He was waving a lime-colored flip-flop with rhinestones on the strap. Mickey didn’t need to be told whose it was. He recognized it right away.

“What’re the odds-like a million to one? Isn’t that what you said?” Tuna’s father was gloating. “But this here’s her sandal, Sparky. That means she’s around someplace, and I’m gonna git her. Million to one? Ha!”

The odds weren’t really a million to one, as Mickey knew from studying Raven Stark’s map. Within range of Sickler’s dock were no more than a half-dozen tree islands, lush emerald groves rising from the pan-flat marsh. They were the most obvious places for a Glades traveler to seek cover, as well as solid ground.

But why did Link stop here? Mickey wondered. Did his boat break down, or was there some sort of emergency?

One chilling fact was clear: if Tuna was hiding on the island, so was Wahoo. He would have never left her alone. For Mickey, the stakes couldn’t possibly get any higher. The kids were nearby. It was time to do something.

“Let’s go find your girl,” he said to Tuna’s dad, and headed the opposite direction of where the small footprint had pointed.

Jared Gordon came up from behind and slapped the top of his head with Tuna’s flip-flop. “Hey, you think I’m stupid or what? I got you figgered out.”

Mickey balled his right fist. One solid punch to the jaw would knock the guy cold. He wouldn’t have time to pull the trigger.

“I know what you’re up to,” Jared Gordon went on. “You wanna take me down, huh? You wanna be a hero.”

Mickey shifted his balance. “I’m no hero. What’re you talkin’ about? Do I look like a hero?”

“Shut up and git your paws in the air.”

“Why?”

“You got three seconds.”

“That’ll work,” Mickey said.

He wheeled around, swinging hard, but the punch never got there.

Wahoo smelled wood burning and wondered if Derek Badger had built a fire. Maybe even a lame TV survivalist could scrounge up some twigs for kindling.

But once he drew close enough to see the flames, Wahoo dropped flat and held motionless among the trees. Three figures were visible in the clearing, and Derek wasn’t one of them. Tuna sat cross-legged on the ground, her curly-topped head bowed. Kneeling beside her was Mickey Cray, his brow bloodied and hands bound behind him with vines.

A stocky, stubble-cheeked man who Wahoo presumed was Tuna’s father paced by the small campfire. In one hand was a revolver and in the other was a small green flip-flop, which he occasionally waggled over his head. Even from thirty yards, Wahoo could see well enough to put detailed features on the blank-faced attacker from his nightmare, the one who’d chased Tuna around the Walmart parking lot. In real life, Jared Gordon didn’t look like a zombie monster; he looked like a loser with a mean streak.