But the little boat was definitely losing speed. The loud noise that Abbey and I had heard was the outboard engine throwing a piston rod, though we didn’t know that at the time.
The motor conked out with a sickly rattle.
I knew we were in major trouble, but I went through the motions of removing the cowling and fiddling with the spark-plug connections. It didn’t fool Abbey for a second.
“I don’t suppose you brought Dad’s toolbox,” she said.
“Very funny.”
I tried to pull the starter cord, but it wouldn’t budge. The old Evinrude was stone dead.
A heavy, tired silence fell over us. Once again the little boat was at the mercy of the breeze, which was taking us out to sea, toward the Straits of Florida. Obviously our good luck had run out.
“We’re history,” my sister said. “Mom and Dad’ll go postal when they get home and we’re not there.”
The wind was clocking around to the northwest. In summer that usually means bad weather is on the way.
I said, “Better toss the anchor—no, wait a second …”
Too late. My stomach clenched when I heard the splash.
“Let me guess,” Abbey said. “The rope wasn’t tied on, was it?”
“My fault. I should’ve checked.”
“So I just threw our anchor away. How nice.” She sighed in discouragement. “Now what?”
We saw a distant flash of electric blue, which was followed by a slow deep rumble.
“Seven miles. Not good,” Abbey said.
Dad had taught us how to count the seconds between the lightning bolt and thunder—one thousand, two thousand, three thousand—to figure out how many miles away a storm was. Like Abbey, I’d counted seven.
“Maybe it’ll miss us,” she said.
“Yeah.” And maybe someday monkeys will fly helicopters, I thought.
In a few short minutes our mood had plunged from the highest high to the lowest low. The moon slipped behind a rolling gray carpet of clouds, and the freshening gusts smelled wet. Abbey scrunched low in the bow while I hunkered between the seats.
The lightning got brighter and the thunder got louder, but all we could do was brace for it. Rado’s dinghy had no oars, and we were already too far from shore to swim—not that either of us was eager to jump in. I remembered Dad saying that you always stay with a boat as long as it’s still floating, because a boat is easier than a body for searchers to find.
Soon the wind began to hum, slapping us with sheets of cool rain.
“You all right?” I asked my sister.
“Snug as a bug,” she said.
The little boat slopped across the crests of the waves, moving farther and farther from shore. Stabs of lightning turned the dark into daylight, and I’d catch brief glimpses of Abbey, covering her face with the backpack. I felt horrible for getting us into such a mess, and I was furious at myself for letting her come along. It was one of the all-time dumbest things I’d ever done.
The wind-whipped raindrops stung our skin, and every thunderclap sounded like a bomb. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t stop my knees from knocking against the hull. I didn’t want Abbey to know how frightened I was, or how much danger we were in. If a lightning bolt struck the dinghy, we’d be roasted like crickets on a radiator.
I wiped off my wristwatch and checked the time: twenty minutes to one. Mom and Dad were home by now, probably going nuts trying to find us. I felt like throwing up.
“Hey, Noah?” Abbey said.
“What?”
“My butt’s underwater.”
“Mine, too,” I said glumly.
“Shouldn’t we, like, do something?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
We spent the next two hours bailing the boat, which is a major pain when all you’ve got are empty food-dye bottles that hold one measly ounce of liquid. Lucky for us, the storm blew through swiftly, the rain quit, and the dinghy didn’t sink.
No sooner had the stars come out again than I heard Abbey snoring. I wasn’t sure how far offshore we’d drifted, but I could still see the faint string of lights that marked the coastline. I stretched out on one of the seat planks, staring up at the moon and wondering how long it would take for somebody to spot us. I was determined to remain awake, in case a boat passed close by; then I could signal for help with the flashlight.
But my eyes didn’t stay open very long. The next thing I remember was the sun warming my cheeks, a seagull squawking overhead—and something moist splatting in my hair.
One lousy little juice box.
“That’s all we’ve got?” I said to Abbey. “What happened to the Gatorade?”
“I drank it,” she said. “I would’ve brought a whole cooler if I’d known we were getting lost at sea. Want some juice or not?”
She was still red in the face from laughing after the seagull crapped on my head—I thought she was going to have a total coronary. Then I almost fell overboard while dunking my hair in the water, trying to wash the poop out. Abbey thought that was really amusing, too.
And I guess it was. At least it kept our minds off the situation, which was getting more depressing by the minute.
I was happy to share the juice box, even though I usually can’t stand fruit punch. When you’re thirsty enough, you’ll drink just about anything. It was only eight in the morning, and we were already damp with sweat. That’s your basic July in the Florida Keys. By noon, I knew, we’d be in rough shape.
I was ticked at myself for not saving some of the rainwater we’d bailed from the boat. “Remind me not to try out for Survivor,” I grumbled to Abbey.
She arranged the backpack on her head like a fat bumpy hat. “I used to think Dad was the psycho in the family, but look at us!” she said. “No water, no shade, no food, not even a fishing rod so we can catch something to eat.”
A small airplane passed overhead—the third one of the morning—and we both stood up to wave. The plane circled once and then flew off, dashing our hopes again. From that altitude the dinghy must have looked like a blue dot on blue paper.
“Noah, when am I allowed to get scared?” Abbey tried to make it sound like she was kidding, but I could tell she was partly serious.
“At least we can still see the shore,” I said.
“So how deep’s the water here?”
As we’d floated east, past the reef line, the color had changed from turquoise to indigo. I didn’t know the exact depth, but I guessed low on purpose.
“Fifty, maybe sixty feet. Not real deep.”
“Not for a tuna maybe,” said my sister, “but way too deep for me.”
“Were you planning on taking a swim?”
“Yeah, me and the hammerheads.” She scanned the horizon and frowned. “You said there’d be charter boats all over the place. You promised somebody would find us by nine o’clock.”
“Yeah, and there’s still an hour left on my prediction.” I was trying not to sound as bummed as I was.
Miles away, we could see the blocky shape of a freighter steaming south, and a few deep-sea boats trolling back and forth. None of them were heading our way.
Not even close.
I tried to pull-start Rado’s engine again, but it was no use. When I closed my eyes to take a break from the sun, I realized I was already thirsty again. My father says the summer heat in Florida is like the devil’s oven, and that’s about right.
Something started whining like a rusty hinge, and I looked up to spy another seagull circling the dinghy.
“Betcha five bucks he takes a dump on me, too,” I said.
Abbey managed a giggle. “I’m safe under the backpack.”
It was amazing how calm and good-natured she was, considering the trouble we were in. Lots of people I know, grown-ups included, would’ve freaked out.
“I just thought of something,” she said. “If we’re stuck here on the boat, who’s gonna call the Coast Guard on Dusty Muleman?”
“Good question.”
“Know what? This really bites.”
“Yeah, it does. I’m sorry, Abbey.”
“What for? We tried to stop something bad, and it didn’t work. Doesn’t mean we were wrong to try—Noah, are you listening to me?”
I wasn’t.
“What are you staring at?” Abbey demanded.
“A boat,” I said, “unless I’m so whacked out that I’m imagining things. I swear it’s coming this way.”
My sister shot to her feet.
“You see it, too?” I asked anxiously. “Or is it a mirage?”
“Nope, it’s the real deal.”
“Outstanding!”
We started waving and hollering like a couple of dweebs. This time, though, it actually worked. Pushing a frothy wake, the boat headed straight at us.
It wasn’t a big one, maybe a twenty-four-footer, but it might as well have been the Queen Elizabeth. Abbey and I had never seen a more glorious sight.
Two figures, both of them hatless and wearing wraparound sunglasses, stood at the console under the T-top. As the boat drew closer, it slowed down and banked slightly, revealing large orange lettering on the side.
TROPICAL RESCUE, it said.
“Noah, is that who I think it is?” Abbey asked weakly. “The one and only.”
“You want me to start sobbing and shaking?” “Not yet,” I told her. “First let’s see how pissed off he is.” “Is that Mom with him? Please tell me it’s not Mom.” “No, Abbey. Mom usually wears a shirt.” We quit waving and cupped our hands to our eyes, trying to see the bare-chested person through the glare. With relief Abbey said, “Oh good, it’s a man.”
“Yeah, but guess who.”
“Who?”
“Check out the scar, Abbey.”
She gasped. “This is so insane.”
The man riding with my father was the old pirate.
We were speechless as the towboat idled up to the dinghy. Dad tossed a rope, which I hitched to the bow cleat.
“Hey, guys,” my father said. “Long night?”
We nodded lamely. The stranger stood next to Dad, smiling and fingering the gold coin on his neck. He seemed to be studying us closely.
Dad helped me and Abbey aboard the towboat. Then he pulled us close and squeezed like he might never let go.
“Are you two okay?” He examined us from head to toe, and seemed pleased to find no bullet holes, shark bites, or missing limbs.
“We’re good,” I told him. “Just a little thirsty, that’s all.”
The old pirate guy handed each of us a cold bottle of water.
“Who are you?” Abbey asked him without even saying thanks. “I’m sorry, but it’s driving me crazy.”
The stranger took off his sunglasses and glanced over at Dad. It wasn’t exactly a sad look, but there was something heavy about it.
“Kids,” said my father, “say hello to your Grandpa Bobby.”
SEVENTEEN
“This is the U.S. Coast Guard. Petty Officer Reilly speaking.”
“Yes, I’d like to report a boat dumping sewage in the water.”
“What’s the name of the vessel?”
“It’s called the Coral Queen.”
“The gambling boat? At the Muleman marina?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you witness this violation personally?” Petty Officer Reilly asked.
“Look for a bright purple trail leading to Thunder Beach. But you’d better hurry!”
“Who am I speaking with?”
“Underwood. Paine Underwood.”
My second phone call was to the Island Examiner newspaper. This time I used my own name, not Dad’s.
Miles Umlatt remembered me, of course.
“It’s good to hear from you, Noah, but I’m sort of busy now. A bait truck just flipped over in Key Largo, and there’s live shrimp all over the highway.”
“Want a real story? A front-page story?”
Miles Umlatt said, “Sure, you bet.”
He was humoring me, playing along. I could picture the bored look on his pale splotchy face.
“All that stuff my dad said about Dusty Muleman? Well, it’s true. Every word.”
Miles Umlatt said, “I know how you must feel, Noah. If it were my father, I’d stick up for him, too—”
“You want proof? Get over to Dusty’s marina right away.”
“Why? What’s going on?” Suddenly he was interested.
“Ask the Coast Guard,” I said, and hung up.
Dad, Mom, and Abbey were in the living room, gathered around Grandpa Bobby. When I came out of the kitchen, he motioned for me to sit down beside him. For the first time I noticed his resemblance to my father—Dad was taller and heavier, but he had the same square chin and light green eyes.
Grandpa Bobby took out a small photograph, worn and creased from being folded and unfolded. In the picture, his curly hair was blond, not silvery, and there was no scar on his cheek. He was lifting some half-naked little kid high over his head. The kid was laughing and kicking his chubby white legs.
The kid was me.
“You were only two years old,” my grandfather said.
It was the first photograph of him that I’d ever seen. My parents had lost all their family albums when a tropical storm flooded our house on the night before my third birthday.
Grandpa Bobby passed the snapshot around. Then he carefully refolded it into a square and slipped it in his pocket. Turning back to me, he said, “You wanna go first, champ?”
“No thanks. You go.”
He took a slow sip from a coffee mug. “Lord, where do I start? I guess by sayin’ how bad I feel for keepin’ out of touch the last ten years or so.”
“Out of touch? Everybody thought you were dead!” Abbey exclaimed.
“I’m sorry, I truly am,” Grandpa Bobby said. “Paine, Donna—believe me when I say I had good reasons for stayin’ out of your life.”
I could tell that Mom and Dad were glad to have Grandpa Bobby back, but they were also kind of dazed and quiet. My sister wasn’t dazed at all, since she’d never met him. He had disappeared before she was born.
“It’s not a happy story,” he began. “One day a man came along, said he needed a captain to make a couple of trips down to South America. The money was right, and I didn’t ask many questions. Wasn’t like I didn’t know what to ask—I just chose not to. Anyways, the first run went fine. No problems with the second run, either. But the third time, oh man …”
“Were you smuggling drugs?” I asked. Even Abbey seemed shocked to hear me say it.
“No, champ, I’ve got no fondness for dopers. It was stones,” Grandpa Bobby said. “Little green stones called emeralds. But smugglin’ is smugglin’, and stupid is stupid. And that’s what I was—world-class stupid—because the guys I trusted turned out to be greedy, back-stabbin’ liars. Actually, face-stabbin’ liars.” He pointed ruefully at the M-shaped scar. “Anyways, the details don’t hardly matter. There was some serious ugliness, and yours truly had to go underground.”
Up close he didn’t look so much like a pirate—at least not the kind of pirate you see in the movies. His teeth were too straight and his manners were too good.
But he also didn’t look like the kind of grandpa you usually see in the movies. His belly was still flat and his muscles were hard, and he was brimming with some strange wild energy. You could tell he’d never spent a minute of his life dozing in a rocking chair.
Dad asked, “What happened to the Amanda Rose?”
That was Grandpa Bobby’s fishing boat, which he’d named after his wife, my grandmother. I never got to meet her because she passed away when my father was just a kid, about Abbey’s age. Some sort of rare cancer, Mom told us. It was one of the only things my dad wouldn’t talk about. Not ever.
“Paine, they stole the Amanda Rose,” my grandfather said sadly, “the same night they tried to kill me. Ever since then I’ve spent every bleepin’ minute trying to track down those rat bastards
—pardon the language—and get back my boat.”
Mom spoke up. “We kept getting different stories from the State Department. Somebody said your appendix ruptured. Somebody else said it was a bar fight.”
Grandpa Bobby slapped his gut. “Far as I know, my appendix is fine and dandy. As for bar fights, well, who’s countin’?”
“Then why’d they tell us you were dead when you weren’t?” I asked.
“Because there was a dead American, Noah. They found him near a little village outside Barranquilla. My wallet happened to be in the man’s pocket, so the Colombian cops figured that he was me,” Grandpa Bobby explained. “That’s the body your daddy’s been writing letters to Washington about. The coffin never got dug up and shipped back to the States because I paid off a police captain to make sure it wouldn’t.” He grinned slyly. “See, I didn’t want to miss my own funeral.”
Abbey folded her arms. “Hold on. How did some dead guy end up with your wallet?”
“He stole it from me, which was a large mistake.” Grandpa Bobby took another sip of coffee. “It tore me up on the inside, knowin’ y’all thought I was planted in some pauper’s grave in the middle of nowhere. But I couldn’t come back to Florida and bring the kind of trouble that was attached to me. You folks had a solid, decent life goin’ here—young Noah gettin’ started. Abbey on the way.”
“You could’ve called,” my sister said sharply. “They’ve got telephones in South America, don’t they?”
“Or sent a letter, at least,” I cut in, “just to let Dad know you were okay.”
Grandpa Bobby sat back and smiled. “Kids, lemme tell you somethin’ about your daddy. He’s a good man, but sometimes his brain takes a nap and lets his heart take the tiller.”
My father shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, come on, Pop.”
But Grandpa Bobby was on a roll. He addressed Abbey and me directly. “When your father was a boy, you know what his nickname was at school? ‘Paine-in-the-Butt’ Underwood.”
Abbey and I busted out laughing.
“See, he had a bad habit of doing the very first thing that popped into his mind, no matter how foolish,” my grandfather said. “Now, whaddya think he would’ve done if he’d found out I was still alive and scramblin’ to stay that way, down in the jungles of Colombia? He would’ve hopped a plane or a boat or a donkey, whatever, and gone lookin’ for me! Am I right, son? And likely gotten himself killed in the bargain.”