Flush - Carl Hiaasen [36]
“Where do you think you’re going?” Mom demanded.
“The video camera is missing,” my father said.
“Answer my question. Where are you going?”
“To find Abbey,” Dad replied evenly.
“Paine, you’re under house arrest. Remember?”
My father sheepishly pulled up the right leg of his pants to reveal a bare ankle.
“Oh, that’s just terrific,” said my mother. She was not normally a sarcastic person, but she could be brutal when she was. “I’ll go pack your suitcase for state prison,” she said to Dad. “Will they let you bring your own pajamas?”
“Donna, please. There’s no time to argue.”
“Oh, really? Our little girl is roaming around alone in the dead of night, and meanwhile you’ve tripped off some fugitive alarm at the sheriff’s station, and any minute a dozen squad cars with screaming sirens will be racing down our street—”
“I’ll go get Abbey by myself,” I volunteered. “Don’t worry, Mom, I can handle it.”
“No, we’ll go together. All three of us,” she declared. “And if we get into a jam, I want both of you wise guys to keep your lips zipped and let me do the talking. Is that understood?”
My father and I glanced helplessly at each other. There was no point in objecting.
“Noah, get a can of bug spray out of the pantry,” Mom said. “And, Paine, could you please go find my car keys?”
ELEVEN
Mom drove, both hands on the wheel. She stuck to the speed limit because she didn’t want the police to pull us over and find my father in the car.
When she turned down the road to the marina, Dad leaned out the passenger window and began shining the spotlight through the mangroves, in case Abbey was hiding there. He lit up a family of raccoons and a grouchy blue heron, but there was no sign of my sister.
We were more than a hundred yards from the docks when Mom stopped the car. I suggested that we split up and start searching, but Dad said no way, it was too risky. We got out of the car and together headed toward the boats.
Every so often my mother would call out Abbey’s name while Dad probed the shadows with the spotlight. As we approached the marina, I could see that the Coral Queen was dark, though a light shone in the ticket shack at the foot of the dock. I put a finger to my lips, signaling for my parents to stay quiet. Parked by one of the lampposts was Dusty Muleman’s long black SUV.
We huddled in the shadow of the broken sewage tank. Dad had snatched a rusty gaff from a dock box near one of the charter boats, and I could tell by the sound of his breathing that he was agitated and pumped up. Mom, however, remained calm.
Dad said, “You two stay here. I’ll go scope it out.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” my mother told him. “Tonight we’re a team.”
Dad started to argue, but then he stopped and cocked his head to listen. I heard it, too—a man’s laughter, coming from inside the ticket office.
“What if he’s got Abbey?” I whispered anxiously.
“Then we’ll politely ask him to give her back,” Mom said. “And if that doesn’t work, we’ll try something else. Come on.”
My mother only weighs 110 pounds, but she doesn’t think small. She walked up to the shack and rapped on the door and didn’t wait for it to be opened—she just barged in. Dad and I were right behind her.
“Why, look who’s here!” said Dusty Muleman, hanging up the phone.
He was sitting under a bare light bulb at a wobbly card table. Piled in front of him were stacks of cash and tally sheets from the gambling boat.
Mom said, “Dusty, I apologize for the interruption but this is very important.”
“No problem, Donna.” He looked highly amused by the sight of us.
“Have you seen Abbey tonight?” my mother asked.
“Abbey? What would she be doing hangin’ around this place?” Dusty scoffed.
Dad started edging forward with the tarpon gaff, which wasn’t good.
“She went looking for pilchards,” I piped up. Sometimes the boat basins were loaded with little fish, which Dusty Muleman knew for a fact. “We’re supposed to go fishing tomorrow and she decided to catch her own bait.”
Dusty didn’t fall for my story. “Abbey ain’t much big-ger’n a pilchard herself. I’d sure like to see