Flush - Carl Hiaasen [39]
My mother had to make a wide turn onto the Old Highway, to avoid hitting a possum. She stepped on the gas and rolled down the windows to blow out the bugs.
Dad was sunk down in the passenger seat, his head bowed. Mom was humming some old Beatles song, trying to act as if she wasn’t all that worried, but I knew better. She was doing 52 in a 30-mile-per-hour zone, which for her was some kind of speed record.
We had gone maybe a mile or two when I spotted a flash of something in the distance along the side of the road, something larger than the usual Keys critters.
“Mom, slow down!” I said.
“What?”
My father looked up. “Donna, stop!” he exclaimed.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mom said, and hit the brakes.
Together we broke out laughing, all three of us, in pure relief.
There, in the headlights, stood my little sister. She was wearing her backpack, her white Nikes with the orange reflectors on the heels, and, hanging from a shoulder strap, our video camera. Her skinny bare legs glistened with insect repellent.
As always, Abbey was well prepared.
She grinned and stuck out a thumb.
“How about a ride?” she called out.
TWELVE
My parents were so thrilled to find Abbey that they couldn’t even pretend to be mad about her sneaking out the bedroom window. They made us go to bed as soon as we got home, but she was up early the next morning, insisting on showing the videotape that she’d made at the marina.
I was impressed by what my sister had tried to do, but she’s no Steven Spielberg. The tape was so dim and shaky that it was almost impossible to see what was going on.
Abbey was bummed. She scooted closer to the TV and pointed at the fuzzy image. “There’s the hose! See, they’re dropping it right in the water!”
Dad asked, “Honey, where were you hiding—up a telephone pole?”
“Tuna tower,” my sister said over her shoulder.
It was a cool idea, actually. A tuna tower is the tall aluminum platform that sits above the cockpit on a deep-sea charter boat. The captain climbs to the top so he can spot game fish crashing bait from far away. It would have been a perfect roost for secretly filming the casino boat, except for a couple of problems.
First, Dad’s video camera wasn’t one of the newer models, so the picture was lousy when it was dark outside. Second, my sister never quite figured out how to zoom the lens, so everything on the tape was extremely small and grainy. You could make out the profile of the Coral Queen, but the crew looked like june bugs crawling around the deck.
“It’s not your fault,” Mom told Abbey, “it’s the camera’s.”
“But I can still see what they’re doing—can’t you?” My sister stabbed her finger at the TV. “That’s the hose from the holding tank right … there.”
“Now I see it,” I said.
“Me too,” said my father.
We really weren’t sure what we were looking at, but we didn’t want to hurt Abbey’s feelings. She popped the cassette out of the camera and announced, “All we’ve got to do is take this to the Coast Guard, and Dusty Muleman is toast!”
Mom and Dad exchanged doubtful glances. Neither wanted to be the one to tell Abbey that her videotape was useless.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said my sister, “but they’ve got supercool ways to enlarge the image and make it crystal clear. The FBI and CIA do it all the time—they can count the zits on a terrorist’s nose from a mile off!”
A car door slammed in the driveway, startling us. We don’t get much company at seven in the morning.
Mom looked out the window and said, “Paine, it’s a deputy.”
“Oh, not again,” Abbey groaned.
“Try to stall him,” said my father. “Noah, come with me. I’ll need your help.”
We hurried down the hall to my parents’ room, Dad locking the door behind us. The electronic bracelet was hidden beneath the bed, along with the tools he had used to remove it. I held the heavy plastic collar around his right ankle while he worked feverishly with needle-nose pliers, a screwdriver, and a hex wrench.
“Hold extra still,” he whispered. “One little slip and I could break