Flush - Carl Hiaasen [61]
“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