Deadly Waters Read online

  “I get it,” Bridger said, nodding. “Chain reaction.”

  “No spraying for bugs, huh?” Jack considered that. “So then it can’t be pesticides that are making the manatees sick.”

  “Actually, the park people checked out another possibility, Jack, that herbicides used to kill weeds in the canals might have washed into the Everglades waters. But when they did the necropsies on the dead manatees—”

  “What’re ‘necropsies,’ Mom?” Ashley interrupted.

  “A necropsy is an autopsy on an animal. Anyway, the necropsies didn’t show any high level of herbicides in the manatees’ tissues. So it’s something else,” she told them, frowning. “And the biggest part of the puzzle is why only about 20 percent of the manatees are getting sick. The rest seem just fine. That’s the reason they brought me here: to find out what's happening with these sick sea cows.”

  “Cows?” Bridger asked, his pale brows knitting together.

  “Not your kind of cows,” Steven answered, laughing. “Sea cow is just another name for manatee, and not a very accurate name. Manatees are distant relatives of—get this!—of elephants.” Olivia put the half-empty can of bug spray into Jack’s camera bag as she added, “They call them cows because they graze on plants all day, just like dairy cows.”

  “OK, everybody,” Steven called out, “time to get into the car. Frankie will be waiting at the dock.”

  As the three kids jammed side by side in the car’s backseat, Ashley explained to Bridger, “Frankie was my grandmother’s friend even before my mom was born.”

  “Hmmm,” Bridger murmured, peering out the car window. Not too far from them, the waters of the bay sparkled in the sunlight. As Steven maneuvered the car along a palm-lined two-lane road, past houses that looked like boxes with legs, Bridger asked, “How come all these houses are built up on stilts like that?”

  “Hurricanes?” Jack suggested, and his father agreed, “Uh-huh. When hurricanes cause big waves to surge up over the land, houses built high on pilings don’t get damaged as much.”

  “Looks like they could just get up and walk away,” Bridger murmured.

  “Yeah, they do look like that. That’s a good one, Bridger,” Steven told him, grinning as they pulled over in front of a general store near the water.

  Ashley shouted, “There’s Frankie, waiting for us.”

  Scanning the sidewalk in front of the store, Bridger started to say, “I don’t see—” But by then Ashley had darted out of the car and into the arms of a short, wiry, white-haired woman.

  “You’ve grown so big!” the woman was telling Ashley, as Olivia, Jack, and Steven caught up with them. “And Jack—look at you! Twelve years old and you’re almost as tall as a man.”

  “Frankie, it’s great to see you again!” all the Landons exclaimed as they hugged her.

  Half in disbelief, then in alarm, Bridger exclaimed, “Frankie is a woman?”

  Taking his hand, Olivia pulled him forward and said, “Bridger, I’d like you to meet Captain Frankie Gardell, the best fishing guide in all of the Everglades.”

  With his eyes narrowed to a squint, Bridger touched the brim of his cowboy hat and mumbled, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” At first he looked anything but pleased, but then his face lightened a bit as he said, “Guess you just own the boat, right? Who runs it for you?”

  “Me!” When Frankie smiled, the skin around her mouth crinkled into dozens of wrinkles that connected to other dozens of wrinkles in her sun-browned cheeks.

  She was small, barely over five feet two, and dressed in a red-and-white-striped shirt that hung over cutoff jeans. It seemed odd, even to Jack, for a 70-year-old woman to wear cutoffs, but somehow on Frankie it looked all right.

  “To answer your question, Bridger,” Frankie went on, “when my husband, Gene, was alive, we made the fishing trips together. But Gene’s been gone for eight years now, rest his soul, and in that time I’ve run this business by myself.”

  Bridger looked even more confused. “Your husband’s name was Jean?”

  Chuckling, Frankie answered, “Spelled G-E-N-E. Short for Eugene. And I’m Frankie, short for Francesca. And yonder’s the Pescadillo.”

  Thoroughly flustered, Bridger burst out, “What the heck is a pescadillo?”

  “It’s my boat! The name is kind of a combination of ‘pesce,’ which is Italian for ‘fish,’ and ‘peccadillo,’ which means—well, I’ll tell you later, Bridger. We need to get moving.”

  “Good idea,” Olivia said, glancing at her watch. “I have a meeting in 20 minutes. Lots of people coming: park rangers, researchers—everyone with information on the manatees. I feel as if I’ve got a thousand pieces of a big puzzle, Frankie, and no picture on the box to guide me. So do you mind if Steven and I leave now and don’t see you off?”

  “Go, go!” Frankie urged them, shooing Steven and Olivia with sun-browned hands. “My new shipmates and I will be just fine. Won’t we, Ashley?”

  “You bet!”

  Steven said, “Then we’ll see you tonight. Get busy out there, guys—if you make a good catch, the restaurant will cook it for us.”

  From the end of the dock, the four of them waved, watching Steven and Olivia pull away in the car. Once they’d disappeared, Frankie placed her hands on her hips and surveyed the kids. Jack wondered if she could tell that Bridger was unhappy about her being a woman, but if she knew, she didn’t let on. Instead, she began to bark out orders like a real ship’s captain.

  Pointing briskly, she went down the line. “Jack, you load up the rest of the gear that’s right by your feet. Bridger, you take that cooler on board and stow it between the captain’s chair and the gunwale. Ashley, you’re going to get the line off the piling, and when

  I tell you, throw it onto the boat deck and then jump in after it. Don’t wait too long, or the boat’ll get away from you and you’ll end up with an Everglades bath.”

  “I’ll untie the boat for her,” Bridger offered.

  “Nonsense. Ashley’s as agile as a monkey. You handle the cooler, and Ashley will take care of the rest. But first, Bridger, take off those boots!”

  For a moment, Bridger stood stock still, his face reddening slightly to match the red in his plaid cotton shirt. “Why?” he asked.

  “No boots on board! They’ll gouge the deck. If you don’t have any boat shoes with you, like Jack and Ashley are wearing, then you can just stay in your sock feet.”

  Bridger got even redder. Finally, touching the brim of his hat, he said, “Yes, ma’am,” so softly that Jack was sure Frankie hadn’t heard, except that she sent another smile in Bridger’s direction. He sat down to take off his boots.

  Jack jumped down into the Pescadillo. From there he reached up to the dock to pick up the gear, one box at a time, transferring it into the boat. Bridger, still on the dock, lifted the cooler and set the boots on top of it, intending to hold everything while he lowered himself into the boat.

  “Maybe you ought to…” Jack began as Bridger put one foot on the boat’s edge, which Frankie had called the gunwale. But Bridger shook his head. He wobbled a little—the cooler was heavy, the boat moved from the dock under the pressure of his foot, and his socks must have felt pretty slippery on the teakwood gunwale.

  Jack halfway reached out to help, but Bridger frowned in concentration, as though this were some kind of athletic competition, and by sheer willpower he could figure out how to balance himself and his heavy load on the narrow rim. And he did. After sizing it all up, he took one more step and then jumped, landing flatfooted in the boat, with his balance and the cooler intact. He didn’t grin in satisfaction, but just gave a short, sharp nod to no one in particular, stowed the cooler beside the captain’s chair, and set his boots alongside a white vinyl bench.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Frankie had watched the whole episode. All she said was, “Hop to it, Ashley. All aboard that’s goin’ aboard.” Ashley undid the line from the cleat on the piling, threw it into the boat, then scrambled quickly after it.

  “All right, crew, line up and get your life jackets,” Frankie ordered. “One per customer—pull them out of the box there.”

  “What about you, Frankie?” Ashley asked. “You need to wear one too, don’t you?”

  “Um…ah…” Frankie hedged, and then said, “Yes, you’re absolutely right. Watch me and you can see how to buckle these things.” After they’d all slipped their arms through the pillowy orange life jackets and fastened the straps, Frankie said, “Now let’s shove off and see what we can find out there in the land of Ten Thousand Islands.” In an instant the diesel engine caught and roared. Jack could feel the vibrations under his feet.

  “Sticking close to shore the way we are now, I’ve got to go slow,” Frankie told them. “The water’s no more than four feet deep here, which makes it easy to run over manatees, something we definitely don’t want to do.”

  Even their slow passage stirred up a nice breeze, enough to whip Frankie’s hair into short white spikes that looked like peaks of meringue. Surely, deftly, she handled the steering wheel as though she and the boat were lifelong friends. After a while, Frankie told them, “The trick to maneuvering through these mangrove islands is to know where the channels are. We’ve passed the town of Chokoloskee now, so I’ll let her out a little.” She pushed the throttle forward on the starboard side of the helm.

  “We were in Chokoloskee last night—” Jack had started to say, but before he could get it out, the Pescadillo leaped forward and his words were sucked back into his throat.

  “Wow! This is great!” Ashley cried loudly, so she could be heard above the motor and the sudden rush of wind. “Feels like someone just turned on the air conditioning.” She stood at the helm, next to Frankie, who effortlessly steered through the tea-c
olored water.

  Cupping his hands around his mouth, Jack called, “How fast can this boat go?”

  “Seventeen knots when we’re in the Gulf.” The boat’s bow pushed toward turquoise sky as Jack and Bridger settled back onto the white vinyl bench.

  Bridger kept reaching up to hold onto his hat, until a gust of wind almost whipped it off his head into the boat’s wake. Grudgingly, he pushed his Stetson underneath the bench. Jack noticed a white band of skin that stretched from Bridger’s eyebrows into his pale hair, as though his forehead had never seen sunlight.

  Jerking his chin toward the front of the boat, Bridger said, “That Frankie’s kinda bossy, isn’t she?”

  “Maybe. But I like her,” Jack answered.

  It seemed Bridger was about to say more, but he stopped when Ashley turned, wide-eyed, to yell, “Jack, Bridger—look over the right side of the boat!”

  “Starboard,” Frankie corrected. “Seems like we’ve got ourselves an escort. There’s another one portside, too.”

  Jack leaned over the side as far as he could reach. Water sprayed his face in a cool mist, and the teakwood gunwale felt wet beneath his fingers. He had to strain forward until he saw them. Next to the boat’s bow, leaping into the air like silver streaks of light, were two dolphins. For once, Jack didn’t reach for his camera. He didn’t want to pull his eyes away for even a second; magically, the dolphins disappeared into the water, only to reappear like the flash of needles through satin. “They love the waves the boat makes,” Frankie called over her shoulder. “They’re playing with us.”

  Over and over again, the dolphins shot up through the bow waves, turned on their sides, and slapped the white, foaming water. Once, when Bridger leaned out too far, one of the dolphins clapped its tail hard enough to splash him in an amber shower.

  “Hey—watch it!” he shouted.

  “They’re rascals,” Frankie laughed. “Don’t feel bad, Bridger, they’ve gotten me many a time, too. Dolphins are some of the smartest animals on this planet. Sometimes I think they’ve got us humans beat.”

  Scowling, Bridger bent down to lift his Stetson from beneath his seat. Water dripped off its rim in a tiny rivulet. “Dang!” he muttered. “Soaked. My socks, too.”

  “Say good-bye to the dolphins, kiddos. We’ve got to slow down again, and they’ll only play with us if there’s a wake to jump in.” When Frankie pulled back on the throttle, the waves died to a ripple. As if on cue, the dolphins glided away and disappeared from sight. Only then did Jack realize that he’d let them get away without taking a single picture.

  Even though the boat rocked beneath her, Frankie seemed rooted to the deck floor. With one arm outstretched, she pointed to a narrow passage that sliced between two islands of mangrove trees.

  “Down that way—see where I’m pointing? Some of the best fishing in the Everglades is in there. If you’re not afraid, I’ll take you to fish near a special spot called the Watson Place.”

  “What do you mean, ‘afraid?’” Bridger asked. He shook his Stetson, trying to get the wet drops off the hat.

  Frankie’s eyes, clear and blue, glinted like jewels against leather. “Before I take you all the way down to the Watson Place, I need to know if you kids have heard any of the—stories—about what happened there. I myself pay them no mind, but if any of you is skittish, we can head to another fishing area.”

  “If it’s got the best fishing, then let’s go,” Bridger announced. “Jack, are you with me?”

  The answer was easy for Jack, since he’d never even heard of the Watson Place, but when he looked at Ashley, he could tell she knew something. Her eyes had widened, and she bit her lower lip. “I—don’t know,” she stammered.

  “Ahh, you’ve heard about Watson’s landing, have you?” Frankie gave Ashley a knowing smile, then patted her shoulder. “Well, now, don’t go believing everything you hear, although I myself have seen some strange things happen around that island.”

  Bridger shook his head and muttered, “Girls! Now we’ll miss the best fishing.” He aimed the comment at Jack as though he didn’t want Ashley to overhear. Then, louder, Bridger said to Frankie, “OK, ma’am, you take us wherever you think’s best.”

  But Frankie wasn’t listening. She peered ahead intently, somewhere off the starboard bow. Slowing the boat to a crawl, she shaded her eyes with her hand to get a better look.

  “Over there…” she began, pointing.

  “What?” Ashley leaned forward, shadowing Frankie, trying to see. Jack, too, jumped to his feet, staring over the glassy surface.

  “In the direction of the Watson Place. I’ll try to get closer. I can’t tell what it is for sure, but there’s something strange floating in the water.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jack thought his own vision was sharp, but Frankie had noticed the mound floating in the water long before any of the three kids could make it out. She maneuvered the boat closer, and closer, until….

  “It’s a pelican,” she announced, her voice tight with worry. “All tangled up in a fishing line someone dropped into the water. I get so angry when this happens—that line’s going to kill it!”

  When Jack and Ashley hung over the side of the boat to get a look, the big bird frantically tried to flap out of the way. Its bright yellow eyes watched them like a beacon light. Only one of its wings could move at all; the other wing was held awkwardly against its body by the nearly invisible fishing cord. “We can cut it loose, can’t we?” Jack asked. “Then it’ll be OK.”

  “If we can get it without hurting it. That’ll be harder to do than you might think.”

  No one had been paying much attention to Bridger, who was standing behind them. “How deep is the water right here?” he asked.

  “No more than six feet,” Frankie answered.

  Jack turned to see Bridger pulling off his left sock; the right one already lay on the boat’s deck. Before Jack realized what he was going to do, Bridger eased himself over the side, so there wouldn’t be a loud splash.

  “Good boy, Bridger,” Frankie said. “He can’t peck at you—his bill is tied tight against his neck. Just watch out for the loose wing so you don’t break it. That’s the way—come around behind him. I’ll get my big net.”

  Bridger’s orange life jacket floated up from his chest, held by the straps. The drenching had plastered his blond hair against his forehead. He shook his head to get the drops out of his eyes, then quietly treaded water, slowly coming closer to the panic-stricken bird. His lips were moving; he seemed to be talking to it. Then, with a big splash, he threw his arms around the pelican’s body.

  “Gently, gently,” Frankie cautioned. Holding the net by its long handle, she slipped it into the water. “Try to get him in headfirst,” she told Bridger. “That’s it. Good! Jack, as I raise the net, you reach over and grab the frame. Great! That’s the way. Ashley, you give Bridger a hand.”

  Ashley clung to the gunwale as Bridger took her hand and half leaped to haul himself into the boat, grabbing the gunwale with his free hand. Rivulets of tea-colored water dripped from his shirt and his jeans.

  “We won’t take the pelican out of the net,” Frankie was saying, “or we might hurt it more. Look, there’s an even worse problem—that fishhook’s torn a big hole in its throat pouch. Oh! That’s bad, really bad. If that wound isn’t treated with antibiotics, the pelican will get an infection and die. It’s happened before.”

  “Poor thing’s scared to death,” Bridger muttered “Look at its eyes.” The round, glassy eyes rolled in their sockets as the bird struggled futilely to free itself.

  Fingers flying, Bridger unbuttoned his long-sleeved plaid shirt. Beneath it was a white T-shirt, dripping wet like the rest of his clothes. Without saying anything, he wrapped his plaid shirt around the pelican’s head, right over the net. For a long moment he held his hands steady on the bird’s body. That seemed to calm it.

  “Gotta think what to do,” Frankie murmured. “I should get this bird to the animal rescue people right away, but I don’t want to spoil our day….”