The Shark Rider (5 page)

“That's a juvenile squirrelfish. They're nocturnal. They hide in the reef during the day and then come out at night to hunt. That's why they've got those big eyes—for night vision.”

“But it's daytime, and it's out swimming around.”

Ms. Sanchez nodded. “Exactly. That's the problem. Sandy here is afraid of the dark. We've been putting a nightlight in the tank after dark with some food to entice her out. We're trying to get her to feed regularly at night and then wean her off the light.”

They moved on to the condo complex of aquariums that was Old Jack's home—the camp's resident elderly octopus. Like last year, there was a collection of pickle jars, some rocks, seaweed, and a variety of plastic play toys in the tanks. A Rubik's Cube sat in one aquarium. It looked dingy. It was covered with a thin film of algae, as if it hadn't been played with in a long time.

“Is he still in there?” Tristan asked, thinking that Hugh would be really bummed if Old Jack had died.

“Oh, he's in there. But he's been coming out of his hiding spots less and less often, and he's moving more slowly. We're not sure how much time Old Jack has left.”

After searching unsuccessfully for the elderly octopus, they moved on. Ms. Sanchez showed Tristan a spiny lobster whose long front spines had been torn off by a careless diver. The lobster had been fitted with prosthetic spines and was walking tentatively around the tank feeling things, like a blind person using a cane for the first time.

Ms. Sanchez looked at her watch. “Look at the time. You'd better get over to the director's office. Thanks for the help with the blacktip.”

“Sure,” Tristan said. On his way out he noticed a door he didn't remember seeing before. “Where does that go?”

“That's the entrance to the new chemistry lab. It used to be the old algae grow room for the Sea Camp water. Thanks partly to you, Tristan, and, shall we say, a boatload of new funding, we've been able to expand and renovate the area. And we've brought in an expert chemist to do some exciting research.”

Tristan headed for the director's office, thinking
: What sort of research did they need a new chemist for
?

4

THE SECRET ASSIGNMENT

T
HE DOOR TO
D
IRECTOR
D
AVIS
'
S OFFICE WAS
ajar. As he approached, Tristan could hear the camp's leader talking. It sounded like he was on the phone.

“Yes, we'll do that. So far nothing definite, but we've never had so many power problems. Since Rickerton wasn't able to hack into the system, we've been waiting to see if he would try something else. This might be it.”

Tristan had been about to knock. He hesitated. Had he heard right? Did the director just say that crazy, evil billionaire guy, Rickerton, tried to hack into Sea Camp's computers and might be messing with the power?

“The added security should help on that end. I'll be in touch.”

Tristan peeked around the door.

“Tristan, c'mon in. How'd it go at the Rehab Center?”

“Good.”

“Glad to hear it. Have a seat.”

Tristan's mind was racing. J.P. Rickerton was the guy whose yacht they sank in the Bahamas last summer. He killed a bunch of sharks for their fins and kidnapped three campers. Had he found out about camp and what they'd done? Tristan didn't want to ask the director straight off. That would make it seem like he'd been eavesdropping. He sat on one of the simple wooden chairs in front of the director's desk and glanced uncomfortably around the room. A photo of Jade, Rusty, and Rory on the lagoon dock with their arms around each other had been added to the wall of campers' pictures. On a table nearby sat the elaborate LEGO model of an undersea community. He still couldn't believe the detail in the domed structures, underwater vehicles, and marine life all built out of interlocking, multicolored pieces of plastic. On the opposite wall was the map of the world's oceans. It was color-coded for depth and had little flags over the locations of organizations and facilities that partnered with the camp. Something new sat beside a flag over the Bahamas. Tristan looked closer. It was a miniature model of a tall sailing ship.

“Oh, I see you've noticed the latest addition to the wall,” the director said proudly. “I thought it only fitting to recognize the final resting place of the
Santa Viento
. After all, since the discovery of the shipwreck,
thanks in part to you, we'll have sufficient funding for years to come.”

Tristan thought of the gold coin he found last summer. “Did they find more gold?”

“We're still exploring the wreck and photographing and documenting the site. But yes, they found more gold and silver as well; also some jewelry and numerous other artifacts. The marine archeologist we brought in is thrilled. She thinks the wreck will reveal a lot about how people lived and traded back in about the seventeenth century. We don't know the total value yet, but it could be in the hundreds of millions, maybe even billions.”

“Awesome. Did that guy, uh, Rickerton, try to get the wreck or find his yacht?”

Director Davis's expression turned more serious, and he paused noticeably before speaking. “Mr. Rickerton seems to be a rather persistent man. Once we made a claim on the shipwreck, though, he had no rights or access to it. He has, however, recovered his yacht from the Tongue of the Ocean, and it must have cost him a pretty penny. But let's not talk about him. I have a favor to ask, since you're here early.”

“Really?” Tristan said. “I just thought you were going to yell at me about, you know, the shark thing.”

“I see no reason to discuss it any further, Tristan. I suspect you now better understand why we have to think before we act out in public.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“But, given your parents' reaction, better be extra
careful this summer. Now for that favor—over the past several months, we've noticed a few visitors in the park behaving rather oddly. They seem out of place and a little too inquisitive. We're afraid they might be trying to learn what goes on here, behind the scenes.”

Tristan thought again of Rickerton as well as the man who asked about the Wave Pool earlier. He had to ask. “Do you think Rickerton found out about us and what we did in the Bahamas?”

“No, no, I doubt it,” the director responded quickly. “I've asked a couple of the older campers to return early and hang out in the park to keep an eye out for people acting suspiciously. Luckily, with our newly improved finances, we can afford to beef up security. But things aren't in place just yet. I was hoping you would help out with the other campers for a day or two.”

“Sure. What do I have to do?”

The director handed Tristan what looked like a thick black pen that had “Sea Camp” written on the side. “Here. All you need to do is pretend to be enjoying the park, and if you see someone acting oddly, just let us know. Press the top button on the pen and speak into it. It will buzz myself or Coach Fred, and we'll be able to hear you. If you point the pen and press the button on the side, it will take a photograph of whatever you're pointing at and transfer the image to us. There's also a small speaker on the pen. You should be able to hear one of us talking back to you. But Tristan, if you do see someone acting strangely—just report it. Do nothing else. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. Are you all set in the Snapper bungalow?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, then. I'll meet you at the Conch Café tomorrow morning at eight for a briefing before the park opens. And Tristan, please remember, campers are not allowed to swim in the lagoon by themselves. I know it will be tempting to go in before the other Snappers arrive, but no going in alone.”

“Okay,” Tristan mumbled disappointedly. He had hoped to go for a swim in the lagoon as soon as possible. Maybe one of the other campers would go in with him before Hugh or Sam arrived. That is, assuming they were coming back. He was pretty sure Hugh would be there. Sam was more of a question. Tristan assumed her father still thought the camp was some kind of eco-cult.

“See you tomorrow,” the director said.

“Bye,” Tristan replied, walking out the door.

With the park closed, it was very quiet and now nearly dark. Tristan glanced around nervously. Were people really trying to spy on them? Were they Rickerton's goons? He thought back to last summer. Rickerton's armed men had chased after Tristan and the other Seasquirts. What if he really had found out about them?

The next morning, Tristan stumbled out of bed—literally. When he woke up, he forgot where he was and sat up too fast. He smacked his head on the bottom of the upper bunk and sprawled onto the floor. Thankfully, no one was there to see.

He threw on a swimsuit and his Snapper T-shirt, and then made his way through the jungle wall onto the minefield path. As usual, the walkway was strewn with way too many potentially head-smashing, ankle-turning coconuts. Tristan was so focused on avoiding the coconuts he tripped over a ladder leaned up against one of the palm trees at the side of the path.

“Hey, kid, watch it down there,” shouted a man high up on the ladder, wavering badly. He grabbed onto some palm fronds to steady himself.

“Sorry,” Tristan said sheepishly.

A coconut tumbled down from the tree. Tristan leapt out of the way and jogged out of the target zone. Soon he came to one of the park's arched bridges. There was another stranger standing in the underlying stream. She was securing something to the underside of the bridge. He glanced into the water around the woman's feet. A school of yellow fish circled her legs. Every time she moved, they shifted in perfect synchrony. She nodded to Tristan as he walked by.

Just past the rainforest area, Tristan stopped again and stared ahead, this time in surprise. The stone walkway was gone. In its stead was a raised boardwalk made of orangey wood planks. It circled the now expanded sea turtle pond, which also had three new
and extremely large residents. They were sunning themselves on the sand. A new sign read: “Stay on the trail. And please don't feed the crocodiles.”

Each of the pond's new residents was dark gray, at least eight feet long, and covered with raised, spiky ridges. Their thick skin reminded Tristan of a medieval knight's armor—one with a reptilian sense of fashion. The crocodiles' long teeth poked out around the outside of their blunt snouts. Tristan decided not even the best braces could fix that overbite. A small flock of flamingoes still resided on the island at the pond's center. Each stood on one leg with the other tucked neatly under its orange-fuchsia feathers. He hoped flamingoes and sea turtles weren't considered fine dining for crocodiles.

When Tristan arrived at the Conch Café, there were already two other teenagers there. They were campers he recognized from last summer, though he didn't know them very well. Since they were Sharks before, he figured they were now in the most senior bungalow—Dolphins. One camper was a girl with short, jet-black hair. The other was a boy who had been long and lean, much like Tristan. Over the school year, however, he seemed to have bulked up and gone completely bald. As Tristan got breakfast, he tried hard not to stare at the boy's shiny cue-ball head.

“You can sit over here if you want,” the girl said.

Tristan walked over. “Thanks.”

“Saw your photo on the Internet,” the boy noted. “Cool move on that shark.”

The girl kicked him under the table. “Yeah, except everyone saw it. We're not supposed to bring attention to ourselves.”

“I know, I know,” Tristan said, shaking his head. “Stupid.”

“Yeah, but still pretty awesome,” the boy added.

“By the way, my name's Mia, and he's Luis.”

“I'm Tristan.”

Luis grinned. “We know who you are—shark boy.”

The director and Coach Fred entered the Conch Café. They were both wearing white shirts with the camp logo and khaki shorts. Coach Fred was still stocky and built like an ox. As usual, his dark hair was slicked back into a short ponytail. He confidently strutted forward with a military air about him. Tristan chuckled quietly, thinking about how he dressed at camp shows, where he liked to pair camouflage with sparkly sequins.