Wake Up Missing (20 page)

“What?” Sarah grabbed my arm as if she thought I might take off running like Ben.

But Ben was staying close to Quentin. He looked afraid of these guys, even though they'd been working for Dr. Ames.

“Not now,” I said, slipping my arm out of Sarah's grasp. “Not with them right there, but . . .” But what? I peered around the edge of the porta potty to get a better look at the boat. An airboat wasn't like the big yachts people took out on the bay at home. There was no cabin, no galley, no place to hide. The deck was wide open except for those crates.

I motioned Quentin, Ben, and Sarah closer. Trent was pressing buttons on the cell phone he'd been trying to fix. “We need to get on that boat,” I whispered. “We can hide between crates—if we push a couple of them forward, it'll make sort of a cave in the middle of the pile.”

“How? They're right there,” Quentin said.

“I guess . . . We can wait until they start it up. It's so loud, and if they're both in back at the control panels, the piled-up crates should block their view.”

“That'll never work,” Quentin said. “You saw how the boat sat lower in the water every time they loaded a crate. They're going to notice if five more people jump on board; they'll feel it. And even if they don't, even if we get on the boat, then . . .”

Sarah finished, her eyes wide. “Then we're stuck on a boat full of drugs and . . . and bad guys.”

“Listen!” An engine hummed far away. I tensed my muscles, ready to jump back into the trees if I heard tires on gravel. Nothing came down the driveway, but the sound grew louder.

“Look!” Quentin pointed to the sky, where an army-green helicopter was approaching. Were they searching for us?

My eyes darted to the dock. Gus and Eugene were walking away from us, carrying crates to the boat. “Quick! They won't be able to see us yet. Get into the trees!” I pulled Trent to his feet and gave him a push in the direction of the brush, hoping there were no snakes. Sarah, Quentin, and Ben tumbled in after us. Quentin kept a firm grip on Ben's arm; he still wasn't taking any chances.

The helicopter whirred louder and louder, until the woods vibrated, until I felt like its blades were spinning inside me. It hovered over the water. Gus and Eugene froze—but then it lifted higher and roared away.

“They're looking for us,” Quentin whispered. “They must be.” He peered out of the trees, toward the boat.

“If we can get on that boat,” I whispered, “and they go to one of those mangrove islands, then whenever they start unloading, we can run.” It sounded impossible, but we needed help. And help was somewhere in there, with Molly. In the swamp.

Ben shook his head. “I'm not getting on that boat,” he said. “You can go ahead, but I'm staying here. It's my choice—you agreed. I'm going back to the road.”

He stepped toward the parking lot, but Quentin lunged for him, pulling him into the weeds. Ben pushed at Quentin, swinging his fists, but Quentin was a lot bigger.

“Shut up or I'm going to pound you!” Quentin growled. He looked toward the dock, but the two men were back to loading crates. The scrapes and thuds of wood on metal must have kept them from hearing the scuffle in the trees. “You listen.” Quentin held a tight hand over Ben's mouth. “You can make your own choice later. Go with them. I don't care. But you're not doing it until the rest of us get away. We're not letting you choose for us.”

Ben's eyes were still full of fire, but he stopped struggling.

Quentin tightened his grip. “We're getting on that boat as soon as they start the engine. You're coming with us, and you're going to keep your mouth shut or we'll tell those two thugs that
you
were the one who tipped off the police up there.” He glared until finally, Ben nodded weakly. Quentin let go of his mouth, and Ben took a deep, gaping breath.

I stared at Quentin. He'd changed so much. He wasn't thinking about his concussion or math or science scores or college anymore, I could tell. He only wanted us to survive. With his clenched jaw, his focused eyes, he was going to do it. Survive.
Live.
No matter what it took.

And so was I.

I stepped to his side. Sarah stood next to me, and her hand closed, tight, around mine.

When the helicopter left, Gus and Eugene went back to work, and they were fast. By the time we crept back behind the porta potty, where we could see them again, Gus was hoisting the last crate onto the heap. The boxes were piled three high and took up the whole back of the boat, between the seats.

“When they start the propeller fan, as soon as they're turned away from us, we run,” I whispered.

“That's it.” Gus lifted his T-shirt and pulled it up to wipe his forehead. “I'm taking the truck up to the road. Billy's coming by to get it so it's not sitting around. He'll shove it in the back of Rocko's barn. You gonna wait here?”

Eugene polished off the last of his Gatorade. “Yeah. I gotta use the can. Hurry up.” He started for the porta potty.

We ducked back, squeezed together, and pressed our bodies as close as we could to the hot plastic wall.

The truck door slammed, and gravel crunched as it pulled away.

Eugene's footsteps came closer.

I looked at Quentin, then tipped my head toward the boat. This was a better opportunity than we thought we'd have. We'd need to be fast.

The porta potty shook as Eugene pulled the door shut.

The second it latched, we half walked, half ran for the boat, trying to keep our steps quiet.

“Here!” I whispered, climbing onto the boat. “Help me move these.” I squatted, my back against one of the crates, and pushed with my legs. It slid to the side, but the crates behind it were packed together tight.

“Pull—quick!” Quentin grabbed one corner of the next crate, and Sarah grabbed the other, wiggling it to the side to make space between them.

“I hope that guy takes his time,” Sarah whispered, stealing a glance at the porta potty. The door was still closed. She reached for the next crate but couldn't move it by herself. There was space between the crates but not enough for all of us.

Ben's eyes darted toward the parking lot—it wouldn't be empty for long—and he started pushing, too. He must have hated the idea of getting caught by Gus and Eugene more than he hated us. “In here!” He shoved Trent down into the cramped space between the crates. Quentin went next, then Sarah, then me.

“Push in! He's coming!” Ben crouched low and folded himself into the tiny space, squeezing me even closer to Sarah. I could feel her heart thumping, her breath, fast and shallow.

“Shhh!”

Ben pulled a crate in front of the opening so we couldn't see out—and couldn't be seen unless someone climbed on top of the crates and peered down at us. I prayed no one would.

The boat dipped in the water—Eugene must have stepped on board. There was the fizz of a can opening—then a pause—and a belch.

“Hurry up, man!”

Running footsteps. The boat dipped again. Gus was back.

Then the engine started, and the roar of the fan drowned out whatever else they might have said—about where they were going, where
we
were going. All I could hear was the thumping roar of wind in my ears as we sped into the swamp.

The rain had been threatening, flirting with us all afternoon. And now it came for real.

A storm surged over the swamp with booms that rattled my heart, even over the roar of the airboat. Thunder shook the sky, and the islands flickered lightning-green. With every flash, my heart raced faster.

What had seemed like our only hope back at the dock felt impossibly dangerous now. Mom would die if she knew I was on a boat with drug dealers. She always told me never, ever get in a car with someone you don't know, no matter what. She said if I ever got lost or needed help I should find another mom. Some lady with kids would always help.

My stomach lurched. There had to be a thousand moms back in Everglades City. Why hadn't we gone there and found one of them instead of sneaking on this boat with these sweaty men and their drugs?

But we'd been so scared, so tired, so thirsty and confused that we chose this. What now?

What if they decided to turn back and unload the boat at the dock? Could they possibly keep going in this storm? Even if they did, how would we find our way to Molly? We had to find her; she was our only hope.

I tried to count the bends in the river.

A lurch to the right, rough wood against my cheek. Another turn, another curve. I'd taken medicine before we left the clinic, but I could feel its effects slipping away. A dull ache threatened behind my eyes, but I pushed it away and tried to focus.

Were we near the crab traps or the bank where the little alligator had been sunning itself? Were we anywhere near One-Eyed Lou?

It was impossible to tell. All I could see from our penned-in space was a crooked rectangle of angry clouds and pouring rain.

Finally—I don't know how long it was, maybe twenty or thirty minutes—the rain let up. And then we slowed down, and the engine quieted.

“Pull 'er up!” one of the men shouted, and the boat thumped against shore. I fell forward into Ben. He caught my shoulder, then pushed the crate in front of him, slowly, the slightest bit, until a sliver of hazy light came through. He pressed his face to the crack, and I waited.

“Can you see anything?”

“They're tying up to a tree. We're on one of those islands,” he whispered.

“Start unloading,” one of the men said. “I'm gonna climb up and see if I can get a signal and call Rocko. After we get this stuff stashed, we'll have him meet us with the truck.”

There were footsteps—then nothing—and then the crate over my head to the right scraped across the one beneath it.

I sucked in my breath and froze.

I heard a grunt and dared to look up.

Thick hands were wrapped around the side of the crate.

Don't let him look down. Don't let him look down.

Another grunt. The crate slid off the pile. The boat tipped as Gus—I could see him from the back now—wobbled under the weight of his load and stepped gingerly off the boat into the shallow water. He cursed, rested the crate on a log for a few seconds while he swiped at his dripping face with a sleeve, then picked it up again and started up a muddy path.

Nothing was hiding us anymore.

“We have to go. Hurry!” I pushed Ben toward the crate that blocked our way off the boat. Who knew how long they'd be gone? They'd have to get the crates up out of the water, but they wouldn't be able to haul them too far. “Push!”

Ben pushed at the crate with his feet, and it scraped across the boat's deck. “Come on.” He pulled my hand and steadied me. My legs were cramped, my knees shaky. Quentin and Sarah and Trent climbed out behind me.

“Over here!” I jumped down and sloshed through shallow water to the front of the boat. There was no trail through the trees, but we'd be out of the way, at least partially hidden by the airboat, when Gus and Eugene came back for the rest of the crates.

“Climb up and over.” I grabbed a higher mangrove branch and pulled myself up through the leaves, my feet scrambling for lower branches, anything to keep me moving.

We hadn't gone far—the thick tangle of branches slowed us down—when we heard the men slipping back down the muddy trail to the boat. We froze, half hanging over tree limbs, tangled in branches, but out of sight, and we listened.

“Think the stuff'll be safe here? Camp on the other side's better hidden, farther in the brush.”

Two crates scraped against one another.

“Nah. That old lady's always hanging around the other one.”

My heart jumped. Was Sawgrass Molly nearby?

“So what? She ain't nothin'.”

“Saw that dang reporter around there last week, too,” the first man said. “This place is better.”

Their mud-sloshing footsteps faded up the trail.

“Did you hear that?” I whispered when the men were gone. “We need to get to that other camp. Come on!”

We climbed through mangroves until the voices and grunts and moving sounds faded. Finally, water glimmered on the other side. “The other camp must be over here,” I said.

“Look!” Quentin stumbled through the trees, breaking branches as he pushed toward shore, pointing to an airboat pulled up on a mess of rotten logs. “That's Molly's, isn't it?”

We rushed up to it. Molly's bag, with her binoculars, her water, and her knife, was tucked under the seat.

Molly was on the island—on
this
island.

“She's here!” I almost sang the words. Molly was here, and she had her boat, and she could take us . . . wherever she was going to take us before, where she promised we'd be safe while she told somebody what was going on, while she found help.

I imagined Molly's weathered smile and her strong arms, and then, for the first time in forever, I pictured my mom. I'd been afraid to even remember her face, her smell, because remembering would mean admitting I might never see her again for real. I started back up onto shore. My headache was building, but soon, it wouldn't matter anymore. “Let's go . . . she's probably—”

“Shhh!” Quentin grabbed my arm. A motor hum blended with the insect buzz and grew louder. “It's those guys! They must have finished with the crates and come around!” We should have heard them start up the boat—it wasn't that far away—but we didn't. “Over here!” We climbed back into the thick brush, and the five of us huddled together again, waiting.

The roar grew louder. But Gus and Eugene were leaving—they had to be—and then we'd find Molly and she'd take us in the airboat, away from all this.

But when the airboat turned the bend, my breath caught in my throat.

It wasn't Gus and Eugene.