SIXTEEN

I don't remember hitting the water, but I do remember sinking.

Not very deep, but deep enough to remind me that I was wearing Abbey's backpack.

I could have ditched it, but that would have been the same as littering. Besides, MS. ABBEY UNDERWOOD was written with a bright red marker in two different places on the backpack. If somebody found it and saw all those empty food-coloring bottles, we were busted for sure.

Hurriedly I loosened one strap of the backpack to free my right shoulder, which made it easier to swim. I wasn't breaking any Olympic records, but I was definitely putting some distance between myself and the Coral Queen. At any moment I expected the blue dinghy to come chugging into view, Abbey riding to the rescue.

Behind me, where the casino boat was moored, a shouting match had erupted. I turned my head and spotted Luno stomping back and forth under the dock lights, hollering furiously at the two bouncers on the top deck. The bouncers were yelling back, pointing across the basin.

Pointing at me, of course.

I kicked harder, thinking: Hurry up, Abbey. Hurry.

“Stop, boy!” Luno commanded. “You stop now!”

He was running along the docks, trying to keep even with me, so I dove beneath the surface. The dirty water stung my eyes and I squeezed them shut. It didn't matter, because even with my eyes wide open I couldn't have seen a whale three inches in front of my nose-not in that murky basin in the dead of night. I was swimming blind, but at least I was swimming.

When I came up for air, a white blast of light caught me squarely in the face.

“There he is!” Luno cried out. He was standing on a fish-cleaning table, sweeping a portable spotlight across the basin.

I ducked like a turtle and swam farther. When I popped up again, the same thing happened-the bright light, Luno yelling at me to stop. This time, though, he sounded closer.

Where was my sister?

The channel was at least a hundred yards away. Luno would run out of dock before I'd run out of water, but I was getting exhausted. My clothes were slowing me down, and the waterlogged backpack felt heavier by the minute.

Still no sign of the dinghy.

Even if my “Geronimo!” wasn't loud enough, Abbey surely must have heard Dusty Muleman's goons bellowing like bull elephants. I took a gulp of air and dove under again. Two kicks later I struck what seemed to be a wall of blubber.

A wall that moved.

Next thing I remember was me spinning like a top-then shooting upward, launched by some invisible brute force. Flying out of the water, I opened my eyes just in time to see an enormous brown shape, mossy and slick, pushing away at an incredible speed. A broad rounded tail slapped the surface so hard, it sounded like a rifle.

Right away I knew what had happened: I'd crashed into a sleeping manatee.

I splashed down in a tumble. For a solid minute I treaded water, not going anywhere, until my heart quit racing and I was able to catch my breath. The marina was momentarily quiet except for the merry chime of steel drums from the Coral Queen's calypso band.

Where in the world was Abbey? And where was that caveman Luno?

I began swimming again, although not as bravely as before. The collision with the sea cow had rattled me-I couldn't help wondering what other creatures might be cruising around the dark cloudy basin. As huge as manatees are, they feed strictly on vegetation and have no appetite for humans. That's not true for everything that swims at night, especially certain large and fearless sharks.

The water was as warm as soup, but an icy shiver ran down my neck as I kicked onward. I only know a few prayers by heart, but I said all of them to myself. Twice. That's how scared I was.

I can't say for certain whether God was listening, but it wasn't long afterward that I heard the wheezy chug-a-chug-chug of a small outboard motor. I stopped moving and fixed my eyes in the direction of the noise. A familiar shape took form along the edge of the shadows, near the mouth of the basin.

As the shape drew closer, into the pale wash of the dock lights, I recognized the blue dinghy and the spindly silhouette of my sister at the helm.

Excitedly I called Abbey's name, and she responded with our pre-arranged signal: three rapid blinks of her flashlight. I set out for the little boat as fast as I could, not caring how much noise I made. All I wanted was to get out of the water in one piece.

Abbey whistled, but I was too exhausted to whistle back. The dinghy was no longer heading my way; in fact, it seemed to be sliding away in the current. By the time I caught up, my arms and legs were starting to cramp. I grabbed on to the bow and, with my sister's help, hauled myself aboard.

At first I couldn't even talk-I just sat there, dripping and panting like a tired old dog. Finally, I shook off the backpack and dried my face with the tail of Abbey's shirt.

“You okay?” she asked.

I nodded and rubbed my aching muscles. “How come you turned off the engine?”

“I didn't,” Abbey said. “It stalled out.”

“Nice.”

“That's how come I was late getting here. It took like forever to get the stupid thing started!”

I stepped to the stern to confront the creaky old Evinrude. The starter cord was a three-foot length of rope that wrapped tightly around the engine's flywheel. A small block of plastic served as a handle on the exposed end of the rope, so you could pull it without shredding your fingers.

Hand-cranking an outboard is harder than starting a lawn mower. Marine engines have more horsepower, so it takes more strength to turn the flywheel. After bracing my heels against the transom of the dinghy, I locked both hands around the grip of the starter cord.

“Do it,” said my sister.

“Keep your fingers crossed.”

I reared back and yanked. The engine shuddered, coughed once, then went silent.

“Crap,” mumbled Abbey.

“Don't worry,” I said, which was ridiculous. Only an idiot wouldn't have been worried.

I shifted my weight slightly and took hold of the rope again.

“Let it happen, cap'n,” said Abbey.

At that instant the dinghy lit up like a movie stage-Luno had found us with his spotlight. Abbey and I shielded our eyes and tried to see where he was. His voice gave us the answer: He was close.

Too close.

“You again!” we heard him snarl. “You two punks! This time you no get away!”

He was standing at the end of the last dock in the marina. Off our port side was the mouth of the basin and, beyond that, open sea. If I could only get Rado's darn engine started, Abbey and I could escape.

Again I tried the starter cord, and again nothing happened but a sad sputter.

“We're drifting toward the dock,” my sister said gloomily.

“I can see that.”

“Should we jump?”

“No, not yet.”

Four, five, six times I pulled the rope with the same depressing result. Meanwhile a breeze was pushing the dinghy steadily toward the dock, where Luno was pacing like a hungry cat. For amusement he would occasionally zap us with the hot beam of his spotlight.

Abbey crouched low in the bow, but I had to keep standing. It was the only way to put enough force into pulling the starter cord.

As we floated closer to the lights, we could make out Luno's gloating expression. His smile was thin and ugly.

Frantically I jerked on the starter cord, and this time the old engine gave an encouraging kick before sputtering out.

Luno crowed, “I get you punks now!”

My sister poked me in the back. “Noah, look! Quick!”

Another figure had joined the bald goon at the end of the dock. I recognized him immediately in that flowered Hawaiian shirt, but just the stink from his cigar would have given him away. It was Dusty Muleman himself.