PRAISE FOR DEVIL’S PASS FROM SEVEN (THE SERIES)
“A fast-paced adventure that will keep readers on the edge of their seats…Highly Recommended.”
—CM Magazine
“Brouwer weaves twin narratives to good effect.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“[The] adventures are exciting and readers will be anxious to pick up the next book in the series.”
—NJ Youth Services
PRAISE FOR TIN SOLDIER FROM THE SEVEN SEQUELS
“A fast-paced story with lots of twists…Highly Recommended.” —CM Magazine
“Rich in historical detail, the narrative is a crash course on a volatile time in American history. Webb…is a complicated and authentic hero.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Brouwer certainly knows how to weave an intriguing mystery.” —Resource Links
BARRA
CUDA
SIGMUND BROUWER
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright © 2016 Sigmund Brouwer
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Brouwer, Sigmund, 1959–, author
Barracuda / Sigmund Brouwer.
(The seven prequels)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4598-1152-2 (paperback).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1153-9 (pdf).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1154-6 (epub)
I. Title.
PS8553.R68467B37 2016 jC813'.54 C2016-900481-3
C2016-900482-1
First published in the United States, 2016
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016933644
Summary: In this middle-grade novel, Jim Webb goes to the Florida Keys with his grandfather and becomes embroiled in a mystery involving a dead man and a missing cache of diamonds.
Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Design by Teresa Bubela
Cover photography by iStock.com
Author photo by Reba Baskett
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
www.orcabook.com
19 18 17 16 • 4 3 2 1
For Brad Romans: here’s to looking back at those high school days — when great rock and roll like “Barracuda” was new on eight-track tapes, and when one crazy job always seemed to lead to another even crazier than the one before.
Contents
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
If you are able to, before you start reading the story, listen to the song “Barracuda” by Heart. It’s the song, of course, that inspired the title of this story. Crank the music until it’s obnoxiously loud. Listen to it twice and enjoy the opening guitar riffs. It will give you a sense of what it was like for Webb when he first heard that song from the bandstand.
To hear the recut version of the song, check out www.sigmundbrouwer.com/barracuda for the video that goes with this book—it sure was fun to be involved with the music.
If the real thing don’t do the trick
You better make up something quick
You gonna burn, burn, burn, burn, burn to the wick
Oooh, barracuda, oh yeah *
* “Barracuda” lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC,
Universal Music Publishing Group
ONE
Bad enough, Jim Webb thought, that the bright white Florida sands of his imagination didn’t exist on Little Torch Key. Instead of beach, the water’s edge was lined with stubby mangrove trees, thick and shrubby, that made wading through the warm water impossible. Meant he had to walk pavement, dusted with sand. To make the start of his vacation worse, though, was what waited when he finished this walk—a deathbed visit with an old man he’d never met before.
Webb was only hours off an airplane from Toronto. It was his first day of a spring vacation in the Florida Keys. The day before, he’d faced the sloppy, stained snow of crowded downtown sidewalks. Now he felt the freedom of a gentle breeze, a deep blue sky, the heat of the sun and the slap of his running shoes on pavement. He would have preferred the rhythmic lapping of waves and sand against bare toes. One thing would have been the same whether on the beach or on the road he walked. Seagulls. They squawked in circles above him, drawn by the bag of chips in his left hand.
This wasn’t even close to the vacation Webb had expected. A month earlier his grandfather, David Maclean—who didn’t ask it of all his grandsons but for some reason had asked Webb to call him David—had promised to take Webb on a road trip, just the two of them, as a thirteenth-birthday present.
After a month of anticipation, the trip began with a 5:00 AM goodbye to his mother on the doorstep and a taxi ride to the airport. Then the long wait at Toronto Pearson International to get through US Customs and Border Protection. Finally the time came to take off in a Boeing 767, with his grandfather beside him, telling a few war stories about when he’d flown planes small enough to land on the jet’s wingspan. Their flight had landed before noon in Miami, where David had rented a Mustang convertible.
Yes. Mustang. Yes. Convertible. Yes. Cool.
Webb had ridden shotgun for a couple hours as they traveled, top down, along US Route 1 through the Florida Keys. David had explained it was called the Overseas Highway.
David had given Webb a pair of sunglasses for his birthday. They were black-lensed Oakleys, top of the line. Wearing Oakleys and riding shotgun in a convertible was much better than bumping along on an ancient streetcar in Toronto, squished between commuters with body odor.
Bridge after narrow bridge connected the small Key islands. Webb had counted down the mile markers, knowing their destination was Little Torch Key, at mile marker 28. The trip had taken them nearly a hundred miles south and west of the tip of the Florida mainland.
Still cool.
They had arrived midafternoon. They had checked in to a two-bedroom cottage at Gulfview Marina and Cottages. The view from Webb’s bedroom window was grass and palm trees and shallow blue-green water beyond. David had said an old friend, Jonathan Greene, owned the resort. They were staying for free, and they’d have access to the rental fishing boats at any time. They’d even have a guide to help them land the monsters like marlin and swordfish and sailfish out in the depths of the Gulf Stream.
Better than cool. Or, as his grandfather had said, rocking cool. Really, rocking cool. Who else in the world ever used that phrase?
Then, as they’d unpacked their suitcases beneath the ticking of the ceiling fan in the cottage living room, David had told Webb that Jonathan Greene was in the last stages of ca
ncer. His old friend wanted them to visit before the end of the afternoon, and David said he was glad he’d have a chance to spend time with Jonathan in the final days before the man died. And that he was glad Webb was with him during this difficult time.
Not so cool. Definitely not rocking cool.
Webb had retreated into quiet anger. He should have been told ahead of time. He should have been given a choice. Had he known David was going to force him to spend time with someone about to die, he would not have agreed to leave Toronto.
Webb usually preferred to be alone. Like now, walking on a narrow road lined with small waterfront vacation homes. When he reached the stop sign ahead at the highway, Webb would have to turn around to go make conversation with a stranger talking around oxygen tubes. Maybe there wouldn’t be tubes in the guy’s nose, but that’s how Webb pictured the scene. Oxygen tank and horrible, wet coughs.
That was what Webb remembered of his nightmarish hospital visits to his own dad when he was six. He was too young then to really understand that his dad’s cancer was an unbeatable enemy. He figured that out, though, a few months later, when he found himself in a cemetery, saying goodbye to a coffin, on an ironically beautiful fall afternoon among drifting leaves.
Trying to make idle conversation with a stranger was a torture for Webb at any time. Not much of a way to mark his birthday.
Thinking about visiting an old man on his deathbed sucked all the joy out of time in the sun. Head down, he walked in his tunnel of anger. He was on a stupid paved road. When instead he’d dreamed of sand and sun-broiled tourists, from big-bellied, balding men holding cans of beer to kids with collapsing sand castles to clusters of older teenage girls in bikinis.
That’s when he heard the opening riffs of guitar that shifted his focus like he was a shark scenting blood. No, not a shark. Something else.
A barracuda.
TWO
“Barracuda.”
Webb recognized the song instantly. He’d learned the chords about a year earlier, a fast-tempo crescendo that rose to a wicked slide of the electric guitar.
He saw ahead a restaurant called Mickey’s Sandbar. As he reached it, he saw that the sound came from a small bandstand alongside an empty patio outside the restaurant. The bandstand was shaded by an awning. Webb could see a lone figure on the bandstand, holding a microphone. It was too early for a real gig, Webb thought. Soundcheck maybe?
Either way, he loved hearing the song. He knew the intro riff was long. He waited for the opening words. When the words came, Webb silently sang along. He grinned at the chorus as the female singer up on the bandstand belted out the lyrics.
“You gonna burn, burn, burn, burn, burn it to the wick. Oooh, barracuda…”
At a distance, the singer was a dark outline to Webb. The music drew him closer. A couple of months earlier, he’d given up guitar. But he could still appreciate what he was hearing. She had a great voice, and those guitar riffs were classic.
It didn’t take him long to reach the bandstand. He stood in the sun, still seeing the singer as a silhouette beneath the awning. The stage was set up with speakers, microphones and the snaking wires that connected it all. But she was alone. No guitar in sight. So Webb assumed it was practice for a gig later. And she was singing to a soundtrack.
“If the real thing don’t do the trick, you better make up something quick…”
Without warning, she stopped.
“Hey,” she said from the microphone. “What’s your name?”
That’s when Webb realized he was an audience of one. And he felt foolish. But she’d asked a direct question, so he felt he had no choice but to answer.
“Webb,” he said. “Jim Webb.”
At the hospital, about a week before the end, Webb’s dad had given Webb his guitar. It was a significant gift. When Webb was five, his father had taught him his first chords. This love of music was why Webb’s father had given Jim his first name in honor of a famous songwriter named Jimmy Webb. Webb preferred being called Webb, not Jim. He preferred even more not having to introduce himself to people at all.
“Well, Webb,” she said, “those sunglasses are snappy, but I had to stop because you looked kinda stupid holding a bag of chips while you played air guitar.”
He realized he must have been following the rhythm of her chords by playing it out on an imaginary guitar. That’s what music did to him. Became his private universe. At least, that’s what it had done for him before he’d stopped playing guitar.
Before he could say anything, she continued. “What’s with the shirt?”
“Huh?” Webb looked down. He was wearing a CFL shirt.
“Eskimos.”
“Oh,” he said. “Edmonton Eskimos. Football team in Canada.”
“Nice,” she said. “Canada. Cool country.”
“You sounded good,” he said. She was still just an outline to him, bright sky at her back.
“You’re wrong,” she said. “I sounded great. It’s why the bar pays me to sing at night even though I’m only fifteen. And I’m going to kick butt in the Battle of the Bands next week. You make sure that you’re here to vote for me.”
“If I can,” Webb said. It was supposed to be a ten-day trip.
“You actually play guitar?” she asked. “Or is that air guitar a wannabe thing?”
He was about to say no, he didn’t play guitar. Which would have been the truth. He didn’t play anymore.
Before he could tell her anything, she stepped away from the microphone into the light. She stopped being an outline. Webb almost dropped his bag of chips.
Webb had never paid much attention to girls. At least, not in the sense of the boy-girl thing. But that changed now in an instant. He saw blond hippie-style hair that framed a gorgeous face and deep-brown eyes. He saw the tight jeans and the tube top that exposed her tanned midriff. He understood that in his entire life he’d been unaware of an entirely new universe called L-O-V-E. In that moment, his thirteenth birthday became a day he knew he’d remember for the rest of his life. No, it became a day he’d cherish for the rest of his life. Not even spending part of his thirteenth birthday with a stranger on his deathbed would ruin this day. He knew this was a girl he’d rescue from dragons in each and every daydream about her.
“I play guitar,” Webb answered. He would admit he ate live worms to get her approval, if that’s what she wanted.
“Then come up and show me,” she said, grinning. “I’m tired of practicing to a soundtrack, and chances are, I can sing to whatever you play.”
Perfect. He could switch from a knight in shining armor to a dude blowing her away with guitar licks.
“I can play ‘Barracuda,’” Webb said.
“You rock,” she answered. Webb tried not to wriggle like a puppy getting his head scratched.
Webb floated up the steps of the bandstand. Floated. Really. He was goofy, insane, big-time crushing. First. Time. Ever. This was so amazing, he was almost ready to become talkative.
“I’m Kristie,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”
Kristie had said she was fifteen. She had real stage presence though. He wanted to rush to a flower store and come back with a dozen roses to lay at her feet.
She reached to a guitar stand and lifted a gleaming, jet-black electric. A Strat. Nice guitar.
She stretched it toward him with a perfectly formed hand. It was attached to a perfectly formed arm, and the arm was attached to a perfectly formed shoulder. It was as perfectly formed as her other hand and arm and shoulder. It was just as perfectly formed as everything else about her. Yeah, Webb thought, now I get the whole Romeo-and-Juliet thing. Give me some moonlight, and I’ll start singing to her.
He hoped nothing about his exterior betrayed these thoughts and was glad for his dark sunglasses.
Be cool, he told himself. Be cool.
He strapped on the guitar. He flicked through the strings, checking by ear to make sure they were tuned.
Okay, he told himself, blow her away
. “Barracuda.”
A smile of anticipation played across Kristie’s face.
Webb hit the first chord, and the music died. It took him a second to realize that the power had been cut to the speakers.
As he looked over his shoulder, he saw someone at the back of the stage. A guy, late teens. The guy had ripped arms and chest, displayed by a T-shirt with cut-off sleeves. He was holding the end of the extension cord and had obviously just yanked it from the outlet. He also had a snarl on his face.
“Sylas,” Kristie said.
“Don’t Sylas me,” he said. “Tell me what’s going on. The guy’s got my guitar.”
“Just checking this guy out in case we need a backup.”
“We don’t,” Sylas said. “Get rid of him.”
Sylas spoke as if Webb wasn’t there.
Webb wasn’t going to react in any way, because he refused to give Sylas that kind of satisfaction. And he sure wasn’t going to make Kristie tell him to go.
He set down the guitar and walked.
THREE
When Webb reached the cottage, the palm-tree shadows stretched across the grass. The shapes of the fronds almost reached the patio where his grandfather sat in one of two identical lawn chairs. The chairs were the type with wide arms and built-in cup holders. A tall glass of iced lemonade filled the holder on the right arm of David’s chair. The glass was beaded with moisture. A small black transistor radio rested in the other cup holder. The speaker was tilted upward, with jazz music crackling at low volume.
David had a novel in his hands. It was by Jack London. The Call of the Wild. David had been reading it on the airplane. David said he loved Canada’s north and that Webb should make it a point to go there someday.
Now he gave Webb a nod.
“Did that walk get it out of your system?” David asked. His voice was calm. It was always calm.
Webb stood in one spot and sifted through his possible answers. Because his stepdad made life miserable for him, Webb was an expert at this game.
Barracuda Page 1
