Video of the bearded man in his airboat had confirmed that he had not only threatened the children but had nearly rammed their rental boat. On camera, he had also said more than enough to prove he’d been poaching shark fins.
Maribel was embarrassed by the detective’s kind words. “Using the camera was the only way I could make you believe us.”
“Which is my fault—that guy could’ve killed you all,” Detective Miller said. He turned to Luke. “I owe you an apology, too. Maybe you forgot, but a couple of our officers laughed when you told us that the poachers used airboats and only fished during lightning storms.”
No, Luke hadn’t forgotten. The conversation had taken place a week ago, after the shark poacher’s attack. The kids had returned to the marina, wet, cold, eaten up by mosquitoes, but eager to share their story with the police.
The police weren’t so easily convinced. Neither the detective nor anyone else had believed their story—particularly Luke’s theory about netting sharks during storms. The boy hadn’t been confident enough to argue. They were adults, trained police officers. So, yeah, he’d figured it was just another one of his dumb ideas—until Grandpa Futch heard about what Luke had seen.
“Boy, you might be smarter than you look,” the old man had said. That was two days after their return. Maribel and Sabina had paid their first visit to the house where Luke and his grandfather lived. The four of them were sitting, drinking sweet iced tea on the porch.
“Modern police don’t know a dang thing about old-timey ways of breakin’ laws,” the man had told them. “There was many a barrel of illegal whiskey smuggled into this state during rainstorms. And that ain’t all that was smuggled.” Luke’s grandfather loved to talk, so he had gone into detail, saying, “That’s right, smugglers all up and down this coast. Used to be I didn’t get in my boat unless I heard a big boom of thunder. Cops don’t get paid enough to risk a lightning storm. Now you go back there and tell that detective your grandpa says he’s full of beans.”
“Beans?” Sabina had asked, confused.
Maribel had understood, and she posed a delicate question. “You used to be a smuggler, Captain Futch? What did you smuggle?”
The old man hadn’t expected this from a pretty, polite girl with a Spanish accent. He had cleared his throat and reached for his empty coffee mug. “Course, I weren’t no smuggler. Why, smuggling stuff, that’s against the law, young lady. But I knew some fellas that did. Bunch of ’em. All I meant was, my grandson here is smarter than folks give him credit for.”
Getting up to pour more coffee, the old man had continued to evade by asking, “Luke, did you ever tell these girls what to do if they’re on a boat that sinks with livestock aboard?”
For half an hour the old man had held court, talking about the intelligence of pigs compared to horses. Next, he had discussed the virtues of cats, saying he would never again allow a flea-bitten dog into his house. But pigs and cats, by golly, they were welcome.
Now, a week later, Detective Miller confirmed that Luke had been right all along about the shark poachers. “Instead of laughing at you,” the detective said, “we should have listened. We were fools not to. So guess who’s not laughing now?”
He turned from Luke to Maribel, who was sitting on the steps to the lab. “This boy figured out what trained investigators from a dozen different departments failed to realize. You both deserve an apology—and my thanks. How about it, Luke?”
The man reached and shook the boy’s hand, standing almost eye to eye. Maribel grinned—and wished she’d brought a camera.
For Luke, it felt pretty good shaking the hand of an actual police detective. The boy appreciated the compliment, yet feared it was intended to soften more questions about the missing pit bull.
“Lucky guess,” he muttered. “It’s not often I figure out much of anything.”
The detective studied the boy, puzzled—or suspicious. “A kid as smart as you?” he said finally. “I’m not sure I believe that. But keep this in mind, son … I want to believe everything you tell me from here on out.”
As expected, the man was referring to the shark poacher’s complaint about the missing dog.
“I hope you do believe me,” the boy replied.
The detective thought this was an odd response. After another long look of concern, he let it go. “When I really felt like a fool was when we arrested the woman in the black van and the old guy in the wheelchair. Turns out they’re all part of the gang. Criminals tend to be convincing liars, which good cops are supposed to know. But I fell for their sob story anyway.”
The man reached for his briefcase, still talking. “What it comes down to,” he said, “is that you kids were right from the very start. So I spoke to the editor of the island paper this morning and did what I should’ve done last week—apologized to you publicly. You three earned that reward. Luke”—the briefcase snapped open—“I wish that was the end of the story. But it’s not. You already know the reason why.”
The boy nodded. “The guy claims I stole his dog.”
“It’s more than just talk now. The guy had his attorney file a complaint against you yesterday. Listen to me closely—the attorney provided us with what the owner claims is proof that his dog’s still alive. I want to believe you kids, I really do. But you’re going to have to explain how a dog that was supposedly killed by lightning is still running around loose on Sanibel.”
“What?”
“You heard me, son.”
Luke was a terrible liar. He knew it, so he stared at the ground while Maribel said, “That’s a strange thing for them to claim. What kind of proof?”
The detective held up a tiny electronic device. “This kind of proof. This is a GPS tracker. The owner claims the pit bull was specially trained—worth a couple thousand dollars. So he had a chip—a tiny transmitter—inserted into the dog’s collar.”
“His collar?” For the first time Maribel sounded worried.
“Afraid so,” the man said. “There’s a satellite service that pet owners use. I looked it up. For a few bucks a month, owners can track their pet up to three thousand miles away. Ever hear of such a thing?”
Yes, Luke had. The Angus cattle he’d raised in 4-H had carried a similar chip behind the left ear. “If the bearded guy cared so much about his dog,” the boy countered, “why’d he go off and leave her on an island during a storm?”
“He abused that poor animal,” Maribel insisted. “On the video I took, you heard him—he called the dog ‘dummy.’ And some other names too nasty to repeat. Then he ordered the dog to attack us and went off and left the poor thing to be struck by lightning. And the dog was struck by lightning. I swear.”
“That’s not easy to believe, but I guess I do,” the detective said. “Personally, I think the owner just wants revenge. You kids outsmarted him—a thief who’s been arrested too many times to count. He’d come up with what he thought was a brilliant scheme to get rich smuggling shark fins. And he would’ve gotten rich if you kids hadn’t made him look like a fool. Thing is, Luke”—the detective tapped a button on the GPS tracking device in his hand—“the law is the law. I’ll help you kids as much as I can. But first you’re going to have to explain this.”
He turned the little electronic screen for Luke and Maribel to see. It showed a satellite map of Sanibel Island. A patch of blue water was Dinkins Bay. A tiny red light pulsed near the shoreline. The pulsing light wasn’t far from where they sat on the steps of the lab.
“That blinking light indicates the location of the pit bull’s collar,” the detective said. “If the dog were dead, he wouldn’t be swimming around out there in the bay, now would he?”
The man expected a response. Instead, Luke stared at the ground.
The detective was getting impatient. “Look, kids. My advice is to tell the truth and cooperate. I promise you that the pit bull will be safe until a judge decides what’s best. So, Luke”—the detective lowered the tracking device—“do us all a favor and
call the dog. Okay?”
Luke looked at Maribel. The girl sighed and said softly, “If Luke’s a thief, then I’m a thief, too. We didn’t know the pit bull wore a special collar.”
“Obviously not,” the detective replied. “I know you did what you did for the best of reasons—but it was illegal.” The man seemed sympathetic but again had to insist, “Call the dog, Luke. I’ll stick around until animal control comes to take him to the pound. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it has to be.”
Luke did as he’d been told. He whistled, then whistled again. Soon a dog appeared from the mangroves, sopping wet, and charged toward them. The animal showered the detective with saltwater, then sat panting at the boy’s side.
But the dog was a curly-haired retriever, not a pit bull.
“Wait … what’s going on here?” Detective Miller demanded. “That’s the wrong dog.” He consulted the tracking device and became more confused. “But it has to be the same dog, according to this. I wouldn’t call it a pit bull, but he belongs to the shark poacher, right?”
“Nope,” Luke said. He was struggling to unbuckle something from the retriever’s neck. “This dog belongs to Dr. Ford. If the bearded guy wants me arrested for stealing something, I guess you can arrest me for stealing this.”
The boy held up a thick leather collar that was dotted with metal spikes.
“That’s all?”
Luke, then Maribel, responded with a shrug.
The detective released a long, slow breath, a big smile on his face. “Let me see that thing.”
Luke handed him the leather collar. “After the pit bull was struck by lightning, I took this off, hoping she’d start breathing again. Maribel’s sister even tried some kind of magic spell—like, she’s a witch, you know? Silly kid stuff. That dog was hit by lightning, Detective Miller. I shouldn’t have put the collar on another dog, I guess. If I give it back, are you still going to arrest me?”
“Took the collar, why?” the man wanted to know. “As a souvenir?”
Luke said, “Sorta,” which was somewhat true.
The detective began to laugh, then laughed harder when he searched the collar and found the transmitter. It was sewn into a pocket of leather. “This is one of the funniest mix-ups ever. I’m surprised you kids didn’t notice the little chip here.”
Maribel didn’t trust herself to look at Luke, who, days ago, had noticed the transmitter chip. On the same day, the boy had declared that helping an abused animal could not be considered stealing.
The detective was suddenly in a good mood. He used his phone to snap several pictures of the pit bull’s collar, then put the phone away. “I can’t wait to pay that shark poacher a visit, and prove how wrong he was. Maybe the guy will learn his lesson finally and never cross you kids again.”
Maribel didn’t speak until the detective was gone. “Luke,” she said, “do you think anyone will ever find out the truth?”
The boy consulted the wisdom of his lightning eye to confirm the detective’s car was pulling away. “I don’t know,” he responded, then grinned in a confidential way. “It depends on how mad my grandpa gets if he catches that pit bull sleeping in my bed.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Randy Wayne White is the New York Times bestselling and award-winning author of the Doc Ford series. In 2011, White was named a Florida Literary Legend by the Florida Heritage Society. A fishing and nature enthusiast, he has also written extensively for National Geographic Adventure, Men’s Journal, Playboy and Men’s Health. He lives on Sanibel Island, Florida, where he was a light-tackle fishing guide for many years, and spends much of his free time windsurfing, playing baseball, and hanging out at Doc Ford’s Rum Bar & Grille. His first middle-grade novel is Fins. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Map
One: Lightning Strikes!
Two: Sabina and Maribel
Three: Shark-Fin Soup
Four: A Monster Shark
Five: The First Shark, a Poem, and a Broken Pole
Six: If a Shark Jumps into the Boat
Seven: Sharks Incorporated!
Eight: Shark Killers!
Nine: A Funeral or a Party?
Ten: Fish That Oink, and a Warning
Eleven: Small Sharks and Big Trouble
Twelve: A Gruesome Discovery, a Narrow Escape
Thirteen: Fame and Shame
Fourteen: No News Is Good News
Fifteen: Mirrors and the Black Van
Sixteen: The Wrong Man
Seventeen: A Ray, a Dinosaur, and a Sea Cow
Eighteen: A Free Manatee and a Mystery Solved
Nineteen: The Poacher’s Threat and Luke’s Promise
Twenty: On the Run!
Twenty-One: Trapped!
Twenty-Two: Lightning Strikes Twice
Twenty-Three: The Price of Fame, and a Stolen Dog
Twenty-Four: Fortune and a Spiked Collar
About the Author
Copyright
Text copyright © 2020 by Randy Wayne White
Published by Roaring Brook Press
Roaring Brook Press is a division of
Holtzbrinck Publishing Holdings Limited Partnership
120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271
mackids.com
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019943528
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eISBN 9781250244666
First hardcover edition, 2020
eBook edition, February 2020
Fins Page 19
