by Lisa Doan
Claire sat down and stared at her plate of scrambled eggs. She took out her phone and snapped a photo. “Hashtag: sick of eggs,” she said.
Charlie guessed Claire lived her whole life on social media. Hashtag: no moment too small. Since they didn’t have Wi-Fi on the boat, as soon as they got in range of a signal, Claire’s friends would be deluged by hashtags of every thought and meal she’d had.
“What’s a conch?” Olive asked.
“I think it’s some kind of snail,” Charlie said.
“What’s a safari?”
“I think it means trip.”
“We’re going on a snail trip?” Olive asked.
“I guess so.”
“Then we won’t have to walk very fast,” Olive said, and then dissolved into fits of giggles. “Get it? Snails are slow!”
“Got it,” Charlie said. Olive repeated her joke four more times, each time finding it more hilarious than the last. She might not crack up anybody else, but she was an Olympic champion at cracking herself up.
Charlie didn’t care about the conch—his only idea at the moment was to get online and get information about the captain. Court records might give him an answer. He knew the mob wouldn’t file anything in court—they would avoid the law. But if the captain owed a lot of money to different people, it would back up one of his ideas—the captain was in deep over cash. Then, maybe he could get some answers on how to get out of that kind of mob problem. It was possible that there was some kind of process. The Mafia was a business, after all.
Chapter Eleven
Cinderalla led the group through the marina and out onto Governor’s Road. The group was only Charlie, Olive, Gunter, and the twins. Everybody else had decided to stay on the boat. Vendors of every sort had boarded and set up folding tables filled with shells, handmade jewelry, hats, sunglasses, and stacks of T-shirts—it was like a traveling mini-mall. Charlie had left Mr. Pennypacker circling around the wallet in his wife’s hand like a cop surveilling a criminal.
Charlie held Olive’s sweaty little fist while surreptitiously scanning his phone for a signal. He had argued that Olive should stay on the boat because he was on vacation and shouldn’t have to babysit. She had thrown herself on the deck and turned red to win the debate. He had since lectured her on doing exactly what she was told and not running off and not talking too much. She had just looked at him and mouthed the words, “cook you like a French fry.”
Cinderalla stared at her map and said, “We take a left and follow this for about three quarters of a mile, then we take a left on Leeward Highway.”
“Three quarters of a mile?” Charlie said. He worried he’d be carrying Olive by the half-mile mark. He knew perfectly well that she could walk that far, but his sister took every opportunity to claim that her legs hurt and she needed to be carried.
“Three quarters of a mile,” Cinderalla said. “That’s what it says on the map.”
“Wait a minute,” one of the twins said.
The group froze and turned to the twins. Everybody was so used to Cucuchara that it seemed impossible one of them had just spoken English. It was like coming home and finding your dog talking on the phone.
“We’re supposed to be going on a hike to see flora and fauna,” either Patience or Prudence said. “How are we supposed to see flora and fauna on a regular road?”
Cinderalla shrugged. “How should I know? I’m just a princess leading a tour,” she said. “Now, we could stand here all day while the sun burns a hole through the top of our heads and we eventually tip over from dehydration. Or … we could start walking.”
The twins turned to each other and screeched in Cucuchara. It sounded like they were issuing orders to have Cinderalla thrown into a dungeon and mercilessly tortured. Then, as suddenly as they had started, they stopped. They both pushed their hair behind their ears and smiled. Charlie thought that if there were alien life forms walking among humans, he was pretty sure he knew who they were.
The group trudged down the road while Cinderalla pointed out the interesting flora and fauna. The flora were the trees that lined the side of the road, which she identified as “look over there, trees.” The fauna was one mangy dog in somebody’s backyard, correctly identified as “a mangy dog.” The flies that followed them down the road were identified as “a waking nightmare.” The twins attempted to communicate with the dog in Cucuchara, but it just lunged at the fence.
Gunter grabbed Charlie’s phone and checked it. Everything was out of range except a signal in front of the house with the dog, but that one had a password on it. Maybe they’d have better luck at the conch farm.
Olive made a desperate bid to be carried by throwing herself onto a patch of wild grass on the side of the road and claiming she couldn’t feel her legs. Charlie, having had time to plan ahead, said, “Maleficent is not going to work for a girl who’s too lazy to even walk.”
Olive lay there for a minute, searching her mind for a loophole to that theory, gave up, and got up. Charlie handed her a bottle of water from his backpack as a reward for acting like a normal person.
They turned onto the Leeward Highway. It was busier than the road they had been on, mainly with taxis whose drivers seemed incredulous that they’d chosen to walk instead of ride. They beeped their horns, shouted out their windows, and threw their hands up. Cinderalla found the entrance to the conch farm and said, “Cripes, finally.”
Charlie took his phone back from Gunter and checked it all the way down the drive, but no signal.
Their guides were James and Berna. James was tall and thin and wore a pressed white shirt, black dress slacks, and a thin gold cross around his neck. Berna was a short woman in a wrap skirt and an oversized T-shirt that had a shark riding a surfboard. James gave them a lecture on the queen conch, a sea snail of the Strombidae family. Of the more interesting facts, Charlie learned that a conch had a foot, and when in peril it could hop away. Or at least try to hop away—there was only so fast a creature could go underwater with only one foot. James had shown them the nets offshore where the conch was farmed. Now, they were peering down into aboveground tanks full of queen conchs in various stages of development.
When they reached the tanks full of conchs, Charlie spotted a signal on his phone. While James picked up a large conch from the tank and showed Olive its pink underside, Charlie hopped online.
Gunter leaned over his shoulder as he punched in Captain Ignatius Wisner. There was a Facebook page with only one post that said, “Hi, I’m Ignatius.” He had six friends who were all probably bots. There was a newspaper article in a local paper that had interviewed small business owners about how they competed with large corporations. The captain was quoted as saying, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.” His Twitter handle was @SeaDog123. His first tweet was Captain Ahab was an idiot. Literature lovers across the globe had flamed him, and he’d gone down in fiery Twitter defeat.
“Geez,” Gunter said. “The captain doesn’t understand Twitter at all. He threw out bait to wolves and then he writes ‘Everybody leave me alone.’ Like that was going to happen.”
“There’s nothing here. Let’s try court records.” Charlie saw the records were all by county and narrowed it down to Dade. He searched on the captain’s name, but it only showed six unpaid parking tickets for the van.
He was coming up empty. The captain was one of those old people that, unlike Claire, did not live their whole lives online. Realizing he wouldn’t find anything on the captain, Charlie Googled “how to escape the mob.” The top hit was “How to elude the mob if they are trying to kill you.” He opened it up. It had 591 views. Who knew there were hundreds of other people trying to escape a hit?
As he read through the article, he felt his stomach drop. A person should pack one bag and then burn their house down so that no clues about their life could be found. They could never contact family and friends again. Ever. They had to become vagabonds in the small towns of the Midwest, taking on jobs for cash, like picking vegetables.
But they could never stay anywhere. They had to keep on the move, never getting to know anybody.
“There’s no advice on how to actually fix a problem with the mob,” Charlie said. “There’s only advice on how to keep running away from them.”
Charlie’s attention was pulled from his phone by Olive asking James, “You’re gonna eat them?”
James laughed. “I will not eat them all by myself. We will sell them so other people can eat them. Conch stew is very good. Conch fritters are even better.”
Charlie was leery about where the conversation was going. Olive was already fixated on Mickey Mouser killing all the baby birds so they could eat eggs, now James was talking about eating the conch.
“You’re gonna eat your own pets,” Olive said in a low voice. “How ’bout somebody eats you? I will make my witch cook you up and eat you like a French fry!”
James dropped the conch into the tank and grasped the cross around his neck. “Why do you speak of witchcraft?”
“She’s just talking,” Charlie said hurriedly. “Don’t pay any attention to her, she’s only six.”
“That’s right,” Olive whispered, in the kind of low and raspy tone that would make a demon shudder. “I’m only six.”
“Really,” Charlie said to James, “just ignore her. She tells everybody she’s going to fry them.”
“I won’t do it,” Olive said. “Maleficent will do it for me. She’s my witch and she does what I say.”
“Blasphemy,” James said, pointing at Olive and backing away.
“I made you say a curse word,” Olive said, looking satisfied.
“That’s not a curse word,” Charlie said. “Cut it out, Olive.”
“My witch comes to me in the night,” Olive whispered.
“You are possessed,” James said. “All the signs are there.”
“No, she’s not,” Charlie said. “She’s just awful.”
“French … fry,” Olive whispered and then giggled uncontrollably.
James stared at her, horror etched on his face. He turned and ran.
“Where’s he going?” Gunter asked Berna.
Berna, who until this moment had not said one word, chuckled and said, “I expect he’s gone to get the pastor.”
“A pastor?” Charlie asked, fear beginning to creep through his insides. “Why? Why does anybody need a pastor at a conch farm?”
Berna leaned against the water tank and said, “A pastor can hold down the demon for the exorcism. If you believe in possession, what you have here is a textbook case. This should be good.”
“Exorcism?!” Charlie cried.
“What’s an excorism?” Olive asked. “Is that another curse word?”
“Crap,” Cinderalla said.
“I know crap is a bad word. My mommy said so!”
“How far away is this pastor?” Cinderalla asked, looking around.
“He’s right next door,” Berna said. “You can see the steeple from here.”
Charlie turned. There it was, a white steeple poking above the palm trees.
“We should probably go,” Cinderalla said.
Charlie grabbed Olive and made her drop the conch she had planned to release back into the wild. Down at the beach, James was already coming back with a shorter man, who huffed and puffed to keep up with him. The man wore a large silver cross over his starched shirt and clutched at it.
“Ah,” Berna said, “that man coming back with James has been looking for a demon his whole life. He’s always ranting about them—they’re behind every corner, they’re hanging from the trees, they’re hiding in your house. He says he’s gonna drive them out, but he’s never been able to catch one for all his preaching. You are about to make his day, little one. He’ll finally have something to show for all his talk.”
“She’s not a demon!” Charlie said. “Not a real one, anyway.”
“I know that. I can see with my own eyes that she’s just a bad-tempered little girl, but try telling him that,” Berna answered, hooking a thumb at the pastor.
“I’m not bad-tempered!” Olive shouted, as if she could shriek her way to being amiable.
“Run,” Cinderalla said. She tucked her costume into her jeans and sprinted away. Charlie dragged Olive as fast as he could make her go. To inspire her to move faster, he told her the men were coming for all the Shopkins in her pockets. This seemed to breathe fire into Olive’s short legs and they caught up to Cinderalla.
On the Leeward Highway, Charlie said, “We’ll never be able to run all the way back to the marina. Maybe we should hide in the woods.”
“No,” Cinderalla said. “There’s a taxi.” She wildly waved, and the taxi slowed to stop a few feet ahead of them.
“We won’t all fit,” Charlie pointed out.
“We don’t all need to fit,” Cinderalla said. She shoved a ten-dollar bill into Charlie’s hand. “Just get her out of here!”
“There they are,” James shouted at them from the opposite end of the drive. “Hurry, man,” he called to the huffing and puffing pastor.
“Go, go, go,” Cinderalla said, pushing Charlie and Olive toward the taxi. Olive, usually resistant to anything she was being forced to do, climbed in quietly, seemingly aware that she had taken the “cook you like a French fry” gambit a step too far.
Cinderalla told the driver to take them to the Blue Haven Marina. As the taxi pulled away, she turned and faced the pastor. “Back off, brother.”
Chapter Twelve
At the marina, Charlie paid the driver and dragged Olive onto the boat. He looked for his parents on deck and in the mess hall, then he finally found them in their cabin. His mom was surrounded by her purchases. His dad was holding up a hand mirror framed by sea shells. “Ten dollars for shells that are just lying around free in the sand? It’s madness.”
“No,” Mrs. Pennypacker said cheerfully. “It’s a souvenir.”
Mr. Pennypacker’s tallying of money down the drain was interrupted by Charlie’s explanation of why they were back from the excursion so soon.
“Olive,” Mrs. Pennypacker said, “why would you ever, ever say you would cook someone like a French fry?”
Olive stared at the alarmingly large Dalmatian on the wall of the cabin and said, “I can’t be blamed.”
“Well,” Charlie said to his mom and dad, “I’ll leave you alone to hear the convoluted explanation of why she can’t be blamed and how the evil witch will help her with her French-frying dreams.”
Olive looked at Charlie like, if she really could fry him, she would be turning the burners on.
“Thank you, Charlie, for bringing her home safely,” Mrs. Pennypacker said. She turned to Olive and said, “Madam, it seems we have a lot to talk about.”
Charlie left them to it and climbed up to the deck. He leaned against the railing and saw Cinderalla in the distance, speed-walking ahead of Gunter and the twins.
When she was a hundred yards from the boat, Cinderalla yelled, “Captain, we got a problem. Time to shove off.”
In the distance, James turned the corner into the marina.
Captain Wisner leaned out the window of the bridge. “The suits again?” he asked Cinderalla.
“No,” Cinderalla said. “The tour guide at the conch farm thinks Olive Pennypacker is possessed by a demon.”
“Holy Rice-A-Roni,” the captain muttered. “And the worst of it is, he’s probably right.”
Cinderalla raced up the gangplank. “Hurry up,” she called to the rest of the group following her.
Far behind James, his pastor staggered along. Charlie squinted. Two more men suddenly appeared behind the pastor. The men in suits had just turned into the drive. They were about a hundred yards behind the pastor and gaining on him.
How? How had they caught up to them so fast?
“A preacher and the suits?” The captain said to Cinderalla. “Remind me not to take up gambling—Lady Luck hates my guts.”
Gunter broke into a sprint. The twins shouted something in
Cucuchara and followed him.
Unlike the other times that the mob had showed up, this time there were adults on deck to see them. Charlie wondered if he’d have to tell his parents what was really going on.
The twins’ mother grabbed Cinderalla’s arm and said, “What in heaven’s name is happening? Who are all those people and why are my daughters running from them?”
“Olive Pennypacker is happening,” Cinderalla said.
Much to Charlie’s surprise, this appeared to be a perfectly logical explanation.
“Who are those men?” Jimmy Jenkins’s dad demanded.
“That would be James,” Cinderalla said, “our tour guide at the conch farm. His out-of-shape friend is a pastor determined to drive the demon out of Olive Pennypacker. I say, good luck with that.”
“What about those other men? The two in suits?” Jimmy’s dad asked.
Cinderalla shrugged. “They’re not my friends. Ask the captain.”
Gunter and the twins boarded. Cankelton had appeared from nowhere and pulled up the gangplank. Maybe, just maybe, they would have time to get away.
The captain and Cankelton had the boat unmoored in seconds. This time, though, it did not drift away from the dock. The current had been in the captain’s favor in Miami, but it ran against him today.
Cinderalla and Cankelton tried using the oars from the dinghy to push off while the captain started the engine, but the boat would not be moved.
James reached the dock. He paced back and forth, appearing leery of approaching the young witch’s vessel alone. He held his cross and shouted over his shoulder to his friend, “Run! Can’t you run?”
The pastor had slowed to a walk, heaving in breaths with each step.
The men in suits had not slowed to a walk. They were in a full-out sprint and had passed the churchman, seeming determined to end this Caribbean game of cat and mouse.
