Deadly Waters Read Free

bag as she added, “They call them cows because they graze on plants all day, just like dairy cows.”
    â€œOK, everybody,” Steven called out, “time to get into the car. Frankie will be waiting at the dock.”
    As the three kids jammed side by side in the car’s backseat, Ashley explained to Bridger, “Frankie was my grandmother’s friend even before my mom was born.”
    â€œHmmm,” Bridger murmured, peering out the car window. Not too far from them, the waters of the bay sparkled in the sunlight. As Steven maneuvered the car along a palm-lined two-lane road, past houses that looked like boxes with legs, Bridger asked, “How come all these houses are built up on stilts like that?”
    â€œHurricanes?” Jack suggested, and his father agreed, “Uh-huh. When hurricanes cause big waves to surge up over the land, houses built high on pilings don’t get damaged as much.”
    â€œLooks like they could just get up and walk away,” Bridger murmured.
    â€œYeah, they do look like that. That’s a good one, Bridger,” Steven told him, grinning as they pulled over in front of a general store near the water.
    Ashley shouted, “There’s Frankie, waiting for us.”
    Scanning the sidewalk in front of the store, Bridger started to say, “I don’t see—” But by then Ashley had darted out of the car and into the arms of a short, wiry, white-haired woman.
    â€œYou’ve grown so big!” the woman was telling Ashley, as Olivia, Jack, and Steven caught up with them. “And Jack—look at you! Twelve years old and you’re almost as tall as a man.”
    â€œFrankie, it’s great to see you again!” all the Landons exclaimed as they hugged her.
    Half in disbelief, then in alarm, Bridger exclaimed, “Frankie is a woman?”
    Taking his hand, Olivia pulled him forward and said, “Bridger, I’d like you to meet Captain Frankie Gardell, the best fishing guide in all of the Everglades.”
    With his eyes narrowed to a squint, Bridger touched the brim of his cowboy hat and mumbled, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” At first he looked anything but pleased, but then his face lightened a bit as he said, “Guess you just own the boat, right? Who runs it for you?”
    â€œMe!” When Frankie smiled, the skin around her mouth crinkled into dozens of wrinkles that connected to other dozens of wrinkles in her sun-browned cheeks.
    She was small, barely over five feet two, and dressed in a red-and-white-striped shirt that hung over cutoff jeans. It seemed odd, even to Jack, for a 70-year-old woman to wear cutoffs, but somehow on Frankie it looked all right.
    â€œTo answer your question, Bridger,” Frankie went on, “when my husband, Gene, was alive, we made the fishing trips together. But Gene’s been gone for eight years now, rest his soul, and in that time I’ve run this business by myself.”
    Bridger looked even more confused. “Your husband’s name was Jean?”
    Chuckling, Frankie answered, “Spelled G-E-N-E. Short for Eugene. And I’m Frankie, short for Francesca. And yonder’s the Pescadillo .”
    Thoroughly flustered, Bridger burst out, “What the heck is a pescadillo?”
    â€œIt’s my boat! The name is kind of a combination of ‘pesce,’ which is Italian for ‘fish,’ and ‘peccadillo,’ which means—well, I’ll tell you later, Bridger. We need to get moving.”
    â€œGood idea,” Olivia said, glancing at her watch. “I have a meeting in 20 minutes. Lots of people coming: park rangers, researchers—everyone with information on the manatees. I feel as if I’ve got a thousand pieces of a big puzzle, Frankie, and no picture on the box to guide me. So do you mind if Steven and I leave now and don’t see you off?”
    â€œGo, go!” Frankie urged them, shooing Steven and