Contents ( 66)
- Cover
- Books by Valerie Fraser Luesse
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Dedication
- Contents
- Map of Florida
- 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
- twenty-six
- twenty-seven
- twenty-eight
- twenty-nine
- thirty
- thirty-one
- thirty-two
- thirty-three
- thirty-four
- thirty-five
- thirty-six
- thirty-seven
- thirty-eight
- thirty-nine
- forty
- forty-one
- forty-two
- forty-three
- forty-four
- forty-five
- forty-six
- forty-seven
- forty-eight
- forty-nine
- fifty
- fifty-one
- Epilogue
- Keep Reading for a Preview of Valerie Luesse’s Next Book!
- Prologue
- one
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Back Ads
- Back Cover
Turning his face to the cool breeze coming off the water, Peyton felt oddly comforted by Key West, by the rustling of palms and the call of seabirds flying overhead. It was relief that washed over him now. He was hot and tired and a little bit dizzy, but most of all, he was relieved. Finally, after all this time, he had reached his father’s island.
“Where you headed, son?”
To Peyton’s astonishment, a fisherman pulling his boat behind a black Ford pickup had stopped to see about him.
“I was on my way downtown when an old man stole my bike.”
“You that Bike Boy?” the fisherman asked with a grin.
“Yes, sir. Got covered up with mosquitoes a ways back and jumped in the water to get away from ’em, so I’m kind of a mess.”
“Well, you’re in luck ’cause I know just where to take you. Hop in.”
Peyton climbed into the truck, grateful to be out of the sun and off his feet. “I’m Peyton Cabot,” he said, shaking hands with the fisherman, “and I sure do appreciate your help.”
“Wally Whitehead,” the fisherman said. “Pleased to meet you. Now tell me about that missin’ bike.”
Peyton described the scraggly man as Wally drove down the highway. “And he said the weirdest thing when I tried to stop him.”
“Lemme guess,” Wally said. “‘Finders keepers, losers weepers’?”
“How’d you know?”
“That’s what he always says. Peyton, you just had an encounter with Luther Bunch, the Key West Collector. He takes stuff all the time and arranges it into what he calls vision works in his front yard. But we all know where he lives, so if something we really need turns up missing, we just go to his house and get it. Luther’s strange as they come but harmless. We’ll swing by there and get your bike, and then I’m taking you out to the Navy base near Fort Zach.”
“But I need to get downtown.”
“And you will. But you’re not lookin’ at what I’m lookin’ at. You’re covered up in bites and you need to get ’em doctored. Heat and mosquitoes will get you quicker’n anything else down here. Let’s get you fixed up, and then you can be about your business.”
“I ’preciate the advice—and your help,” Peyton said. “Now that you mention it, I don’t feel so good.”
“Well, you just hang in there a few minutes, and I’ll get you fixed up.”
Wally zigzagged down a few side streets until they came to a tiny, unpainted house with the craziest arrangement in the front yard—pots and pans, an old motor, several oars, rusted metal chairs . . . but no bike.
“Guess he hasn’t had a vision for your bike just yet,” Wally said. “But he will. And then you can get it back. Just remember corner o’ Thomas and Amelia. You need a ride, ask somebody at the base to call me and I’ll carry you over there.”
Wally pulled into the base entrance, where a young guard greeted him at the gate. “Mornin’, Mr. Whitehead!”