The Shark Rider by Ellen Prager Read Free Book Online

wondering if any had been chomped on by their new neighbors. He walked by the park’s zip line. A boy zoomed past him toward the landing pool, screaming. Tristan couldn’t decide if the kid was having fun or wailing out of sheer terror. He then noticed a man nearby also watching the boy. He was wearing a hard-shelled tan hat like people worein old jungle safari movies and was dressed in khaki from head to toe. On top of his khaki shirt and overlapping his khaki shorts, he had on a long khaki vest laden with khaki pockets. Tristan decided to nickname him “Jungle Joe.”
    Unlike the other adults in the park, Jungle Joe appeared to be alone. He wasn’t pensively watching as his kids raced down the water slide or floated down a stream. He wasn’t chasing them around until the brink of exhaustion or laughing as they pointed to fish and made funny faces in their snorkeling masks. He was walking slowly around by himself, peering at the fish in the streams and pools, looking behind plants along the trails, and staring intently at what the visitors and park employees were doing. It seemed peculiar.
    Tristan decided to follow Jungle Joe. He walked casually behind the man. When Jungle Joe suddenly stopped, Tristan ducked behind a low palm tree with long, vertical green fronds splayed out like a gigantic Japanese fan. Tristan peeked out from behind the tree. Jungle Joe was snapping photos with a pocket-sized camera. The man glanced around nervously. Tristan ducked back behind the tree. He let about thirty seconds go by and then peeked out again. Jungle Joe was gone. Tristan stepped out from behind the tree and swiveled around, looking for the man. He saw a flash of khaki. Jungle Joe had gone down the path toward the sea turtle pond. Tristan went after him.
    When Tristan found Jungle Joe, he was peering through a pair of miniature binoculars at the flamingoes on the island at the center of the pond. Tristanstopped before getting too close. Jungle Joe then began slowly turning, scanning the area.
    Tristan searched for a place to hide. But he was on the new raised wooden walkway. There was only one choice. He ducked under the railing and jumped down, sliding on his butt in the sand behind a bush with clusters of yellow, bell-shaped flowers.
    As quietly as possible, Tristan then crawled to his knees and peeked out from around the bush. Jungle Joe was staring his way. Tristan ducked back down, thinking the man must have heard his rear end smack the ground. He sure felt it. Tristan rubbed his butt cheek and looked out again. Jungle Joe had turned back toward the pond. Tristan breathed a sigh of relief. The man took out his camera and began taking more photos. Tristan pulled out his Sea Camp communicator pen, aimed it at Jungle Joe, and pushed the button on the side. He clicked the top, whispering, “This is Tristan. I’ve got a guy acting weird and taking photos.”
    He looked at the pen, not sure if anyone had heard him or if the photo went through.
    Then, for just a moment, he thought he heard chuckling. A quiet voice came from the pen. “Got it, Tristan. Thanks. That’s just our old friend, Harold Strangman, from the water park in Ft. Lauderdale. He comes down here every year. Slinks around taking photos like he’s doing industrial espionage. He’s harmless. But good job spotting him.”
    Tristan stood up, thinking, So much for Tristan the spy . He turned to climb up onto the boardwalk and then noticed one of the pond’s new residents. It wasjust ten feet away and staring right at him. The huge crocodile was eyeing him like a tasty boy burger—best when eaten rare. Tristan froze.
    â€œI’d get a move on, if I were you,” a voice called out. “Need a hand?”
    Tristan glanced briefly up at the walkway, not wanting to take his eyes off the undoubtedly drooling crocodile. It was Harold, alias Jungle Joe. His hand was extended out under the railing. Tristan’s