by Carl Hiaasen
“You mean one-handed,” his mother said. “What’d the other kids have to say?”
“Not much. Marta thought it was cool.”
“How was P.E.?”
“Fine,” Nick said, which wasn’t even remotely true. Lacrosse was extremely difficult to play with your best arm bound behind your back, and Nick had been practically useless to his team.
Later, while he was in the shower, two of the seniors had snatched his Ace bandage from the towel rack and used it to hog-tie an overweight, slow-footed freshman named Pudge Powell IV. Two coaches spent ten minutes unbinding the boy.
So P.E. class basically had been a disaster.
His mother said, “You’re going to be hurting tomorrow. You ought to take a hot bath.”
Nick didn’t argue, though he was embarrassed to admit how sore he was—and it wasn’t as if he’d been chopping wood all day. The routine tasks of taking notes, carrying a backpack, opening a few doors, and swinging a lacrosse stick had worn him out. Never again would he take for granted the luxury of having two good arms.
After soaking for half an hour and then rewrapping himself, Nick confronted his homework, which included eighteen algebra problems. At one point his mom came into the room and peeked over his left shoulder.
“I’m impressed. I can actually read your answers,” she said. “I’ve got no idea if they’re right or wrong, but I can definitely read ’em.”
“Just wait.”
“Can I ask you something, Nicky? How long are you going to keep up this lefty routine?”
“Until I get good at it.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know, Mom,” Nick said shortly. “I haven’t thought about it.”
In fact, he’d thought about it plenty. The doctors had said that Nick’s father would face months of outpatient rehab after returning home. Nick planned to be there with him, practicing all the same left-handed exercises.
After finishing his math homework, Nick read an O. Henry story for English class, which improved his mood. Then he tackled the chore of brushing his teeth, causing only minor bleeding from his gums.
He’d planned to go to bed with his right arm wrapped, but he couldn’t get comfortable. His hand kept falling asleep, and Nick became worried that the elastic bandage might cause permanent damage if he dozed off in the wrong position.
With some effort he unstrapped the arm, which felt weak and numb. He made a fist and flexed the muscles several times to get the blood circulating again.
Nick already had the lights off and was listening to his iPod when his mother cracked the door. She said, “Wow. It’s only eightthirty.”
“I’m whipped.”
She sat down and laid a hand on his forehead, checking to see if he had a temperature. He told her he was fine.
“You bummed about Dad?” she asked.
Nick nodded. “Yeah, it sucks.”
“We’ll call him tomorrow. I promise.”
“The infection must be pretty bad.”
Nick’s mother told him not to worry. “The doctor said it happens sometimes after a combat amputation.”
The last word jolted Nick. The truth was still sinking in: His father was an amputee.
But at least he’s alive, Nick said to himself, and that’s what really matters.
His mother said, “I’ll be up watching TV for a while, in case you can’t sleep.”
“Thanks, Mom, but I’m ready to crash.”
An hour later, Nick was still wide awake. His body was exhausted but his brain was sparking like a high-voltage wire. He couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened to his father, imagining the flash from the exploding rocket, the blast of the Humvee bursting into pieces, the flames and the smoke and the screams …
Afraid of what he might dream if he shut his eyes, Nick grabbed his cell phone off the nightstand and dialed Marta’s number. She answered on the second ring.
“You awake?” he said, keeping his voice low.
“Surfing Facebook. How lame is that?”
“Extremely,” Nick said.
“You talk to your dad?”
“Not today. He was rehabbing.”
Marta said, “I can’t sleep, either. I’ve been thinkin’ about everything that’s been happening at school, and here’s what I figured out: Mrs. Starch is a witch.”
“Not this again.”
“No, I mean a real witch. Think about it—she and Smoke dropped out of sight at about the same time. Suddenly he’s back in school, and it’s like he got a complete personality transplant. I bet Mrs. Starch put a spell on him!”
Nick laughed. “This isn’t Hogwarts, Marta. It’s the Truman School.”
“I didn’t say she was a wizard. I said she was a witch.”
“Whatever—”
“Okay, smartass, let’s hear your brilliant theory.”
“I don’t have one,” Nick admitted. “Something weird’s going on, that’s for sure.”
“Thank you,” Marta said.
Nick agreed that Mrs. Starch’s excuse for taking a leave of absence from school—the so-called family emergency—sounded bogus. The woman hadn’t missed a day of teaching since the Stone Age.
Yet even more startling and suspicious had been the appearance in class of the new, improved Duane Scrod Jr.—alert, neatly combed and dressed, academically responsible. A complete stranger, basically.
Nick had the uneasy sense of being in one of those short stories that led you off in one direction, then ended some-place else with a total surprise.
And the weirdness had all started on the day that Smoke ate Mrs. Starch’s pencil.
Marta said, “Are you sitting down?”
“I’m lying down. In bed.”
“Good. Guess what I saw this afternoon after school? Remember that blue Prius with the ‘Save the Manatee’ license plate—the one just like Mrs. Starch’s car? Well, guess what: it was Mrs. Starch’s car. Had to be.”
“How do you know?” Nick asked skeptically.
“Because I saw it flying out of the parking lot of Ace Hardware going, like, fifty miles an hour. And guess who was chuggin’ a Mountain Dew in the passenger seat—Smoke!”
“Get out,” Nick said.
“Swear to God. In his Truman blazer!”
“But who was driving?”
“Looked like a guy with a black ski beanie pulled tight over his head—but I bet it was Mrs. Starch. You know, witches can change themselves into anything,” Marta said confidently.
“Yeah, well, who changed you into a space case? There’s no such thing as witches, so knock it off.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Nick was worried that he’d hurt his friend’s feelings.
Marta said, “You don’t believe me.”
“I just don’t believe in all that Harry Potter stuff, okay? But I do believe you saw Smoke in the blue car today,” Nick said, “and I also believe the car belonged to Mrs. Starch. It’s just too freaky to be a coincidence.”
Marta was relieved that Nick didn’t think she’d made the whole thing up. “So what do we do now?”
“Now?” said Nick. “Now we’ve gotta find out who’s driving Smoke around town in Mrs. Starch’s car, and what they’ve done with Mrs. Starch.”
“Awesome!”
Although Nick stayed awake for a while longer, his imagination was no longer consumed by the Baghdad rocket attack that had maimed his father.
Instead he was thinking about the Black Vine Swamp, and what secrets it might hold.
TEN
Nobody saw the helicopter land, because no bus tours or school classes were visiting the Black Vine Swamp that morning. Drake McBride stepped from the chopper and hurried toward a truck that had the Red Diamond logo painted on its doors. Jimmy Lee Bayliss emerged from the driver’s side and greeted his boss with a grim nod.
“What in creation happened out here?” Drake McBride asked.
“Pretty much what I told you on the phone.”
�
��Is that him?” Drake McBride jerked his chin toward a figure huddled inside the truck.
“Yes, sir,” said Jimmy Lee Bayliss.
He opened the passenger door and an unhappy-looking young man got out. It was impossible not to notice that he was stark naked under a makeshift robe of clear bubble wrap, the same sort of material used to pack valuables for shipping.
“What the heck?” Drake McBride exclaimed.
“It was all I had in the truck,” Jimmy Lee Bayliss said. “That’s why I asked you to bring some extra clothes.”
Drake McBride shrugged. “Well, I forgot.” Addressing the bubble-wrapped man, he said, “What’s your name, son?”
“Melton.”
“How long you been with us?”
“Three weeks is all,” Melton said.
“So you’re not on full benefits yet,” Drake McBride said. “But don’t you worry, we’ll make sure all your doctor bills are covered at least sixty percent. Did they hurt you?”
“Not really. But some bull ants chewed up my butt cheeks pretty fierce.”
Jimmy Lee Bayliss said, “Go on and tell Mr. McBride what happened. He’s a busy man.”
Melton didn’t seem especially impressed that he was speaking to the president of the company. He looked like he wished he’d never heard of the Red Diamond Energy Corporation.
“I was out here stackin’ some pipe,” he said, “when they jumped me from behind. Next thing I know, I’m glued to a cypress tree and I can’t pull free.”
“In your birthday suit,” Drake McBride said.
“Yeah, they stole my clothes.”
“The pipes, too,” said Jimmy Lee Bayliss, who’d already eaten an entire roll of Tums since breakfast. He longed to be back in Texas, enjoying the retired life.
On his fingers, Drake McBride began ticking off the crimes committed against poor Melton. “So there’s assault, grand theft, indecent whatever—how many of ’em were there, son?”
“I dunno.”
“Well, how many’d you see?”
“One,” Melton said, “but they’s had to be more. Ain’t no way just one guy could take me.”
Jimmy Lee Bayliss didn’t say so, but he believed it was entirely possible for one physically fit man to have overpowered the scrawny, chain-smoking Melton.
Drake McBride pulled Jimmy Lee Bayliss aside. Obviously, we can’t tell the police this happened in Section 22, so we’re gonna tell ’em it was Section 21, where we’re legal. I want you to make sure this young fella gets his story straight.”
“Lying to the cops is too risky,” Jimmy Lee Bayliss warned his boss, “especially if we rely on Melton. Kid’s got the IQ of a baked potato. He’s liable to say anything.”
Drake McBride let out an aggravated sigh. “We’re not s’posed to set foot in Section 22, much less be diggin’ a pit and layin’ pipe. What other choice do we have, Jimmy, but to lie?”
“That’s easy: Don’t call the cops.” Jimmy Lee Bayliss was trying to conceal his annoyance. From the start he’d been nervous about the scam, even though Drake McBride had promised that it would make both of them rich beyond their wildest dreams. “Let me handle this,” Jimmy Lee Bayliss told his boss.
“But we got, like, bandits on the loose,” Drake McBride said. “Outlaws, pirates, whatever.”
“You seriously think the cops will come chasing after pipe thieves way out here in the middle of nowhere? They got bigger fish to fry.”
“Probably just dope addicts,” Drake McBride muttered. “Meatheads. Where they gonna sell two tons of pipe?”
They walked back to the truck, where Melton was puffing on a dead cigarette butt. “I’m sweatin’ to death in this stuff,” he complained, and began to strip off the bubble wrap.
“Whoa there!” Drake McBride made a time-out sign with his hands. “No offense, son, but I’m not in the mood to deal with a bucknekked man. Keep your plastic jammies on.”
Jimmy Lee Bayliss told Melton that he would take him to Wal-Mart on the way into town. “I’ll buy you some new clothes, and a hot lunch, too.”
“Thanks, man. What about the overtime?”
Jimmy Lee Bayliss looked at Drake McBride, who made a sour face.
“Hey, I spent all night out here,” Melton said, “them red ants takin’ chunks from my hide. Are you sayin’ I wasn’t on the company clock?” He held up his arms so that the president of Red Diamond Energy could see the gummy red abrasions left by the hardened glue, which Jimmy Lee Bayliss had pried with a screwdriver from the bark of the tree.
“I think you’ll live,” Drake McBride remarked.
Jimmy Lee Bayliss said, “Tell us about the man who attacked you.”
Melton admitted that he hadn’t gotten a clear look at the guy. “He had a ski cap pulled down to his eyes, so I couldn’t really see his face all that great.”
“Was he young or old?”
“I couldn’t say,” Melton replied. “But he was real strong—and real crazy.”
Drake McBride frowned. “Dope fiend. What’d I tell ya?”
“No, man, he wasn’t high or nuthin’. Just whacked-out mean,” Melton said. “When he pasted me to that damn tree, he said I was bear bait. That’s what he called me. Real nice, huh?”
Jimmy Lee Bayliss asked, “Did he have a weapon?”
“I dunno. Probably.”
Meaning the answer was no, thought Jimmy Lee Bayliss. Melton was too embarrassed to admit that he’d been captured by—and lost a load of expensive pipes to—an unarmed intruder.
“Listen to me, son,” Drake McBride said. “We’re not gonna call the cops, okay? Red Diamond will deal with this situation, I promise. We’ll catch this creep and make sure he doesn’t do it to anybody else.”
Melton said, “Sooner the better.”
“Meantime, you gotta promise to zip your lip, okay? You can’t tell anybody what happened out here,” Drake McBride said, “not even your wife and kids.”
“All I got is a girlfriend.”
“Not her, either,” Jimmy Lee Bayliss interjected firmly. “Don’t mention this to a living soul. Understand?”
“Gotcha.” Melton was idly popping the bubbles in his see-through plastic coat. “Hey, when we go by the W alMart, can you buy me some cigarettes? That wacko got my last pack when he swiped my pants.”
“Sure,” Jimmy Lee Bayliss said.
“One more thing—I ain’t never been up in a helicopter before.…”
Drake McBride’s expression turned stony. “Sorry, pardner.”
“Just a quick spin? Aw, come on.”
“You can’t get on a chopper if you’re not wearin’ clothes. Strict FAA rules.”
“What? You’re kiddin’ me,” Melton said.
“Yeah, tough break.”
Then the president of Red Diamond Energy Corporation turned on one boot heel and signaled for his pilot to fire up the engines.
Duane Scrod Sr. was attacking a twenty-ounce sirloin steak, cooked rare. Duane Scrod Jr. contemplated a large, steaming plate of linguini. Millicent Winship picked at a fresh shrimp cocktail; at her age, she had no patience for chitchat.
“DJ., how are your grades at Truman this term?” she asked her grandson.
“Not so great,” he said, “but I aim to do better.” “Do you have any homework tonight?” “No school tomorrow—it’s a teacher work day.” “Sounds like a good opportunity to catch up with some of your studies,” Mrs. Winship said.
“Yes, ma’am. I brought my books home.”
“I must say, you look very serious and handsome.”
Embarrassed, Duane Jr. shoveled pasta into his blushing cheeks.
Mrs. Winship turned to Duane Sr. “It’s quite a difference. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t look at me, Millie. It was all DJ.,” he said, slurping a cup of coffee. “He came back from that camping trip and, I swear, it’s like there’s a stranger in the house. Picks up his dirty clothes, brushes his teeth twice a day, stays up late doin’ his homework. It’s l
ike he turned into a grown-up overnight.”
“Maybe you should take a lesson.” Mrs. Winship wore a frosty smile.
“Aw, lay off,” the boy’s father said.
They were sitting at an outside table overlooking a marina that was filled with yachts and sailboats. The restaurant was called the Silver Dolphin and the food was excellent, though expensive. Mrs. Winship was paying the tab, as usual, and happy to do it. She couldn’t get over the promising change in her grandson.
Duane Sr. was another matter. He showed absolutely no interest in improving himself, or his life. Earlier, Mrs. Winship had caught him stashing packets of oyster crackers in his pockets to take home to his obnoxious pet bird.
She said, “Tell me, DJ., can you see yourself in college someday?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s possible,” Duane Jr. replied.
“I’m so pleased to hear that. Have you given any thought to what subject you might like to study,” Mrs. Winship said, “on the path to a career?”
Chewing loudly, Duane Sr. interjected, “It’s too early for all that. Cut the boy some slack, Millie ….”
“Environmental science,” said Duane Scrod Jr.
“Really?” His grandmother beamed and looked cuttingly at Duane Sr., whose jaw hung open.
“I really like the outdoors. It’s quiet and pretty,” Duane Jr. said. “Plus I’m into animals and fishin’ and stuff.”
“Ever since you were little, you were an explorer. And fearless, too,” Mrs. Winship said fondly.
Duane Sr. began jabbing at his molars with a toothpick, trying to liberate a string of meat. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t see Junior as a ‘scientist.’ Heck, he’s flunkin’ biology for the second or third time.”
“Second,” Duane Jr. said crossly.
Mrs. Winship glowered at Duane Scrod Sr. “You listen to me, and listen well. This boy can be whatever he chooses to be, once he finds the right role model.”
“Ouch,” Duane Sr. said, responding not to the insult but rather to a small hole that he’d punctured in his gums.
Duane Jr. put down his fork. “If they wipe out the Everglades and all, people like me won’t have anywhere to go except for big cities. And I hate big cities.”
Mrs. Winship thoughtfully appraised her grandson. “Tell me about your camping trip,” she said.