by Carl Hiaasen
When all of us sit down at the table, the first thing he says is: “Did they find Baxter?”
“Not yet, Dennis,” Lil answers patiently.
This is like the fiftieth time he’s asked since he got out of surgery.
“Baxter doesn’t want to be found,” Summer says. “He knows we got to the cops first and told them everything. Hey, the dude’s so rich he could be in Paris by now.”
Dad’s tracing little circles in the air with his fork. “I can’t stop wondering how a bag holding a prairie rattlesnake got inside that chopper.” His eyes drift in my direction. “Isn’t that bizarre?”
So I need to invent a semi-believable theory, quick.
“Maybe the snake was Baxter’s Plan B for getting rid of you,” I say, “in case the bear thing didn’t work out. He could have paid somebody to go catch him one.”
“Billy, you wouldn’t ever fool around with a live rattler, would you?”
“Dennis, your dinner’s getting cold,” says Mom, without so much as glancing at me. There is no doubt she’s figured out what happened.
I’m also sure that Lil, who knows I’m not afraid of snakes, assumes I’m the one who put the rattler in the poacher’s helicopter. In front of my parents, she’s nice enough not to mention the pillowcase that’s missing from the bed in the guest room.
Daisy Baxter called earlier. She and Dad talked for a long time. She’d already spoken with the sheriff and the rangers, but she wanted a firsthand account of what went down at Tom Miner. She was also baffled about the rattlesnake in the chopper, but mostly she was flat-out furious at her husband—and sick about the shooting. She still hadn’t heard from Lincoln, and it didn’t sound like she was waiting anxiously by the phone. She told my father she’d already hired a divorce lawyer.
“Another good reason for Mr. Baxter to keep hiding,” Mom remarks.
Dad, who is now inhaling the lamb chops, pauses to say, “I bet I could find him.”
The coldness of our collective stare draws an instant apology. “You’re right, you’re right, that’s a terrible idea,” he says. “I guess I’m still loopy from all the medicine they gave me.”
Lil smiles. “Admit it, Dennis. You’re just loopy, period.”
Summer asks Dad about the savage noises he was making while he clomped through the woods. “Exactly what kind of creature was that supposed to be?”
“Really? A bear, what else!”
“Because…?”
“I was scared of running into that momma griz,” he says. “Females with cubs always run from big male grizzlies, so that’s what I was imitating.”
“No offense, Dad,” I say, “but you sounded like a gorilla with asthma.”
“My son the comedian.”
“Seriously. That’s why I blasted Baxter with the pepper spray before he could fire his gun. I figured it had to be you crashing through those trees. No self-respecting bear would make so much racket.”
Dad grins sheepishly before turning serious. “If it weren’t for you, Billy, I wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”
“And if you had an ounce of sense, Dennis,” Mom says, “none of us would be sitting here right now, talking about the stupid bullet hole in your leg. If it weren’t for you, none of us would be nervous wrecks. We’d all be out on the river, enjoying this lovely summer day.”
“That’s right,” says Lil, “looking for eagles.”
Summer and I are sensible enough to stay out of this one. My father clears his throat and announces that he’s ready for a slice of huckleberry pie.
TWENTY-THREE
This one kid, he never stayed in the same town more than a couple years.
His mother kept moving the family from place to place because she was obsessed with eagle nests, of all things. The kid didn’t try to make friends when he started at a new school, because he knew he wouldn’t be there long, so what was the point?
Still, he didn’t feel lonely or left out. He spent all his free time outdoors in the woods and wetlands, fishing, hiking, catching snakes.
The kid was different, definitely. He’d be the first to admit it.
One summer he got to travel to Montana. Twice. He was visiting his father, whom he hadn’t seen for many years.
It wasn’t a simple situation. The kid’s dad had a new family and a dangerous job he didn’t want to talk about. Lots of sketchy stuff was going on, but in time it all worked out. The kid was glad he went.
He came back to Florida with a good story. The only problem was the ending. There was one loose strand, one big question that remained unanswered.
Until now, maybe.
* * *
—
Except for working at the supermarket, I’m grounded until school starts in August. I really want to hop on my bike and go check my favorite snake spots, but that’s not happening. Mom says the subject is closed.
So I’m in my room, reading, trying not to go nuts.
She knocks on the door. “Billy, come out here. Someone sent you a package.”
The box came from Livingston, Montana, the house on Geyser Street.
“What’re you waiting for? Open it already,” says Belinda, hovering.
College starts in a couple weeks, and she’s still trying to decide what to pack. Her clothes are piled all over the house. And the shoes? Seriously—she’ll need to rent a semitruck to carry all her shoes.
Inside the box from Montana are three hand-wrapped items and a plain brown envelope addressed to “Billy Big Stick.”
First the gifts:
Little Thunder-Sky sent my mother a real golden eagle feather she found on the banks of the Yellowstone River. The feather is creamy white with a coffee-brown tip, which means it came from the bird’s tail. A prize, in other words. Mom is speechless.
Summer Chasing-Hawks sent my sister a pair of shell earrings, the same ones that had belonged to her great-grandmother on the Crow reservation. I was afraid Belinda would make some snarky comment about Summer’s present, but she reacted as if they were diamonds. The earrings look good on her, I’ve got to admit.
My father sent me something solid, taped in Bubble Wrap. It’s the engraved pocketknife that Chin had given me, the one that walloped Dad in a highly sensitive region when it dropped from the drone.
Dear B.A.D., says a neatly penned note inside the Bubble Wrap, please aim higher next time!
P.S. Thanks for saving my life, in more ways than one.
I open the envelope and unfold an article clipped from the Bozeman newspaper. Above the headline, somebody using a red Sharpie has jotted: Nature always gets the last word!
It’s Summer’s handwriting. I recognize it from the checks she mails to Mom.
Here’s the headline on the article: FEW CLUES IN SEARCH FOR MISSING SPORTSMAN.
I’m thinking: “Sportsman”? Give me a break.
According to the news story, the whereabouts of Lincoln Chumley Baxter IV, a prominent California businessman and avid outdoorsman, remain unknown. A spokesperson for his family’s real-estate company said Baxter piloted his helicopter to the Tom Miner Basin to scout for elk in advance of the fall hunting season—a weak excuse that nobody in Paradise Valley would believe.
Searchers found Baxter’s empty rifle discarded on a thorny embankment. The weapon had been fired twice, raising the possibility that Baxter’s true intention was to poach wild game. Three hikers—that would be me, Summer, and Dad—reported a “violent encounter” with the hunter.
Apparently the sheriff didn’t give the details (or our names) to the newspaper, which is probably a good thing. Meanwhile Mrs. Daisy Baxter is directing all questions to her attorney, who won’t comment.
Summer had underlined the last two paragraphs of the article:
In addition to the rifle, searchers found a half-smoked cigar i
n a large mound of bear scat. A female grizzly with two young cubs has been seen in the area.
Although Baxter is known to favor the same brand of cigar, authorities say it’s too soon to draw any conclusions from this disturbing discovery.
Summer already drew her conclusion, obviously. She thinks the stogie in the bear poop means Nature got the last word. I’d say that’s a definite possibility.
The next morning is Sunday, so we pack our binoculars, sunblock, and patience. Mom parks behind the same bait shop where we always leave the car. From there it’s a short walk to the lagoon. For two hours we stand in the broiling heat staring up at the sky, waiting for the bald eagles. Belinda says her neck hurts. Mine does, too.
“That nest is just a mess,” Mom mutters.
“They’ll fix it up,” I say.
Eagle parents usually begin to tidy their nests toward the end of September. The female lays her eggs in December or January.
“But what if they’re gone, Billy?”
“The birds aren’t gone, Mom.”
“I read where there’s a new pair in Sarasota. They built their nest on top of a cell-phone tower.”
“I don’t want to move to Sarasota.”
Belinda says she can’t wait to be at college, far away from all this craziness.
“That isn’t very nice,” Mom says. “You think I’m crazy?”
Major groan from Belinda. “That is not what I said.”
My phone rings. It’s such a rare event that my mother and sister stop arguing to stare in surprise.
Before answering, I check the name on the caller ID.
“So who is it?” Mom asks.
“It’s Dad.”
Belinda says, “You’re kidding.”
He sounds pretty good, for a guy who just got shot.
“Billy, did you get the package with the knife?”
“I did, thanks. How’s your leg?”
“I’m a rock star at rehab. Yesterday I threw away my crutch!”
He asks to say hi to Mom and Belinda, so I pass the phone along. Overhead I can see pelicans, gulls, and the occasional heron—but no baldies.
When I get back on the line, my father says, “They still haven’t caught Lincoln Baxter. What do you suppose that means?”
“It’s too late.”
“You think he left the state?”
“No, Dad. I think he left this world. I think he made a wrong turn in the deep timber, and ran into that momma grizzly.”
“Then why didn’t they find more than a cigar butt?”
“There’s miles of big country out there. Baxter could be anywhere—what’s left of him.”
“So Billy Big Stick believes in karma.”
“More like justice, Dad.”
He says, “You should see my new drone. I named it Sophie.”
“Why do you need a new drone? You promised Lil no more secret missions.”
“Summer didn’t tell you? I lined up a job with the Montana tourism office, making aerial videos for their TV commercials.”
“Wait—you’re officially done chasing poachers?”
“Absolutely. All my future drone trips will be strictly scenic—mountains and rivers, sunrises and sunsets. ‘Video postcards’ are what they want.”
“You’ll crush it, Dad,” I say, though I don’t believe his story for a minute. He’d be bored out of his skull doing video commercials, and I’ll bet my bicycle there’s nobody named Dennis Dickens on the payroll of the Montana tourism board.
“I’ll talk to you later this week, Billy.”
“You will?”
“On Thursday. From now on, I’ll be calling every Thursday.”
“Okay. That’ll work,” I say.
“Unless your mom doesn’t want me to.”
“I’m pretty sure she won’t mind.”
On the flight home, Mom had apologized for cutting up the envelopes that arrived every month from Montana. She said she didn’t want me and Belinda seeing Dad’s address and then writing to him, because that would let him off the hook. She wanted him to be the one to reach out, as any decent father should. It was the principle of the thing, she said.
When I asked if it was weird seeing him in a new place with a new family, Mom smiled and said it wasn’t as awkward as she expected. She told me she admired what he was doing with his life now, but then quickly added: “He’s still impossible, Billy. All over the map, as they say. Lil’s got a thousand times more patience than I ever did.”
Gray clouds are sneaking in, and soon a warm rain begins to fall on the lagoon. Our eagle lookout point is a picnic area near the water’s edge, a small clearing away from the trees. Mom flings a waterproof jacket over her head. She looks restless and bummed. Belinda wants to walk back to the car.
“Ten more minutes,” I say.
“Five,” snaps Belinda. “My hair’s getting drenched.”
Mom peeks out at me. “I saw where there’s a new magnet school near that nest in Sarasota.”
“Too bad I’m not a magnetic person.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass, Billy.”
I dry the lenses of my binoculars and make another slow sweep of the treetops.
“Well, hey there,” I say.
Mom’s head pops out from under the jacket. “What is it? You see something?”
I point. She looks up.
“Where, Billy? Show me!”
“Right there. Three pines north of the nest.”
The eagles are perched on the same branch, raindrops glistening on their dark feathers. Both snowy faces are looking our way.
Belinda says, “Okay, now I see ’em.”
My mother clenches her binoculars. “Oh my God, look at that! Have they been up there this whole time watching us?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” I say. “We’re pretty amusing.”
“Look how close together they’re sitting. I love that!”
“I told you they weren’t gone, Mom. They like this place.”
“I guess they do.”
Belinda asks if we can go home now.
“Not just yet,” my mother says in a hushed, happy voice.
It feels nice out here. The rain won’t last long, but I wouldn’t mind if it poured all day.
Carl Hiaasen was born and raised in Florida, where he still lives with his family. His books include the Newbery Honor winner Hoot, as well as Flush, Scat, Chomp, and Skink—No Surrender.
Hiaasen writes a column for the Miami Herald and is the author of many bestselling novels for adults, including Bad Monkey, Star Island, and Razor Girl.
Read more about Hiaasen’s work at carlhiaasen.com or follow him on Twitter at @Carl_Hiaasen.
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