by Carl Hiaasen
“I know, honey,” Mrs. Eberhardt said, “but he’s gone.”
Roy nodded. “Sure looks that way.”
Mullet Fingers had lasted less than forty-eight hours under the same roof with Lonna, who’d spent most of that time on the telephone trying to drum up more TV interviews. Lonna had been counting on her son to keep the Leep family in the limelight, which is the last place he wanted to be.
With Beatrice’s assistance, the boy had snuck out of the house while Lonna and Leon were arguing about a new dress that Lonna had purchased for seven hundred dollars in anticipation of appearing on The Oprah Winfrey Show. Nobody from Oprah’s program ever called Lonna back, so Leon had demanded that she return the dress and get a full refund.
When the Leeps’ shouting reached the same approximate decibel level as a B-52, Beatrice lowered her stepbrother out a bathroom window. Unfortunately, a nosy neighbor had mistaken the escape for a burglary in progress and had notified the police. Mullet Fingers made it only two blocks before speeding patrol cars surrounded him.
Lonna had been furious to learn her son was up to his old runaway tricks. Out of spite, she told the officers that he’d stolen a valuable toe ring from her jewelry box, and demanded that he be locked up in juvenile detention to teach him a lesson.
There the boy had lasted only seventeen hours before breaking out, this time with an unlikely accomplice.
Hiding in the laundry basket with his new best friend, Dana Matherson undoubtedly had no clue that he’d been specially selected to join the jailbreak, that the scrawny blond kid knew exactly who he was and knew all the rotten things he’d done to Roy Eberhardt.
Being of simple mind, Dana probably had thought only of his unexpected good fortune as the laundry basket was loaded into the laundry truck, which was then driven out the gates of the detention center. Even the approaching sirens probably hadn’t worried him until the truck braked and the back doors flew open.
It was then the two young fugitives leaped from the smelly bundle of dirty clothes and made a run for it.
Later, when Roy heard the story from Beatrice, he knew instantly why her stepbrother had chosen Dana Matherson as an escape partner. Mullet Fingers was fleet and slippery while Dana was sluggish and sore-footed, still not fully recovered from his encounter with the rattraps.
The perfect decoy—that was Dana.
Sure enough, the police had easily caught up with the big thug, though he shook off two officers before eventually being tackled and handcuffed. By then, Beatrice’s stepbrother was a distant blur, a bronze-colored wisp vanishing into a snarled tree line.
The police never found him, nor did they search particularly hard. Dana was the prize catch, the one with the rap sheet and the bad attitude.
Roy couldn’t find Mullet Fingers, either. Many times he’d ridden his bicycle to the junkyard and checked the Jo-Jo’s ice-cream truck, but it was always empty. Then, one day, the truck itself vanished, dragged off and pressed into a rusty cube of scrap metal.
Beatrice Leep knew where her stepbrother was hiding, but he’d sworn her to secrecy. “Sorry, Tex,” she’d told Roy, “I made a blood promise.”
So, yes, the kid was gone.
And Roy knew he’d never see Napoleon Bridger again, unless he wanted to be seen.
“He’ll be all right. He’s a survivor,” Roy said, for his mother’s benefit.
“I hope you’re right,” she said, “but he’s so young—”
“Hey, I’ve got an idea.” Roy’s father jangled his car keys. “Let’s go for a ride.”
When the Eberhardts arrived at the corner of Woodbury and East Oriole, two other vehicles were already parked at the fence gate. One was a squad car, the other was a blue pickup truck; Roy recognized both of them.
Officer David Delinko had stopped on his way home from the police station, where he’d received another commendation from the chief—this time for aiding in the recapture of Dana Matherson.
Leroy “Curly” Branitt, who was temporarily between jobs, had been driving his wife and mother-in-law to the outlet mall when he’d decided to make the brief detour.
Like the Eberhardts, they’d come to see the owls.
As dusk fell, they waited in a friendly and uncomplicated silence, though there was plenty they could have talked about. Except for the fence with its fading streamers, the land bore no sign that the pancake-house people had ever been there. Curly’s trailer had been towed, the earthmoving machines hauled away, the Travelin’ Johnnys returned to the toilet-rental company. Even the survey stakes were gone, uprooted and carted off with the trash.
Gradually the night air filled with the buzz of crickets, and Roy smiled to himself, remembering the boxful he’d released there. Obviously the owls had plenty of other bugs to eat.
Before long, a pair of the birds popped out of a nearby burrow. They were followed by a wobbly-legged youngster that looked as fragile as a Christmas ornament.
In unison, the owls rotated their onion-sized heads to stare at the humans who were staring at them. Roy could only imagine what they were thinking.
“I gotta admit,” Curly said with a fond grunt, “they’re kinda cute.”
One Saturday, after the Mother Paula’s scandal had died down, Roy went to watch Beatrice and her friends play a soccer game. It was a sweltering afternoon, but Roy had resigned himself to the fact that there was no change of seasons in South Florida, only mild variations of summer.
And though he missed the crisp Montana autumns, Roy found himself daydreaming less often about the place. Today the sun lit up the green soccer field like a neon carpet, and Roy was happy to peel off his T-shirt and bake.
Beatrice scored three goals before she noticed him sprawled in the bleachers. When she waved, Roy gave her two thumbs up and chuckled, because it was pretty funny—Beatrice the Bear waving at Tex, the new kid.
The high sun and the steaming heat reminded Roy of another bright afternoon not so long ago, in a place not so far off. Before the soccer match ended, he grabbed his shirt and slipped away.
It was a short ride from the soccer field to the hidden creek. Roy chained his bike to a gnarly old stump and picked his way through the tangled trees.
The tide was very high, and only a weather-beaten wedge of the Molly Bell’s pilothouse showed above the waterline. Roy hung his sneakers on a forked limb and swam out toward the wreck, the warm current nudging him along.
With both hands he grabbed the lip of the pilothouse roof and hoisted himself up on the warped bare wood. There was scarcely enough space for a dry perch.
Roy lay on his belly, blinked the salt from his eyes, and waited. The quiet wrapped around him like a soft blanket.
First he spotted the T-shaped shadow of the osprey crossing the pale green water beneath him. Later came the white heron, gliding low in futile search of a shallow edge to wade. Eventually the bird lighted halfway up a black mangrove, squawking irritably about the high tides.
The elegant company was welcome, but Roy kept his eyes fastened on the creek. The splash of a feeding tarpon upstream put him on alert, and sure enough, the surface of the water began to shake and boil. Within moments a school of mullet erupted, sleek bars of silver shooting airborne again and again.
Atop the pilothouse, Roy scooted forward as far as he dared, dangling both arms. The mullet quit jumping but assembled in a V-shaped squadron that pushed a nervous ripple down the middle of the creek toward the Molly Bell. Soon the water beneath him darkened, and Roy could make out the blunt-headed shapes of individual fish, each swimming frantically for its life.
As the school approached the sunken crab boat, it divided as cleanly as if it had been sliced by a saber. Quickly Roy picked out one fish and, teetering precariously, plunged both hands into the current.
For one thrilling moment he actually felt it in his grasp—as cool and slick and magical as mercury. He squeezed his fingers into fists, but the mullet easily jetted free, leaping once before it rejoined the fleeing school.
Roy sat up and gazed at his dripping, empty palms.
Impossible, he thought. Nobody could catch one of those darn things bare-handed, not even Beatrice’s stepbrother. It must have been a trick, some sort of clever illusion.
A noise like a laugh came out of the dense knotted mangroves. Roy assumed it was the heron, but when he looked up, he saw that the bird had gone. Slowly he rose, shielding his brow from the sun’s glare.
“That you?” he shouted. “Napoleon Bridger, is that you?”
Nothing.
Roy waited and waited, until the sun dropped low and the creek was draped in shadows. No more laughing sounds came from the trees. Reluctantly he slid off the Molly Bell and let the falling tide carry him to shore.
Robotically he got into his clothes, though when he reached for his shoes he saw that only one was hanging from the forked bough. His right sneaker was missing.
Roy put on the left sneaker and went hopping in search of the other. He soon found it half-submerged in the shallows beneath the branches, where he figured it must have fallen.
Yet when he bent to pick up the shoe, it wouldn’t come loose. The laces had been securely entwined around a barnacle-encrusted root.
Roy’s fingers trembled as he undid the precisely tied clove-hitch knots. He lifted the soggy sneaker and peeked inside.
There he spied a mullet no larger than a man’s index finger, flipping and splashing to protest its captivity. Roy emptied the baby fish into his hand and waded deeper into the creek.
Gently he placed the mullet in the water, where it flashed once and vanished like a spark.
Roy stood motionless, listening intently, but all he heard was the hum of mosquitoes and the low whisper of the tide. The running boy was already gone.
As Roy laced on his other sneaker, he laughed to himself.
So the great bare-handed mullet grab wasn’t a trick. It wasn’t impossible after all.
Guess I’ll have to come back another day and try again, Roy thought. That’s what a real Florida boy would do.
CARL HIAASEN has been writing about Florida since his father gave him a typewriter at age six. Then it was hunt-and-peck stories about neighborhood kickball and softball games, given away to his friends. Now Hiaasen writes columns for the Miami Herald and is the author of many best-selling novels for adults, including Sick Puppy and Basket Case.
Hoot, Hiaasen’s first novel for young readers, is full of his trademark satirical wit, revealing the good, the bad, and the screwy state of Florida.