Carl Hiaasen for Kids: Hoot, Flush, Scat

by Carl Hiaasen

  “Hush.” She snatched the tube, squirted a dollop of white goo into the palm of one hand, and then carefully coated every square inch of Nick’s face, like she was painting on a mask. He was terrified that the other kids might see what she was doing.

  “Now it’s my turn,” Marta announced, tugging off her iPod.

  “What?”

  She handed him the tube and shut her eyelids tightly. “Careful. That stuff burns if it drips in your eyeballs.”

  Nick felt trapped. He hunkered low in his seat.

  Marta said, “My uncle gets basal cells all the time—that’s a kind of skin cancer. They cut ’em off at the doctor’s office.”

  Nick hastily smeared the sunblock cream on Marta’s cheeks and forehead. “Okay,” he said in a low voice, “you’re good.”

  “Ears, too,” she told him.

  “Aw, come on.”

  “What’s your problem, Nick? I’m sorry, but it runs in our family. Basal cells—you can ask my mom.”

  He couldn’t say so, but touching her skin felt weird. Not bad, just weird. Afterward Marta checked herself out in the bus driver’s rearview mirror to make sure that Nick hadn’t missed any exposed places.

  “Good job,” she said. “That wasn’t so awful, was it?”

  For the rest of the trip, Nick pretended to be fascinated by the view out the window. Finally the bus jounced to a stop and the kids piled out.

  Mrs. Starch was waiting. The mosquito veil wasn’t quite long enough to cover her jutting chin, leaving her vivid anvil-shaped scar on display. Beneath the mesh she wore enormous purple sunglasses that made her look like a mutant dragonfly.

  “Come on, people, get organized,” she said, clapping again and starting to pace.

  Each teacher had a team of fifteen students. The kids milled around anxiously while the names were called out. Nobody wanted to be on Mrs. Starch’s team, because they knew that Mrs. Starch would make them work harder than the other teachers. The whole point of going on a field trip was to goof off.

  Marta leaned close to Nick and said, “If she calls on me, I swear to God, I’ll fake a heart attack.”

  But, by some small miracle, it was Mr. Neal who called out Marta’s name—and then Nick’s. They had been spared.

  Mrs. Starch led the whole group down a winding boardwalk through the scrub and pineland hammock, into thicker woods. There, in the cool shade of ancient bald cypress trees, the boardwalk ended.

  The teams split up in separate directions. Above the treetops, the sky shone bright and cloudless. Despite the drought, there was still enough water in the strand to make the hike a soggy challenge. The students had been advised to wear long pants to protect their legs, and to wear old sneakers that they could throw away after the trip. Only Graham had been foolish enough to show up in shorts, and soon his shins looked like they’d been clawed by a tomcat.

  Mr. Neal’s specialty was botany, and every so often he’d pause to point out a plant or a shrub of local interest. Mindful of Mrs. Starch’s instructions, Nick and Marta would automatically pull their journals from their backpacks and take notes. By the time they stopped for the first rest break, their species list included pond apple trees, strangler figs, laurel oaks, wax myrtles, sabal palms, wild coffee, and resurrection ferns.

  Animal life was more elusive. Mr. Neal spotted a barred owl high on a tree bough, and later a young red-bellied turtle basking on a mossy log. Graham shrieked at the sight of a ribbon snake that he somehow mistook for a poisonous cottonmouth. Marta and two other girls briefly got tangled in a tent-sized spiderweb, while a boy named Mickey Maris captured a green anole lizard that Mr. Neal made him release on the spot.

  Nick, who was scouting for signs of panthers, came across fresh pig tracks, but not much else. Occasionally he could hear the other student teams as they moved at a distance throughout the swamp. Once he was certain that he’d picked up Mrs. Starch’s voice yodeling, “We are now in bromeliad heaven!”

  At noon Mr. Neal’s group sat down for lunch beneath a crooked cypress that he estimated was five hundred years old. The kids had brought their own sandwiches—Nick’s was turkey and cheese, Marta’s was peanut butter and Nutella. They shared a lime Gatorade that Nick’s mother had packed in a padded cooler bag.

  Addressing the team, Mr. Neal said, “Can anyone tell me why we’re not getting bothered by mosquitoes?”

  Graham’s hand shot up. He looked flabbergasted when Mr. Neal called his name.

  “Because …,” he began. “Because …”

  “Yes, Graham?”

  “Because of …”

  “Go on.”

  “Of … of …” Graham shrugged in defeat. “I don’t have a clue.”

  Mr. Neal pointed to another student. “Rachel?”

  “Because the weather’s been too dry for skeeters,” Rachel said.

  “A good theory,” the teacher said, “but there’s still plenty of water for the little buggers to lay their eggs in. Nick Waters, what’s your guess?”

  Nick wasn’t paying attention; he was thinking about his father. Marta elbowed him and he looked up, flustered, and said, “What? I didn’t hear the question.”

  “Why aren’t we getting chewed up by mosquitoes?” Mr. Neal asked with a touch of impatience.

  Marta decided to return Nick’s favor from the day before in Mrs. Starch’s class. She cut herself into the discussion and said, “Because mosquito fish are eating up all the baby mosquitoes?”

  “Excellent!” Mr. Neal looked relieved that somebody got it right.

  “Now I’ve got a question,” Marta said. “Why do they call it the Black Vine Swamp when all the vines we’ve seen are green?”

  Graham raised his hand to try again, and the other students groaned. Mr. Neal said, “I’m not sure I know the answer to that one—anybody got a theory?”

  At that moment they heard a piercing cry rise from among the towering cypresses. It didn’t sound like any noise that a person could make.

  Mr. Neal was as startled as the hikers, although he tried not to show it. He raised a finger to his lips as a signal for everyone to stay quiet. A woodpecker hammering on a dead stump stopped abruptly and flitted away.

  Some of the kids got spooked, but Nick was excited. He thought he knew what kind of animal they’d heard. He grabbed the video camera from his backpack and, after groping to locate the Record button, aimed the lens toward the part of the woods from where the wild cry had come.

  It was hard to make out details through the viewfinder because of the forest shadows, and because Nick’s hands were shaking slightly. Marta had edged closer, peeking over his shoulder.

  “You see that? See it?” She pointed at the screen of the viewfinder.

  Something was running among the tree trunks—a large, tannish blur.

  “Where’d it go?” Marta whispered. “What was it?”

  “Just wait,” Nick said, but there was no other movement.

  Moments later, the students heard splashes, and then a heavy rustling that faded into silence.

  Nobody made a peep until Mr. Neal spoke. “Probably just a fox or a wild hog—nothing to worry about,” he said, not sounding too sure of himself.

  Nick switched off the camera. “That was too big for a fox. I bet it was a panther.”

  Not all of the other kids shared his curiosity about the big cats, and some of them expressed dismay at the possibility of crossing one’s path. Mickey Maris stood up and declared that they should all march back to the bus at once.

  Mr. Neal said, “I doubt seriously if that was a panther.”

  “What about a bear?” Graham squeaked. “They got black bears out here—Mrs. Starch said so!”

  While Mr. Neal tried to calm the students, Nick fiddled with the control menu on the video camera. He wanted to replay the tape at slow speed so that he might get a better look at the creature.

  Marta tweaked his arm. “Hey, do you smell something?”

  Nick looked up from the camera and took
a sniff. “That’s smoke,” he said.

  “Definitely.”

  Just then they heard two long blasts from Mrs. Starch’s boat horn. Everybody began murmuring and clustered around Mr. Neal, who told them to follow him back toward the boardwalk as quickly as possible—but no running, he said, and no talking.

  The students didn’t have to be told twice. Hurriedly they zipped up their book bags and lined up behind the teacher, who led them briskly along the same wet, peatfilled slough that they had come in on. The smoky odor grew heavier, and in some places a gray haze was visible through the trees.

  After assembling at the boardwalk, the three teams merged to form a long single line. At the very end of it was Mrs. Starch, who burped the air horn to make the students turn around and pay attention.

  “Listen up, people!” she said. “A small wildfire has sprung up on the far edge of the swamp—pretty common for this time of the year. It’ll probably burn out when it reaches the cypress muck, but there’s no sense taking any chances. That’s why we’re cutting short our field trip and heading back to school. Straight back to school.”

  Marta groaned and leaned against Nick. “What if she makes us go to her class? I’m gonna be sick again, all over the place.”

  “Pray for a flat tire on the way home,” Nick said.

  He was disappointed because he’d hoped for another opportunity to see the panther, or whatever it was that had darted into the cypress shadows. However, a wildfire was nothing to fool with. If a strong wind kicked up, the blaze would race across the land faster than any human could possibly run.

  “Please stay in line behind Mr. Neal and Miss Moffitt,” Mrs. Starch said. “I’ll be coming along in a minute—Libby dropped her medicine, so I’m going back to find it.” She clapped so loudly that it sounded like a paper bag popping. “Now get your fannies in gear! Move!”

  At the time, nobody questioned Mrs. Starch’s decision to go back. Libby Marshall had frequent asthma attacks, and she always carried an inhaler. The haze from the fire would make it harder for her to breathe.

  “Quickly and quietly,” urged Miss Moffitt as the kids began streaming toward the bus.

  Nick was walking behind Marta, who was behind Graham, who was behind Mickey Maris, who was behind Rachel, who was behind Hector, the star of the soccer team. The students were in such a rush that they were stepping on each other’s heels. Nick lost one of his sneakers when he was overrun by the boy next in line, an algebra ace named Gene, who stepped around him and kept going.

  When Nick knelt to retrieve his shoe, he glanced back down the curving boardwalk just in time to see Mrs. Starch, in her straw hat and dragonfly glasses, marching alone into the smoky swamp.

  He had no idea that she wouldn’t be coming out.

  FOUR

  The camera battery went dead, so Nick and Marta couldn’t view the videotape on the bus. By the time the kids got back to the school, it was so late that Mr. Neal and Miss Moffitt let them finish the day doing homework in the cafeteria.

  Marta had an appointment with her orthodontist, so Nick walked home from the bus stop alone, his sneakers squishing. He kicked them off at the front door and ran to the den to check his e-mail.

  Nothing.

  Nick’s father belonged to the 53rd Infantry Brigade of the Florida Army National Guard, which called itself the Gator Brigade and had its own Web site. Whenever a soldier got killed in action, a memorial page was posted. Nick held his breath and clicked on the tab.

  A photograph appeared of a reservist who’d died when a roadside bomb exploded while he was on foot patrol near Baghdad. It wasn’t Nick’s dad, but Nick read the tribute closely.

  The soldier was thirty years old, with a wife and two small children in Tampa. The picture showed the man dressed in his crisply pressed army uniform in front of an American flag. He looked so strong and confident that it was almost impossible to believe he was dead.

  Nick swallowed to keep himself from crying. He closed out the National Guard Web site and switched over to YouTube so that he could watch some funny videos. Nick considered it his number one job to keep up his mother’s spirits; he didn’t want her coming in the door and catching him with tears in his eyes.

  By the time she got home from work, he felt better. He’d recharged the camera battery, and he was getting ready to look at the tape from the Black Vine Swamp.

  “How was the field trip?” his mom asked.

  Nick told her about the wildfire.

  “Thank God nobody was hurt,” she said. “How did it start?”

  Nick shrugged. “Who knows? It’s the dry season—fires pop up all the time.”

  “Well, you definitely had a more exciting day than I did.”

  She removed some plastic containers from the refrigerator and announced that she was fixing a Greek salad for dinner because she was too tired to cook.

  “One cool thing happened: I think I saw a panther in the woods,” Nick said. “It’s on the video—you want to check it out?”

  His mom sat on the sofa. Nick plugged the camera into the wall and connected it to the television set. “You’ll have to watch close. It’s kind of blurry,” he said, “and real short.”

  When he pressed the Play button, the cypress strand came into view. The picture, though wobbly and somewhat out of focus, was easier to see on a TV screen than on the camera’s small viewfinder.

  “There it is!” Nick exclaimed when the tannish form crossed between the tree trunks.

  After a few moments of stillness, the screen went blank.

  “That’s it?” his mother asked.

  Nick touched the Rewind button. “Let’s watch again.”

  From beginning to end, the tape lasted only fifteen seconds. Nick paused it when the animal came into view.

  His mom said, “Honey, that’s one funky-looking panther.”

  The animal was moving at an angle away from the camera, so its head wasn’t fully visible. The torso didn’t look long and streamlined like a panther’s; the creature was more blocky and upright.

  “Maybe a wild hog,” his mother said.

  “Wrong color. We heard a cry, and it sounded like a big cat, I swear.” Nick played the tape in slow motion, rewound it, and played it again.

  Where’s the tail? he thought glumly. Panthers have long, black-tipped tails.

  “Freeze it right there!” His mother popped up from the sofa. “Okay, now zoom in. Zoom!”

  “I can’t zoom in Play mode. It’s not like Photoshop.”

  “Then just look!” She went up to the TV and pointed to a dark band around the animal’s midsection. “Can you see that?”

  Nick could see it just fine. “I don’t believe this,” he said.

  His mom smiled. “You’ve been ponged, Nicky.”

  “You mean punked.”

  “Whatever,” she said. “Your ‘panther’ is wearing a belt!”

  Dr. Dressler stayed longer than usual after school let out. Miss Moffitt and Mr. Neal were in his office, giving an account of what had happened during the field trip. Dr. Dressler was shaken by what he was hearing.

  “So the last time either of you saw Mrs. Starch, she was actually going back into the swamp,” he said, “with a wildfire burning?”

  “To get Libby Marshall’s asthma inhaler,” Mr. Neal said.

  Dr. Dressler was trying not to appear freaked-out, but in his entire twelve-year career as a private school administrator, he’d never lost a teacher before.

  “But why didn’t you wait for her to return?” he asked.

  “Because of the fire,” Mr. Neal said. He turned for moral support to Miss Moffitt, who nodded.

  “Mrs. Starch told us not to wait,” Miss Moffitt explained. “She said to move the kids out of there as fast as we could, and she’d meet us back at school. She had her own car.”

  “Yes, yes, you told me.” Dr. Dressler drummed his fingers on his desk. The explanation made total sense; the safety of the students was always the first priority. Of c
ourse Mrs. Starch would have ordered the bus to leave the area as soon as possible.

  Mr. Neal cautioned against jumping to conclusions. “Maybe she drove straight home instead of coming here. Or maybe she stopped at the grocery. Did you try her cell phone?”

  “About ten times,” Dr. Dressler said. “No answer.”

  He doubted if the Truman School had an official procedure for reporting a teacher missing. Most likely he’d have to notify the police.

  He said, “Maybe someone should take a drive to her house, just to make sure she’s not there.”

  Neither Miss Moffitt nor Mr. Neal seemed eager to volunteer. All the faculty members had heard the peculiar stories about Mrs. Starch—the deadly snake collection, the taxidermied critters, and so on.

  “Would you happen to know if she has relatives living around here?” Dr. Dressler inquired. “Somebody we could contact, to see if they’ve heard from her?”

  Neither Mr. Neal nor Miss Moffitt could recall Mrs. Starch mentioning any family connections.

  “I heard that her husband moved to Brazil ten years ago,” Miss Moffitt said.

  “I heard he disappeared,” Mr. Neal said, “without a trace.”

  Dr. Dressler struggled to contain his exasperation. “There’s got to be somebody—a sister or brother or cousin twice removed.” He made a mental note to look through Mrs. Starch’s employment file and find out whom she’d listed as next of kin.

  The meeting was interrupted by the telephone. It was a lieutenant from the county fire department, returning an earlier call from Dr. Dressler.

  Mr. Neal and Miss Moffitt heard only the headmaster’s side of the conversation, which was mostly “I see” and “I understand” and “Really?” His face was gray when he hung up the phone.

  “The firefighters didn’t find Mrs. Starch,” he said, “but her car was still parked on the dirt road near the boardwalk, where she’d left it.”

  “A blue Prius?” Mr. Neal asked.

  Dr. Dressler nodded tightly.

  Miss Moffitt slumped. “Oh my, no.”

  “The fire was already out when the crews got there,” the headmaster said, “which is good news.”

  Mr. Neal said, “They’re still out there looking for her, right?”