Carl Hiaasen for Kids: Hoot, Flush, Scat

by Carl Hiaasen

  The headmaster wasted no time getting to his questions. “Did you and Marta really go to Mrs. Starch’s house?”

  Nick nodded. “Nobody’s seen her since the field trip. It just seems so weird.”

  “She had a family emergency,” Dr. Dressler said, “and she informed the school that she’d need some time off. There’s nothing weird about that.”

  Dr. Dressler didn’t sound very sure to Nick. In fact, he sounded like he was trying to persuade himself that Mrs. Starch’s sudden disappearance was normal.

  “How did you and Marta even get to her place? It’s way out near the mall,” the headmaster said.

  “We walked from the movie theater.”

  “And what did you find when you got there?”

  Nick considered his response carefully. He and Marta had promised each other not to tell anyone about the man who called himself Twilly and said that Mrs. Starch was his aunt.

  “Well, she wasn’t home,” Nick said. “It looked like she hadn’t been there for a while.”

  Dr. Dressler folded his hands in a mechanical way. It seemed to Nick that he wanted to appear unruffled.

  “Did you see anything unusual?” the headmaster asked.

  Nick immediately thought about the creepy gallery of stuffed animals inside Mrs. Starch’s house. “It was dark,” he said, dodging Dr. Dressler’s question without having to invent a lie.

  “But clearly she knew that you and Marta had been there, or else she wouldn’t have written the letter.”

  It had to be Twilly who’d told Mrs. Starch about encountering the two students. However, Nick saw no reason to inform Dr. Dressler that he and Marta had been captured by an odd stranger wearing a ski cap and an ammo belt full of live bullets.

  “Maybe she peeked out and spotted us from an upstairs window,” Nick said. “Just because she didn’t answer the door doesn’t mean she wasn’t home.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” said the headmaster.

  “Have you talked to her since she’s been gone?”

  Dr. Dressler stiffened behind his desk. “As I mentioned before, she’s been in communication with the school.”

  “But have you actually talked to her? Has anyone?”

  “I’m certain that she’ll call,” Dr. Dressler said curtly, “as soon as her family situation is taken care of.”

  The phone rang, and the headmaster picked it up. After listening for a moment, he excused himself from the office. Several minutes passed, and Nick grew restless.

  He noticed a thick file marked “B. Starch” on a corner of Dr. Dressler’s desk. Nick flipped open the file and hurriedly started skimming the pages. Normally he wasn’t a snoop, but he was still highly annoyed about his letter being opened without his permission. He figured that Dr. Dressler owed him one.

  Nick was searching for a particular piece of information, but the paperwork in Mrs. Starch’s file was mostly dull and routine. He found what he was looking for just as he heard the muffled voice of the headmaster, speaking to someone outside the door. Nick shut the file folder barely half a second before Dr. Dressler walked in.

  “I only have one more question, Nick.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you absolutely guarantee that you and Marta will follow Mrs. Starch’s wishes? Please give her the privacy she needs at this time. It’s only fair.”

  “We were worried about her, that’s all. We didn’t mean to cause any hassle.”

  Dr. Dressler seemed to be struggling with the notion that any of Bunny Starch’s students cared that much about her.

  “Look, I know she’s not the most popular teacher at Truman,” said Nick. “In fact, just the opposite. But after what happened on the field trip …”

  The headmaster nodded. “Yes, it was very courageous of her to go back for Libby’s medicine while that fire was burning. And don’t worry, Nick, the school will honor her appropriately when she returns.”

  Dr. Dressler escorted him out of the office, apparently believing that Nick had promised not to concern himself further with the whereabouts of Mrs. Starch. In fact, Nick had made no such pledge.

  “Did you talk to any of her family?” he asked the headmaster.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I heard she had a nephew,” Nick remarked in an innocent tone.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Dr. Dressler said. His curious expression confirmed what Nick had seen in Mrs. Starch’s employment file. She had no sisters or brothers, which meant it was biologically impossible for her to have a nephew named Twilly—or Joe or Fred or Engelbert, for that matter.

  In fact, Mrs. Starch’s file didn’t list any living relatives, which made her excuse of a “family emergency” seem highly suspicious.

  Nick was eager to show Mrs. Starch’s note to Marta, but he didn’t make it back to biology class. As he hurried out of the administration building, he heard a car horn honking, and then somebody shouted his name.

  It was his mother, waving from the parking lot. Nick couldn’t see whether she was crying or not. He swallowed hard, and ran to meet her.

  FOURTEEN

  It had been on a creek deep in the Everglades where Nick had learned that his father would be leaving for the Mideast. They were in a small flat-bottomed boat being poled along the shallows by a guide who was hunting for redfish and snook. The fishing trip had been an early Christmas present to both of them from his mother.

  Nick sat on a cooler in the center of the boat, watching his dad cast a fly rod with an easy, flawless rhythm that was almost hypnotizing. Fifty feet of line would snap straight behind him and float in midair, then loop tightly and shoot forward, dropping the fly as softly as a snowflake. It was a marvelous sight to see.

  “My Guard unit’s been called up,” Nick’s father said, his eyes fixed on the water.

  “To fight, you mean?”

  “I guess we’ll find out when we get there.”

  “How long will you be gone?” Nick tried to keep the emotion out of his voice.

  “A year is what we heard, but hopefully not that long.”

  On the very next cast, Nick’s dad hooked a good snook that jumped twice and then streaked into the mangroves, cutting the leader. The guide cursed loudly, yet Nick’s father seemed as pleased as if he’d landed the fish.

  “Your turn, Nicky,” he said, reeling up his line.

  “No, Dad. Keep casting.”

  “Come on, I had my chance.”

  “Catch the next one,” Nick said.

  The truth was, he didn’t feel like fishing. He was satisfied to sit back and watch his father work the fly rod, whipping airy ribbons in the sky. Nick wanted a memory to keep fresh, something that would stay with him while Capt. Gregory Waters was away in combat.

  “You tell Mom yet?” Nick asked.

  “Last night.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “She had a feeling it was coming. She watches the news.”

  “Aren’t you scared?”

  “A little,” his father said. “But mostly I’m bummed because I’m going to miss your soccer season. Maybe lacrosse, too. But they let us do e-mail over there.”

  “Cool. I’ll send you the scores.”

  “Nicky, I guess there’s no need to give you the big speech.”

  “About taking care of her?”

  “Right.”

  “Don’t worry,” Nick said.

  “I won’t.”

  Nick’s father tossed another long cast. Instantly there was a flash on the surface and the line came taut. Five minutes later, the guide slipped his net under a hefty snook that was dark and coppery from the swamp water. Nick’s dad lifted the sleek fish by its lower jaw and held it up while Nick snapped a picture.

  His father was beaming. “What do you think—ten pounds?”

  “More,” said Nick. “At least twelve.”

  Late that night, after his parents were in bed, Nick had gone on the Internet and Googled “Iraq” in order to learn what the war was all a
bout. Seven months later, he still wasn’t sure.

  Nobody could find the terrible weapons supposedly stashed by the Iraqi government, while many of the terrorists who were attacking American troops had turned out to be Iraqi citizens. It was hard for Nick to understand why good soldiers like his dad were being blown up by some of the same people they were trying to help.

  Nick was a mild and levelheaded person who seldom lost his temper, but lately there were times when he’d get mad about what had happened. Running toward his mother in the school parking lot and fearing the worst possible news, Nick felt the anger boil up again. Maybe it was selfish, but he didn’t want to lose his father to a war that nobody seemed able to explain.

  Nick ran up to his mom and pulled her close. He blinked away hot tears and almost choked when he tried to speak.

  “It’s okay, Nicky,” she said, sounding amazingly strong and calm.

  “I called the hospital and they said Dad was gone.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “But I thought he was getting better! What happened?” Nick cried.

  “You should ask him yourself.”

  His mother spun Nick around to face the car. Capt. Gregory Waters sat in the front passenger seat, grinning and giving a thumbs-up sign with his left hand.

  Every evening Dr. Wendell Waxmo set out a dozen bowls of food for stray cats, a gesture that annoyed his human neighbors but was greatly appreciated by the wild raccoons, squirrels, and opossums that would amble out of the woods to gorge themselves on stale Meow Mix.

  Wendell Waxmo lived in a small apartment five blocks from the Naples beach, a lovely place that he never visited because his sinuses got inflamed by salt water and his skin was ultra-sensitive to ultraviolet rays. Wendell Waxmo was strictly an indoor person. Yet, for a teacher (even a substitute), he spent little time reading books or polishing his skills in science, math, and English.

  Instead Wendell Waxmo preferred to drown his brain in bland television, especially the shopping networks and infomercials. He purchased every goofy, worthless gimmick that he saw advertised on cable—cheese curlers, mayonnaise whippers, personalized oven mitts, ear-hair trimmers, electronic sock deodorizers, reusable dental floss, and even a flashlight that stayed on for three straight years, night and day.

  Wendell Waxmo got so caught up channel-surfing in search of clever new items that he’d tune out everything else in his peculiar little world, from the tuba ring tone of his cell phone to the yowls of the cats being roughed up by hungry raccoons behind the apartment building.

  As it happened, Wendell Waxmo was once again glued to the phone, excitedly ordering a solar-powered raisin peeler for $49.92 (to be paid in twelve monthly installments of $4.16, not including handling and shipping), when he glanced up and saw a stranger standing in his living room.

  “That’s quite a tuxedo,” the man remarked.

  Gripping the phone fiercely, as if the intruder planned to snatch it away and order the raisin peeler for himself, Wendell Waxmo stammered, “I’ll b-b-be with you in a m-m-minute.”

  The man sat down and waited. Wendell Waxmo gathered his wits, completed his transaction, and put down the phone. He decided that the stranger didn’t look like a chain-saw killer.

  “How’d you get inside my apartment?” he asked.

  “The door was unlocked. You should be more careful.” The man wore a dark ski cap, khaki clothes, and what appeared to be a Western-style ammunition belt.

  “If you’re going to rob me, take whatever you want,” Wendell Waxmo said with a sweep of an arm. “Just don’t hurt me.”

  The intruder smiled wryly as he scanned Wendell Waxmo’s vast assortment of useless gadgets and gizmos, which cluttered the shelves and the tables and the floor.

  “As much as I’d love to own a three-speed sonic artichoke juicer,” the man said, “I think I’ll pass.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “A small favor for the youth of America.”

  Wendell Waxmo nervously loosened his bow tie. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you’re about to retire from the teaching profession.”

  “What?”

  “Your services are no longer needed at the Truman School. Today was your last day.”

  Wendell Waxmo’s piggy eyes narrowed. “Who are you, anyway?”

  The stranger said, “Bunny Starch takes her responsibilities very seriously, and she expects her substitutes to do the same. She’s been receiving some very disturbing reports from her classroom, Wendell.”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Teaching the same page over and over on the same day every week. Asking students to get up and sing, for no good reason.” The man shrugged and rose. “By the way, what kind of nitwit sings the Pledge of Allegiance?”

  “Is that it?” Wendell Waxmo asked resentfully. For one foolish moment he considered trying to defend his teaching methods.

  “I get results!” he declared.

  “No, you get laughed at,” the stranger said. “Some kid grinds out a five-hundred-word essay, a kid who’s never written anything before in his life, and you tear him down in front of the whole class. Not cool.”

  “You mean the pimple paper?”

  “Another kid, his old man gets torn up in Iraq and you want him to do ‘White Christmas’?” The intruder shook his head in disgust. “The only thing worse than a whack job, Wendell, is a clueless whack job. I recommend you find another line of work.”

  Wendell Waxmo huffed. “From what I’ve heard, Mrs. Starch can be just as tough on her students.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt that,” the man said, heading for the door, “but at least they learn the whole book.”

  “You can’t fire me! Only the headmaster can do that.”

  The man stopped, walked back to Wendell Waxmo, seized him by the shoulders, hoisted him out of the chair, and said to his face: “I’m much, much crazier than you are. Do not give me a reason to return here.”

  Finally Wendell Waxmo was frightened, a sane and normal reaction. The intruder’s arms were rock-hard, and his eyes were cold and weary. He acted like a man with absolutely no fear and no doubts.

  “I’ll call in sick tomorrow,” Wendell Waxmo peeped.

  “Permanently.”

  “Right. I’ll think of something awful and contagious.”

  “Good idea.” The stranger in the ski cap lowered Wendell Waxmo back into a sitting position.

  “I don’t suppose you want to hear me sing,” the substitute said. “It might change your mind.”

  “Highly unlikely.”

  “Then just tell me this—are you a spy for Bunny Starch?”

  “Good night, Wendell.” The intruder stalked out the back door and down the steps, scattering the whiny throng of stray cats.

  When Duane Scrod Jr. got home from school, his father handed him a short grocery list that included milk, cereal, and five pounds of sunflower seeds—too much to haul back on a motorcycle. Duane Jr. took one of the pickup trucks and headed for the store, the wheels spraying gravel.

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss, who was waiting down the street, recognized the boy from the photograph shown to him by Torkelsen, the fire investigator. As soon as the pickup was out of sight, Jimmy Lee Bayliss pulled up to the house and parked next to a Tahoe that bore angry graffiti: BOYCOTT SMITHERS CHEVY!!!!!

  Ironically, Jimmy Lee Bayliss himself was driving a Chevrolet, a four-door sedan that he’d rented because he didn’t want to be seen in the company truck. On this mission, it was crucial that Jimmy Lee Bayliss’s connection to the Red Diamond Energy Corporation remain secret. He planned to talk his way into the Scrod house and secretly swipe something—anything—that belonged to the boy.

  The windows were dark yet wide open. A symphony was playing loudly, which Jimmy Lee Bayliss found strange. From the rough, unfinished look of the place, he would have expected to hear the blues or country music, his own favorite.

  A man who could only ha
ve been Duane Scrod Jr.’s father answered the door. He was barefoot and had three days’ growth of beard. He wore smudged reading glasses, a dirty red cap, a camouflage hunting shirt, and no pants—only leopard-print boxer shorts.

  “Are you here about the taxes?” the man asked.

  That sounded to Jimmy Lee Bayliss like an excellent cover story, much better than his original idea of posing as a septic-tank inspector.

  “That’s right,” Jimmy Lee Bayliss said to Duane Scrod Sr. “I’m from the tax collector’s office.”

  “Well, I’ve been expectin’ you,” said Duane Scrod Sr., who whipped out a pair of rusty needle-nose pliers and, quick as a viper, clamped the lips of his startled visitor.

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss would have let loose the loudest scream of his life, if only he could have opened his mouth. But all he could do was moan and remain motionless, because even the slightest movement worsened the pain from the pinching pliers.

  “Oh, Nadine?” Duane Scrod Sr. called out.

  A tremendous flapping noise erupted, and a very large, gaily plumed bird came to rest with a squawk on Duane Scrod Sr.’s shoulder. Jimmy Lee Bayliss, whose eyes were watering because his lips hurt so much, studied the bird anxiously.

  “Hello,” it said. “Bonjour! Hallo!”

  “Hhhnnngggg,” replied Jimmy Lee Bayliss.

  Using the pliers to tow his prisoner, Duane Scrod Sr. walked to the living room and turned off the stereo. “Man’s home is his castle,” he grumbled. “Says so, right in the Good Book.”

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss was in no position to argue. Frantically, he tried to think of a means to escape.

  “What if I yanked off your lips and fed ’em to Nadine? Would that make you think twice about invadin’ a person’s privacy?” asked Duane Scrod Sr.

  “Nnnnuuuuggh!” Jimmy Lee Bayliss pleaded.

  “She’s a blue-and-gold macaw. Speaks three languages. One time she got so hungry, she ate a beer can,” Duane Scrod Sr. recalled proudly. “We’re talkin’ top-grade aluminum—gobbled it down like an oatmeal cookie.”