Carl Hiaasen for Kids: Hoot, Flush, Scat

by Carl Hiaasen

  “But he didn’t get better,” Nick said bleakly. “He got worse.”

  His mother was staring at her coffee, stirring it slowly with the wrong end of a spoon. She said, “Last night he woke up with chills and a 104-degree fever, so I knew the infection wasn’t gone. He was so miserable that he finally admitted the truth—he’s still got shrapnel from that rocket in his shoulder. He needs more surgery.”

  “Oh no.” Nick sagged in the chair.

  “Your dad’s a tough customer. He’ll be all right.”

  “What about you, Mom?”

  “I’m pretty darn tough myself, in case you hadn’t noticed. Now,” she said, rising, “I’d better go pack. I’m flying up to be with your father.”

  Nick held her tight. “I can’t believe he bailed out of the hospital. If I ever did something like that, I’d be grounded for a year.”

  “It wasn’t the brainiest move,” Nick’s mother agreed, “but he missed us, Nicky, that’s all. Let’s just be thankful he’s not in Iraq anymore. As soon as the doctors in Washington finish fixing him, he’ll be home for good.”

  After his mom left, Nick tried to keep busy and not worry about his dad. He cleaned the kitchen sink and loaded his dirty laundry into the washing machine and worked some algebra problems and rewrote the outline for an English essay that wasn’t due for two weeks.

  Marta called twice, but Nick didn’t answer the phone. He wasn’t in the mood to talk with any of his friends. For lunch he fixed a peanut butter sandwich, but he took only three bites; he had absolutely no appetite, and too much nervous energy.

  So he put on a Red Sox cap and went out to the backyard and threw baseballs left-handed at the pitching net until his elbow throbbed. There was so much he’d wanted to talk to his father about, yet he understood that this was no time to be selfish. It was essential for his dad to return to the hospital and get the operation he needed.

  After retrieving the balls from the net, Nick lugged the bucket back to the homemade pitching mound and resumed throwing again, as hard as he could, despite the burning ache.

  In the middle of a windup, a voice from behind said, “You’re gonna wreck your arm, dude.”

  Nick spun and saw Smoke walking his motorcycle around the corner of the house.

  “What’re you doing here?” Nick asked.

  Duane Scrod Jr. leaned the bike against the wall and said, “You gotta help me. They turned a manhunter dog loose out there near the camp.”

  “Who did?”

  “The oil company.”

  “Where’s Twilly?”

  “Running like crazy. He’s the one told me to come see you.” Smoke looked around nervously. “I can’t hide out at home ’cause of the cops. Now they got a squad car parked right in front of the house!”

  “What about Mrs. Starch and the baby panther?” Nick said.

  “They’re okay, so far. But that dog is good, man. That dog is a pro.”

  “How can I help?” asked Nick, knowing what the answer would be.

  “I need a place to stay,” Smoke said, “just for a while.”

  “Sure.”

  Nick dropped the baseball into the bucket. He wondered how, or even if, he should tell his mom. It would probably be the first time she had a fugitive as a houseguest.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Detective Jason Marshall didn’t usually work on Sundays, but he wasn’t going to relax until he tracked down Duane Scrod Jr., the missing arson suspect. It didn’t help that the other detectives kept needling him because the kid had dashed away before he could snap on the handcuffs, and then had easily outrun him.

  Every night Jason Marshall took two aspirins and pressed a heating pad against his sore hamstring muscle and drifted off into a fitful sleep, wondering where Duane Jr. was hiding.

  And every morning Jason Marshall woke up thinking of evidence to follow that might lead him to the boy, or at least lock up the arson case. On this particular day, the detective decided to skip church and do some Internet research on handheld butane torches.

  The brand found in Duane Scrod Jr.’s book bag was called The Ultra Igniter, and the company’s Web site helpfully provided a list of retail outlets that sold its products in Collier County. There were only three, all hardware stores.

  One had gone out of business, and Jason Marshall figured the other two would be closed on a Sunday, but he was wrong. The store on the east side of Naples was open.

  The detective drove there, bringing a photograph of Duane Scrod Jr. that had been taken after his arrest for setting fire to the billboard. The owner of the hardware store swore he’d never seen the kid before.

  “Do you sell lots of those Igniter torches?” the detective asked.

  “Not many,” the store owner replied. “I can look it up on the computer and tell you the exact number.”

  The store had sold only two Ultra Igniters during the past thirty days. Jason Marshall wrote down the dates.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have the names of the customers, I suppose,” the detective said.

  “Nope. All I can tell you is that both items were bought with a credit card.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yup. Our inventory software keeps track of whether it’s a cash purchase or plastic,” the store owner explained.

  Jason Marshall thought it was highly unlikely that Duane Scrod Jr. would be using a credit card, unless it belonged to his father or he’d stolen it.

  “I notice you’ve got security cameras,” the detective said.

  “Doesn’t everybody, these days?”

  “Do you still have the videotapes from the dates that you sold the Ultra Igniters?”

  “I doubt it,” the store owner replied, which was a lie. He saved all the security videotapes for six months, in case they were needed to prosecute shoplifters. On this particular day he just didn’t feel like sifting through hours of videos.

  “Let’s take a look,” Jason Marshall said.

  “Actually, I’m sorta busy right now. Maybe you could stop by another time.”

  “I’m pretty busy myself,” said Jason Marshall. “So let’s see those tapes.”

  It didn’t take very long to review the surveillance film, and the detective found both sales transactions that he was looking for. He informed the store owner that he was keeping the tapes as evidence.

  “What’s this all about?” the man asked worriedly. “Am I in trouble or something?”

  “Not at all,” Jason Marshall said.

  Driving back to the sheriff’s office, he phoned Torkelsen, the arson investigator with the fire department. He told him he’d located a store that had sold two butane torches identical to the one found in the backpack of Duane Scrod Jr.

  “One was bought on the day before the fire at the swamp,” the detective said.

  “Good work!”

  “But the second torch was purchased only three days ago.”

  The arson investigator said, “I don’t care about that one.”

  “Well, you should,” Jason Marshall said, “because the same guy bought both of them—and it wasn’t the Scrod kid.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The hardware store has security cameras. I got the tapes.”

  There was an edgy silence on the other end: Torkelsen, trying to figure out what this information could mean.

  “Maybe the boy has an accomplice. Maybe they bought the second torch because they’re planning another fire,” he said finally. “How old is that customer on the video?”

  “Between fifty-five and sixty, I’d say.”

  “Oh,” said Torkelsen. “So it’s not the boy’s father.”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, there’s got to be an explanation.”

  “I can think of one,” the detective said.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Maybe we’re after the wrong guy.”

  After another uneasy pause, the arson investigator said, “I need to see those tapes.”

>   “Yes, you do,” agreed Jason Marshall.

  The oak tree was forty feet high and dead as a doornail, killed years earlier by a lightning strike. Way up high was a hole in the trunk where a female raccoon was living with three little ones.

  One day a huge backhoe arrived on the lot and started smashing down trees. The boy, who’d been spying on the raccoon family for weeks, jumped off his bicycle and shouted at the driver of the backhoe to steer clear of the dead oak.

  But the driver never heard him. He just waved the boy away, revved the big machine, and flattened the den tree, killing all the raccoons, including the mother. The boy could do nothing but watch from a distance, and sob.

  The construction company that owned the backhoe was clearing the property to make way for a patio-furniture warehouse. Two days after all the trees were demolished, the company set up a shiny double-wide office trailer with a bright banner heralding the new project. That same night, the boy rode his bike out to the property and set fire to the double-wide, which burned to a rather immense and twisted cinder. Nobody was inside at the time.

  “I made sure of that,” Smoke assured Nick, who’d listened to the entire arson story without interrupting.

  “See, I’m not a true pyro,” Smoke added. “I didn’t do it for kicks. I was just mad.”

  “Still, that’s …”

  “ ‘Dumb’ is the word. Same with torching the billboard,” Smoke said. “My mom had just taken off for Paris and I was all messed up. When I saw that big sign for the airline, I flipped out. You wouldn’t understand, dude. Nobody does.”

  Nick didn’t say a thing. It was impossible for him to envision his own mother getting on a plane and flying away forever without even saying goodbye. Such heartbreak was beyond Nick’s experience.

  Smoke chuckled bitterly. “They built that stupid furniture warehouse anyway. Just like they put up a brand-new billboard in the same spot as the other one.”

  “Did you set any other fires?” Nick asked.

  “Never.”

  “So why do you want people to call you Smoke?”

  “Because it sounds a lot cooler than Duane.”

  They were sitting on the floor in Nick’s bedroom. The shades were drawn and the door was locked.

  “Twilly says you’re a tracker,” Nick said.

  “It’s the one thing I’m good at, I guess.”

  “He says that if anybody can find that mother panther, it’s you.”

  “I sure aim to try.” Smoke spoke with determination.

  “Mrs. Starch says there’s not much time.”

  “She’s right. And this bloodhound sniffin’ all over the place doesn’t make the job any easier,” Smoke said. “Wild cats run like crazy from dogs.”

  Nick had to ask. “What’s the deal with you and her?”

  “Mrs. Starch? She’s not so bad.”

  “Everybody thought you hated her guts after what happened in class.”

  Smoke grinned. “For sure I did. But come to find out she’s not as mean as she acts. Hey, I heard a car pull up!”

  Moments later, the front door opened and Nick’s mother began calling his name. Smoke grabbed him by the shoulders. “Don’t say a word about me!”

  “But I can’t lie,” Nick whispered.

  “Listen, bro. Once she knows I’m hidin’ here, she’s gotta tell the cops or else she can go to jail.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Harboring a fugitive is what I’m talkin’ about,” Smoke said. “If you tell your mom I’m here, you’re draggin’ her into the middle of this whole mess. Is that what you want?”

  From down the hall: “Nicky? Where are you?”

  “I’ll be right out, Mom!”

  Smoke edged himself sideways into Nick’s bedroom closet. “Go!” he said to Nick. “Act like nuthin’s wrong.”

  Nick slipped out the door and closed it behind him. He walked down the hall to the living room, where he was surprised to see that his mother wasn’t alone.

  “Nicky, you remember Peyton?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  Peyton Lynch had been one of Nick’s regular babysitters back when he was in elementary school and she was in high school. Now she attended junior college and worked parttime at a sandal shop.

  “Hey, Nicky,” she smacked through a cheekful of bubble gum.

  Nick’s mother said Peyton would be staying at the house for a few days while she went to be with his father. “There’s a flight out of Fort Myers late this afternoon that connects to Washington.”

  “That’s good,” Nick said.

  And it was good—for Nick’s dad, and also for Nick. Peyton Lynch was a nice girl, but she wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, as Mrs. Starch might say.

  When Nick was little, he’d done pretty much whatever he’d pleased while Peyton was there, because she was usually yakking on the phone or painting her toenails blue or staring at MTV. She was the ideal babysitter—clueless.

  One time, when Nick was nine years old, he’d accidentally bounced a golf ball through the screen of his desktop computer. Peyton hadn’t heard the tube explode because her headphones were turned up so loud. Nor had she shown the slightest spark of curiosity when Nick had emerged from his room carrying a box full of broken glass.

  Nick’s mother said, “Make yourself at home, Peyton. I’ll go finish packing.”

  Peyton dropped her travel bag on the rug and plopped down on the sofa. “So, how’s school, Nicky?”

  “It’s okay,” he said.

  “Hey, you guys got any Diet Snapple?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Green tea?” she asked, plugging the iPod buds into her ears. “Tofu burgers? Spring rolls?”

  “I’ll check the fridge,” said Nick, smiling to himself.

  Peyton Lynch would never notice that Duane Scrod Jr. was staying at the house as long as he didn’t park his motorcycle in the kitchen.

  Drake McBride was extremely annoyed.

  With a groan, he pushed himself out of bed and hobbled after Jimmy Lee Bayliss to the sitting room, where the dog handler waited somberly.

  “What happened?” Drake McBride demanded, with no trace of sympathy.

  The dog handler said, “You owe me two thousand dollars.”

  “Because your dumbass dog got lost? You outta your mind?”

  “Horace didn’t get lost,” the man said flatly. “I ain’t leavin’ here till I get my money.”

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss bit his lip. He’d strongly urged his boss to pay the man and be done with it, but Drake McBride said no way, pardner, not one red cent.

  “Here’s what I think,” Drake McBride said, buttoning his purple pajama top. “I think you tried to scam us with a defective hound dog. I think ol’ Horace couldn’t find his own butt in a breadbox.”

  The handler wasn’t as tall as Drake McBride, but he was wiry and tough. Jimmy Lee Bayliss knew the type.

  “Look, whatever happened out there, the man’s dog is gone,” Jimmy Lee Bayliss said to his boss, “and we need to reach some sort of agreement.”

  “Horace was a champion tracker,” the handler stated proudly. “Horace was the best.”

  “Horace was a dud!” Drake McBride cackled. “Whoever heard of a champion bloodhound gettin’ lost?”

  At that point Jimmy Lee Bayliss realized that nothing could be done to save Drake McBride from his own big mouth. The president of the Red Diamond Energy Corporation was now pinned against the wall of the hotel room, his face turning the same color as his ridiculous pajamas.

  “Horace did not get hisself lost. He got kilt!” the dog handler said, squeezing. “And he got et!”

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss attempted to pry the man’s hands from Drake McBride’s neck, but the handler was very strong and very angry. Drake McBride’s eyeballs were bulging and his arms were flapping, and mousy little squeaks were leaking out of his lungs.

  “Let go of him, please!” Jimmy Lee Bayliss implored. “He’ll pay
you the two grand.”

  “And ’pologize for what he said about Horace?”

  “He’ll take out an ad in the paper, if you want.”

  The dog handler released his hold on Drake McBride, who crumpled to his knees on the carpet. After five solid minutes of hacking and wheezing, he finally recaptured his breath and said he was sorry.

  “Gimme my money,” the handler said.

  “You say your dog was eaten?”

  “Bet on it.”

  “Eaten by what, if I might ask?”

  “Like you don’t know,” the man said coldly.

  Drake McBride looked quizzically at Jimmy Lee Bayliss. “What’s he talkin’ about now?”

  To himself, Jimmy Lee Bayliss thought: I’m employed by a total moron.

  “He’s talking about a panther, sir.”

  “Ha! Ain’t no panthers out there!” Drake McBride declared, but it was all bluster. His face was a pale mask of anxiety.

  The dog handler said, “I saw the scat myself.”

  “You’re mistaken, pal. It was most likely a bobcat.”

  “Yeah?” The man yanked Drake McBride to his feet and then shoved him into an armchair. “I know bobcat scat from panther scat, and what I saw didn’t come from no puny bobcat.”

  In fear of another throttling, Drake McBride gave up the argument. “Whatever you say; you’re the expert.”

  “That I am,” the handler said.

  To bring the conversation to a peaceful end, Jimmy Lee Bayliss explained to Drake McBride that the handler would never have allowed Horace to track a scent through the Black Vine Swamp if he’d known a panther was lurking in the area.

  “The dog’s purely a human hunter, not a cat hunter,” Jimmy Lee Bayliss said. “I believe we’ve got an obligation to compensate this man for his loss.”

  “All right, all right,” Drake McBride mumbled, and limped to the bedroom to get his checkbook.

  The handler said, “Out west they use special cat hounds for huntin’ cougars. But Horace, he wasn’t schooled for that. He probably just run up on that ol’ panther without even barkin’ and got hisself kilt and et. Thing is, I had a fondness for that ol’ fella.”

  “We’re very sorry this happened. Deeply sorry,” Jimmy Lee Bayliss said in his most sincere-sounding voice.