by Carl Hiaasen
A Hannah Montana ring tone went off, and Marta sheepishly smothered her cell phone. "That's gotta be my mom. She's supposed to pick us up outside the movie theater."
"Answer it, " the stranger said. "Tell her you'll be right on time-and if you say anything else, I'm turning this car around and we're going to Miami. Or maybe Key Largo."
Marta did as she was told.
After hanging up, she said, "Ten-thirty sharp. She'll freak if we're not there."
"Understood, " said the man named Twilly.
Nick was relieved to see that the car was heading in the direction of the mall, which raised the welcome possibility that they weren't actually being kidnapped.
"How do you know Mrs. Starch?" he asked the stranger.
"None of your business, Nick Waters. " The man tugged the ski cap even tighter on his head.
"We're worried about her, that's all. Nobody's seen her in, like, a week, " Marta said.
"Yeah? Then take out your cute little pink phone again, princess, and dial this number: 555-2346."
Marta switched on the cell phone's speaker so that both she and Nick could hear the recording:
Hello, people. I'll be away from school indefinitely because of an unexpected family matter. You may leave a message at the tone, though it might be a while before I have time to reply. Please accept my apologies in advance. Now here's the beep!
"That's her," Nick said.
"Definitely," Marta agreed.
"Did she sound the least bit dead to you?" the man named Twilly asked. "Gravely ill? Mortally wounded?"
"Not really."
"Then quit worrying, " he snapped, "and quit nosing around places you don't belong."
He pulled over a block from the mall, in front of a seedy pawnshop. He stepped out of the Prius and ordered Nick and Marta to do the same. Standing in the glow of a gaudy neon sign, the man looked to be in his late thirties, with an athletic build that reminded Nick of his father.
The stranger said, "It would be best if I never set eyes on you two again."
"Oh, don't worry, " Marta assured him.
Nick was staring at Twilly's belt, which was made of tanned cowhide and stitched with a row of small sleeves de-signed to hold bullets. It looked very much like the one worn by the mysterious figure in Nick's video from the field trip to the Black Vine Swamp.
The man tapped the face of his wristwatch. "You've got
six minutes and thirty seconds before your momma shows up. Get a move on."
"Thank you," Marta said with a grateful sigh. "Thank you, thank you."
"For what?"
"For not killing us and tossing our bodies into a ditch."
"You're welcome, " said the man named Twilly. "I'll tell Aunt Bunny you asked about her."
Nick rocked back on his heels. "Mrs. Starch is your aunt?"
With a thumb, the stranger popped two shiny bullets out of his ammo belt. He began tossing them from hand to hand, like jellybeans. "I hate repeating myself," he said.
Nick and Marta started running. They didn't stop until they reached the mall.
TWELVE
Drake McBride had stumbled into the oil business after failing at many other jobs and ruining many other companies. He enjoyed spending money much more than he enjoyed working for it, and this was the secret to his lack of success. It also helped to be lazy, easily distracted, and not very good at math.
Every time Drake McBride got himself into trouble, his wealthy father would simply buy a new company for him to noodle with. But now, after several wasted years and millions of wasted dollars, Drake McBride's father finally had lost patience with the free-spending poser who happened to be his youngest son. The Red Diamond Energy Corporation was to be Drake's last chance.
"If you screw up this one, " his father had warned, "you won't get another nickel from me."
"Have you checked out the price of gas, Dad?" Drake McBride had chortled with confidence. "Only an idiot could lose money in the oil business."
"You said the same damn thing when you were selling real estate," his father had reminded him coldly, "or trying to sell real estate."
"It's not my fault the market went sour-"
"Get real, boy. You couldn't sell an igloo to an Eskimo, " his dad had said. "Red Diamond is my last act of charity. If you come crawling back here with another lame sob story, you might as well change your name to Drake Chowderhead and sign up for bartender school, because I'm done with you. Now go find some oil. Hurry up!"
Because the competition in Texas was fierce (and also because he owned a waterfront condo on Tampa Bay), Drake McBride chose Florida as headquarters for the new Red Diamond Energy Corporation. His first move was hiring Jimmy Lee Bayliss, recently retired from ExxonMobil, to teach him about oil exploration and run the day-to-day operation so that Drake McBride could concentrate on water-skiing and fishing.
It was Jimmy Lee Bayliss who'd explained to Drake McBride that Florida's richest petroleum deposits lay miles offshore and were controlled by giant companies who'd been battling for years to get drilling permits. The drilling was opposed by most Floridians, who didn't want to risk having their beaches choked with black tar in the event of an accidental oil spill.
"Aw, forget about what's under the ocean," Drake McBride said, and handed a newspaper clipping to Jimmy Lee Bayliss. "Here's where the fast money is, my friend."
Jimmy Lee Bayliss frowned at the headline. "The Everglades?"
"Keep readin', pardner."
According to the article, the U. S. government had announced a plan to buy up the drilling rights for oil and natural gas beneath the vast Big Cypress Preserve to protect the vanishing wetlands from future damage.
"All we've got to do is find some oil, any oil, " Drake McBride said excitedly, "and Uncle Sam will pay us a fortune not to pump it. Isn't that the wildest danged thing you ever heard of?"
"Sure is, " said Jimmy Lee Bayliss, who was immediately leery of the scheme.
"Tell me this isn't a great country!" Drake McBride exclaimed.
"But we don't own any drilling leases in the Everglades."
"Your job is to get me one, " Drake McBride said, poking Jimmy Lee Bayliss in the chest, "and make it a winner."
The task turned out to be frustrating and complicated. All but a few of the oil leases were held by huge corporations or rich old geezers who practically laughed at Jimmy Lee Bayliss's offers. Eventually he was able to obtain a single 640-acre parcel from a troubled soul named Vincent Trapwick Jr., who was facing trial for embezzlement and was frantically selling everything he owned to pay his lawyers.
The Trapwick parcel, known as Section 21, was located east of Naples at a promising location near the Black Vine Swamp. Yet after months of ground testing and half a dozen boreholes, Jimmy Lee Bayliss had reached the grim conclusion that Section 21 held barely enough oil to fill a goldfish bowl.
The news set badly with Drake McBride, who kicked at his desk so viciously that he tore the python skin on one of his cowboy boots.
"Too bad we don't have Section 22, " Jimmy Lee Bayliss remarked.
"What?" Drake McBride perked up. "Is there serious oil in Section 22?"
"That's what the geologists think, but it doesn't matter. The state owns the land, " Jimmy Lee Bayliss said, "and they ain't sellin'. It's part of some wildlife preserve."
"But there's oil, they said. How deep?"
"Eleven, twelve thousand feet is their guess. But as I told you, the state's got the property-"
Drake McBride snapped his manicured fingers. "I got an idea. We sink a pirate well on Section 22, totally secret, then run the pipe underground to our rig on Section 21."
Jimmy Lee Bayliss's gut started to churn. "Sir, it's not worth the risk. The geologists say there's no more than nine hundred barrels a day. And it's poor quality, sir, gooey and full of sulfur-"
"I don't care what it looks like, or how bad it stinks, " said Drake McBride, "as long as it's oil. All I need-or, I should say, all we need-is genui
ne Florida crude to drip on some sucker's desk at the Department of the Interior, who will then give us such a gi-mongous wad of money for our drilling rights that even my old man will be impressed. You with me?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not if you care to remain employed, " said Drake McBride.
And that's how the Section 22 scam had been born.
Now Jimmy Lee Bayliss squinted through the open hatch of the helicopter, his line of vision following a row of small pink flags that marked the path under which the illegal pipeline would travel from Section 22 to Section 21. The small drill rig would be concealed in a tall stand of bald cypress and would be practically invisible, even from the air.
Because Section 22 was so wild and remote, Drake McBride didn't worry about getting busted for hijacking the state of Florida's oil. Jimmy Lee Bayliss, however, was highly concerned. If just one wayward hiker made a wrong turn in the Black Vine Swamp, the Red Diamond drilling scheme might unravel-and Jimmy Lee Bayliss could wind up sharing a ten-by-ten jail cell with Drake McBride. The thought made Jimmy Lee Bayliss's stomach pitch, and had pushed him to take extreme measures.
He wasn't a crook by nature, but the lure of making millions of dollars by not pumping oil had been too juicy for even him to resist. Still, ever since agreeing to Drake McBride's sleazy scheme, Jimmy Lee Bayliss hadn't had a good night's sleep. The disturbing incident involving Melton had only worsened his jitters. Gluing a man naked to a tree didn't seem like something an ordinary thief would do.
So Jimmy Lee Bayliss had decided to make daily patrols by helicopter over the wetlands, scouting for signs of intruders. So far, he'd turned up nothing.
"You 'bout ready to head back?" the pilot asked.
"Sure. Drop me off at my truck, " said Jimmy Lee Bayliss.
As the chopper gently touched down on the dirt road, jimmy Lee Bayliss was surprised to see a cherry-red SUV parked next to his pickup. The SUV had a set of emergency lights mounted on the cab and the initials "CCFD" painted on the sides.
It took a few moments for Jimmy Lee Bayliss to realize that the letters stood for "Collier County Fire Department. " He chewed up four more Tums tablets before climbing out of the chopper.
The fire investigator's name was Torkelsen. He had thinning blond hair and a handshake that could crush walnuts. He wanted to chat about the fire in Section 22.
"We work in Section 21, " Jimmy Lee Bayliss said quickly.
"Yes, I know. We were wondering if you or your men saw anything suspicious in the area that day."
"Like what?"
"Like any person or persons who weren't supposed to be there. " Torkelsen spoke in a mild, official tone that made Jimmy Lee Bayliss uncomfortable.
"My crew was on another site when the wildfire broke out, " he said. "I was with them."
"It wasn't a wildfire, Mr. Bayliss. It was arson."
"What?" Jimmy Lee Bayliss tried to hide his shock so that the fire investigator wouldn't know that he was in danger of soiling his pants. "Arson? That's crazy!" he said with a weak laugh. "What's the point of torching a swamp?"
Torkelsen shrugged. "People do crazy things sometimes Do you recognize this?"
He held up a plastic ballpoint pen stamped with the name of Red Diamond Energy. For a moment, Jimmy Lee Bayliss thought he might puke his breakfast muffins all over the fire investigator's shoes.
"Yeah, that's mine, " he croaked. "It must've fell from my pocket while I was shootin' pictures from the helicopter."
Which was a lie, of course. Torkelsen seemed to buy it.
"No big deal. We're just trying to run down every lead, " the investigator said. "We found the pen about a hundred and fifty yards from where the fire flashed up."
"Well, you can keep it. I got a whole box of 'em. " Jimmy Lee Bayliss was trying to sound casual and unworried.
Torkelsen dropped the Red Diamond pen into a large manila envelope and took out a small photograph. "Could you take a look at this, too?" he asked.
It was a police mug shot of a pimply teenaged kid whom Jimmy Lee Bayliss didn't recognize. In the picture, the kid looked surly and uncooperative, a pose that reminded Jimmy Lee Bayliss of his own boys when they were that age.
"This is the guy who started the fire?" he asked Torkelsen.
"He's a person of interest."
"Is that the same thing as a 'suspect'?"
"Between you and me? Yes, he's a suspect, " Torkelsen said- "His name is Duane Scrod Jr., a local punk who likes to play with matches. He's been arrested before. The sheriff's office gave us a tip that he might have been in this area on the day of the arson. "
By now Jimmy Lee Bayliss had steadied himself. As he examined the photograph of Duane Scrod Jr., an idea took root in his mind.
"He got into a hassle with one of his teachers, " the fire investigator went on. "The next day there was a school field trip to the swamp, but our boy Duane didn't show up for the bus. We're trying to find out if he snuck out here and set the fire."
"As payback, you mean, " Jimmy Lee Bayliss said.
"That's the theory, " said Torkelsen. "Apparently this kid is somebody you definitely don't want to piss off."
Jimmy Lee Bayliss beheld the photo of the student as if it were a gift from the heavens: a real arsonist was exactly what he needed now.
Never had Jimmy Lee Bayliss expected anyone to figure out that the blaze at the Black Vine Swamp was intentional, because he'd worked so hard to make it look like a wildfire.
The purpose was to scare off the kids on that field trip before one of them blundered into Section 22 and spotted Red Diamond's mud pit and drilling equipment. The students were never in serious danger, in Jimmy Lee Bayliss's view. It was a controlled burn, with a dirt berm and a watery slough providing a barrier between the flames and the hikers.
A whiff or two of smoke had done the trick; the teachers had lined up the kids and filed out of the swamp in less than ten minutes. Jimmy Lee Bayliss had watched through his binoculars, a red bandanna covering his mouth and nose.
Afterward he'd stayed until the fire burned itself out, and then he cleared the scene of all evidence-or so he'd believed. He was furious at himself for having dropped that stupid ballpoint pen while setting the fire. How could he have been so careless? Drake McBride would blow a gasket if he found out.
"You're sure it was arson?" Jimmy Lee Bayliss asked Torkelsen.
"We found a suspicious line of flash marks in the underbrush, " the investigator said.
Jimmy Lee Bayliss was glad that he'd taken the trouble to throw his butane torch into a canal along Route 29 on the way home that night. As a result, the only direct evidence linking him to the arson was now rusting in thirty feet of muddy, alligator-infested water.
The best news of all, however, was that the fire department had zeroed in on a suspect other than Jimmy Lee Bayliss. This Scrod boy was obviously a bad egg-maybe he was the one who'd attacked poor Melton, thought Jimmy Lee Bayliss. Getting a goon like that off the streets would be a public service.
"Well, what do you think?" Torkelsen nodded toward the photograph in the oilman's hand, which was now barely shaking at all. "Ever seen that young man hanging around out here?"
"I believe I have, " Jimmy Lee Bayliss said, furrowing his brow in fake concentration. "Matter of fact, I'm sure of it."
THIRTEEN
Nick spent most of the teacher work day exercising his free arm, washing his mother's car, and helping her scrub the oven. Luckily, she didn't ask how he and Marta liked the movie that they never went to see. Later Nick rode his bike to the public library and checked out a book by Edward Abbey, the writer mentioned by the stranger who'd caught Nick and Marta inside Mrs. Starch's house.
The afternoon was sunny but cool, so Nick practiced pitching left-handed into a net until dark. His arm felt like cement by the time he went to bed. He was so exhausted that he fell asleep after reading only a few pages of the book, which was called The Monkey Wrench Gang.
He woke up early the next
morning and called the army hospital in Washington, D. C. He was eager to know if the infection in his dad's injured shoulder had gotten better. A nurse who answered the phone in the hospital room told Nick that Capt. Gregory Waters was gone, but said she wasn't allowed to give out any other information.
Nick immediately tried to reach his mom at work, with no luck. Deep in worry, he sat by himself on the bus to Truman, barely mumbling hello to Marta and his other friends.
All morning Nick remained so preoccupied that he was unable to focus on his schoolwork, including the topic of "punctuated equilibrium. " That was the featured term on page 329 of Nick's biology book, and on Thursdays Dr. Wendell Waxmo always taught page 329, and only page 329.
Punctuated equilibriums had something to do with how animal species change over time, but even Libby Marshall was having difficulty explaining it. Wendell Waxmo scanned the room for a fresh target and called not once but three times on Nick, who was in a fog.
"All right, Mr. Waters, stand up, " Wendell Waxmo barked finally, "and sing along with me. " Jarred into alertness, Nick was too mortified to move. "Even with one arm tied behind your back, I'll bet you can carry a swell tune, " said Wendell Waxmo.
"No, I can't. Honest."
"'Bridge over Troubled Water'?"
"I don't know all the words to that one. Sorry, " Nick said. The whole class was watching him except for Smoke, whose nose was buried in his textbook.
"'White Christmas'?" the crazy substitute said. "For heaven's sake, every human over the age of three knows 'white Christmas' by heart."
"Please don't make me sing. Not today."
Nick had the strange sensation of physically shrinking at his desk, growing smaller with each agonizing moment He thought: If only I could make myself disappear...
"Well?" said Wendell Waxmo.
"I just can't do it."
"And why not, Mr. Waters?"
"Because... I just... I..."
"Because why?"