Scat

by Carl Hiaasen

  Nick gave him the baseball, and he headed for the mound. His uncertain gait and heavily bandaged shoulder made him appear bulky, almost bearlike.

  "Remember-nice and easy, " Nick called out.

  "You bet."

  His father stared down an imaginary batter, nodded at an imaginary catcher, and then rocked back into a jerky version of his normal windup motion. The pitch flew wildly past the net, through the hedge and over the fence. They heard a distinct gong as the baseball bounced off their neighbor's barbecue grill.

  "Oh, crap," Greg Waters muttered.

  Nick didn't want him to be discouraged. "You've still got plenty of heat, Dad."

  "Could you go get it? I want to try one more time."

  "Not tonight. You need to rest."

  "Nicky, go find the ball, " his dad said sharply.

  It was floating in the neighbor's pool. Nick hurriedly fished it out and scrambled back over the fence. He was glad to see that his mother had come out of the house; he hoped that she would talk his dad into taking a rest.

  "There's someone at the front door to see you, " she said to Nick.

  "Who is it?"

  Greg Waters reached for the baseball, but Nick's mother grabbed it first. "You're benched for the night, big fella, " she told him.

  "Who's at the door, Mom?" Nick asked again.

  "Some boy with a motorcycle, " she said. "He says he's in your biology class."

  FIFTEEN

  Duane Scrod Jr. stood motionless in the driveway, his back to the house. He appeared to be watching the sun go down.

  "Hi, Smoke. What's up?" said Nick.

  When the kid turned around, Nick saw that he was still wearing his Truman School blazer and necktie.

  "Hey, Waters." Smoke looked uneasy about being there, almost shy. "Listen, dude, I need to borrow your biology book. I'll give it back tomorrow."

  "No problem," Nick said. "I missed the last part of class today. Did Wacko Waxmo give us homework?"

  "Don't worry about him. He's no longer a factor."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He's history, man. " Smoke made a slashing motion across his throat. "Gone. Done. Over."

  That didn't sound good. Nick experienced a moment of dread. "What happened? Did he die or something?"

  Smoke chuckled. "Relax, man. Waxmo ain't dead- nobody laid a finger on him. But after what he did to you today, why do you care?"

  Nick was mildly embarrassed to hear the kid mention the scene in class when the lunatic substitute had ordered Nick to sing a Christmas song and Marta had piped up J his defense. Nick half expected Smoke to make fun of him for letting a girl fight his battles.

  He said, "It was no big deal. I don't want anything bad happening to the guy."

  "That's real sweet. Can I have the book now? I'm late somewhere."

  "Sure, " Nick said, and he went into the house.

  His mother intercepted him before he got to his room. "Who's that boy?" she asked. "Why don't you invite him in?"

  "It's Duane Scrod Jr."

  "The pencil-eater? But he looks so neat and normal."

  "Neat, maybe. Definitely not normal," said Nick.

  The biology book was at the bottom of his cluttered backpack. He hurried back outside and handed it to Smoke, who was waiting on the motorcycle. He'd put on leather riding gloves and also a helmet with a black plastic face shield. Nick could no longer see his expression.

  "Smoke, can I ask you something-how come you need to borrow the book?"

  "'Cause I lost my backpack."

  "What I meant is, why do you need the book if we don't have any homework?"

  Smoke didn't answer right away. He tucked the book under one arm and kick-started his motorcycle. "'Cause I gotta study, " he said.

  Nick could barely hear him. "What?" "I GOTTA REVIEW FOR THE EXAM!" he shouted through his face mask.

  What exam? Nick wondered, and he motioned for the kid to wait. Nick wanted to ask him about the fire in the Black Vine Swamp, and if he was the person that Marta had seen riding shotgun in Mrs. Starch's blue Prius, and also if he was acquainted with the man called Twilly who claimed to be Mrs. Starch's nephew....

  But most of all, Nick wanted to find out if Duane Scrod Jr. knew where Mrs. Starch was.

  "Can you shut off the bike for a minute?" he yelled. The kid revved the engine louder. "Please? It's important!"

  "How's your dad?" Smoke shouted, catching Nick off guard.

  "He's doing good. He came home today," Nick hollered back. "Hey, I really need to talk to you-"

  Smoke gave a slight wave and roared down the street.

  Nick's mother opened the door. "What did he want?" she asked.

  "To borrow a book, " Nick said. "And I have no idea why he picked me to ask."

  "Maybe he doesn't have any other friends."

  "But he's hardly said five words to me since elementary school. I wouldn't exactly call him a friend."

  "Well, maybe he thinks you are," Nick's mom said. "Now go help your father. He's determined to have shower, and I don't want him falling down and breaking his butt, along with everything else."

  "Who's gonna watch him while I'm at school and you're at work?"

  "He says he's going to take care of himself, Nicky."

  "But what about rehab?"

  "Guess what he asked me to buy for him."

  "Baseballs?" Nick said.

  "Yep. " His mother made a pitching motion. "Four dozen baseballs is what he wants. I guess he's going to throw at that darn net all day long. Can you believe it? He just got out of the hospital!"

  "I believe it," said Nick. He couldn't have been any happier.

  When Dr. Dressier arrived at the Truman School early the next day, he found a note stuck to his office door asking him to call Wendell Waxmo as soon as possible.

  Dr. Dressier had no desire to speak to Wendell Waxmo first thing in the morning. In truth, he preferred not to speak to Wendell Waxmo at all. The man was a total flake, a menace in the classroom.

  Not a day went by that Dr. Dressier didn't receive irate phone calls from parents complaining about Wendell Waxmo's nutty antics and demanding that he be fired or hauled off to a psychiatric institution. Dr. Dressier always assured them that he would look into the matter promptly and take appropriate action.

  He was only stalling, of course, hoping that word of the daily chaos would reach Bunny Starch and that she'd come charging back to Truman to rescue her pupils from the clutches of the world's worst substitute.

  Yet so far, nearing the end of Wendell Waxmo's first week, Mrs. Starch remained silent and out of sight. Dr. Dressier didn't know how much longer he could fend off the angry mothers and fathers before they took their complaints to the board of trustees. The headmaster had even called Mrs. Starch's answering machine and left a message, pretending to complain about Wendell Waxmo's bad behavior and inquiring (in a gentle but urgent tone) when Mrs. Starch might return to school.

  Yet again there was no response.

  And now Wendell Waxmo himself had called, requesting to speak with Dr. Dressier. As the headmaster reluctantly dialed Wendell Waxmo's phone number, he anticipated being trapped in a conversation that made no sense whatsoever, just like the substitute's teaching practices.

  So he was surprised when Wendell Waxmo straightforwardly stated: "I won't be coming back to Truman. I'm afraid you'll have to find another teacher to handle Mrs. Starch's classes."

  "You haven't left me much time-the first bell is only an hour away."

  "It can't be helped, Dr. Dressier. I'm afraid I'm quite ill."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. Is it serious?"

  "Very serious. It's the Burmese jungle rot."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Burmese jungle rot!" snapped Wendell Waxmo. "Surely you've heard of the disease."

  "Of course, " the headmaster lied. Not that it mattered, but Wendell Waxmo didn't sound sick at all.

  "It's a terrible condition, Dr. Dressier. Makes your skin turn green and fall
off."

  "Really?"

  "And the doctors believe I caught it at your school! From unsanitary conditions in the cafeteria!"

  Dr. Dressier seriously doubted that. On his desktop computer he had called up Yahoo and typed in the term "jungle rot."

  Wendell Waxmo said, "I'm in pretty bad shape here. Pretty bad shape."

  "But it's a foot fungus, " the headmaster remarked after reading the definition. "You can treat it with topical antibiotics, according to these medical Web sites I'm looking at."

  "No, no, no-that's regular jungle rot. Burmese jungle rot is a hundred times worse. There's no known cure!"

  "Hmmmm, " said Dr. Dressier. "How in the world would you catch something like that in our cafeteria?"

  "From the salad bar, no doubt."

  "Did you put your feet in our salad bar, Wendell?"

  "The point is, I'm an extremely sick person." No kidding, thought Dr. Dressier. Sick in the head. "Sadly, I won't be returning to teach at Truman-ever," Wendell Waxmo continued. "Kindly remove my name from your list of available substitutes."

  No great loss, mused Dr. Dressier, but now how do I lure Bunny Starch back to school?

  "I've got a long, painful struggle ahead," Wendell Waxmo said dramatically.

  "We'll all be praying for your jungle rot to go away."

  "I appreciate that, Dr. Dressier." "But don't even think about suing us."

  "Good heavens, no!"

  "Because things would get ugly, Wendell. No offense, but you haven't made many friends here at Truman."

  "Well, I march to the tune of my own tuba," Wendell Waxmo said.

  "That's one way of putting it, I suppose." The headmaster didn't know the true reason Wendell Waxmo was leaving, nor did he intend to waste his time trying to find out. Nothing the man said or did seemed very logical.

  "Oh, I almost forgot," Wendell Waxmo said. "Please inform my replacement that the students are on page 263."

  "In which class?" Dr. Dressier asked.

  "In all the classes," Wendell Waxmo replied matter-of-factly. "Today's Friday, and on Fridays we always study page 263. No exceptions."

  The headmaster rolled his eyes but restrained himself from saying something cruel into the phone. "Every Friday the same page?"

  "Of course. Focus, focus, focus!"

  "Goodbye, Wendell. Get well soon."

  "Thank you, Dr. Dressier."

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss hadn't said a word to his boss about the arson investigation, but Drake McBride found out anyway. Apparently the helicopter pilot was a blabbermouth.

  "When did you plan on telling me-or did you?" Drake McBride asked tartly.

  "I didn't think it was necessary, sir. I got everything under control," Jimmy Lee Bayliss said.

  They were sitting in Drake McBride's office, which had a grand view of Tampa Bay. In the distance, sailboats tacked back and forth across the choppy water.

  "But you told me you cleared the scene. You told me they'd never suspect we did it," Drake McBride said.

  "There's nuthin' to worry about. Honest."

  "Don't worry?" Drake McBride raised his palms skyward. "Arson is a big-time felony, pardner. They put people in prison for it!"

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss said, "I made friends with the fire investigator, and we've got no problems. They're after some local kid, a known pyro."

  Drake McBride rose from his desk and poured himself a cup of black coffee. He didn't offer any to Jimmy Lee Bayliss, which was just as well because Jimmy Lee Bayliss's stomach was a wreck and his lips were still sore from the encounter with Duane Scrod Sr.

  "I don't understand what's the big deal," Drake McBride fumed. "It's not like an orphanage got torched-just some worthless damn swamp. This time next year, you won't be able to tell it ever got burnt."

  "Lightning strikes all the time in those woods," Jimmy Lee Bayliss remarked.

  "Exactamente! Now, are you tellin' me these arson guys rush out and investigate every single wildfire? No way." Drake McBride was indignant. "Now all of a sudden it's CSI: Everglades. Talk about a waste of taxpayer dollars!"

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss knew exactly why the authorities had taken an interest in the fire at the Black Vine Swamp. "It's only because there were kids out there," he said.

  "Yeah, well, none of the little buggers got hurt, did they? Nobody even got their eyebrows toasted." Drake McBride stood at the picture window and stared pensively out at the bay. "Bottom line: We had to do somethin' to keep 'em away from Section 22. And it worked, did it not?"

  "Yes, sir. No harm done."

  "And by the way-is that a stupid place for a field trip, or what? Way out in the middle of nowhere? If that was my class, I'd take em all to SeaWorld to watch those killer whales do ballerina dances, or whatever."

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss said, "Or Weeki Wachee. They got all these girls dressed up like mermaids, ridin' water skis."

  "Now you're talkin'!" Drake McBride finally smiled though he became serious again when he returned to his desk. "Jimmy Lee, please tell me they've got no evidence that can tie Red Diamond to the arson. Please tell me I don't need to start lookin' for a lawyer and a bail bondsman."

  "They haven't got diddly, sir." Jimmy Lee Bayliss failed to inform his boss that he'd dropped a company pen at the crime scene.

  Drake McBride sat forward and peered at him curiously. "What the heck happened to your face? Somebody punch you out?"

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss chose not to admit that a lunatic with a rabid parrot had tried to remove his lips with a pair of pliers.

  "I cut myself shavin'," he said.

  "Shaving with what-a weed whacker?"

  "No big deal," mumbled Jimmy Lee Bayliss, covering his mouth.

  Drake McBride fixed him with a steely look that he practiced often in the mirror. "Look here, pardner-you say the situation is under control. Does that mean I can take the afternoon off and go run King Thunderbolt?"

  "Absolutely."

  In his quest to look like a Texan, Drake McBride had bought a horse named Dumpling, renamed it King thunderbolt, and was now taking riding lessons. Jimmy Lee Bayliss fully expected the animal to throw Drake McBride out of the saddle and stomp on him once it figured out what a phony he was.

  "The arson investigator and I had a real good talk," Jimmy Lee Bayliss said, trying to put his boss at ease.

  Drake McBride leaned back and propped his shiny snakeskin boots on the desk. "That kid you mentioned, he sounds like a prime suspect."

  "Definitely," Jimmy Lee Bayliss said. "A bad actor."

  "They should take a real hard look at him."

  "Oh, they are."

  "Any assistance that Red Diamond Energy can offer-"

  "They got our full cooperation," Jimmy Lee Bayliss said.

  Drake McBride winked. "Give 'em whatever they need, okay?"

  "I'm all over it."

  "One more thing, pardner."

  "Sure." Jimmy Lee Bayliss hated it when Drake McBride called him "pardner." The guy watched too many old Westerns on cable TV.

  "If somethin' else bad happens," Drake McBride said, "I don't want to hear about it from my helicopter pilot. Understand? I want to hear about it from you."

  "Yes, sir. Speakin' of the chopper, I need a lift out to the drilling site."

  "Sure thing-after you drop me off at the . . . whatcha. callit. You know, the horse place?"

  "You mean the stable," said Jimmy Lee Bayliss.

  "Right." Drake McBride adjusted the tilt of his cowboy hat. "The stable," he said.

  SIXTEEN

  On the bus ride to school, Nick told Marta about Smoke's surprise visit.

  She said, "You mean that maniac knows where you live? That's not cool."

  "He just wanted to borrow my biology book."

  "I'm so sure," Marta said.

  "To study for an exam, is what he said."

  "What exam? There's no exam ... is there?"

  "Not that I know of. It was weird," Nick said. "Then he took off before I could ask about Mrs. Sta
rch."

  Marta frowned. "Don't go there, Nick. Just let it drop."

  After their encounter with the man called Twilly, Marta had lost some of her enthusiasm for solving the mystery of Mrs. Starch's disappearance.

  Nick said, "I checked out a book by that writer Twilly talked about, Edward Abbey. It's called The Monkey Wrench Gang, and the hero is this wild dude named Hayduke who wants to blow up a dam."

  "What for?" Marta asked.

  "Because it's plugging up this huge wild river. So he and these other guys launch, like, an underground war."

  "All guys, huh?"

  "No, there's a lady in the gang, too."

  "Stick with comics, Nick."

  "Seriously, it's a good story. And funny."

  "But what's it got to do with Mrs. Starch?"

  Nick shook his head. "Who knows. Maybe nothing."

  "Look, I really don't care where she is, or what she's doing," Marta said. "I just want her to come back to Truman so we don't have to deal with Waxmo anymore. A witch that knows how to teach is better than a fruitcake from Mars."

  "Smoke said Dr. Waxmo's gone."

  "No way!" Marta exclaimed jubilantly.

  "Whatever happened, Smoke acted like he had something to do with it," Nick said. "Sort of sketched me out."

  Marta clapped her hands. "I can't believe we're really rid of Wacko Waxmo. It's too good to be true."

  "We'll find out soon."

  Sure enough, a different substitute was sitting at Mrs. Starch's desk when Marta and Nick walked into third-period biology. They exchanged glances and took their seats. Graham was already waving his hand at the teacher, whose name was Mrs. Robertson. Most of the kids knew her, because she substituted regularly at the school.

  "Dr. Waxmo has called in sick," she began. "Some sort of nasty flu bug, according to Dr. Dressier. So it looks like I'll be teaching this class until Mrs. Starch returns."

  When the students broke out in grateful applause, Mrs.

  Robertson tried not to smile. Wendell Waxmo's unstable personality was legend among other substitutes.

  When the celebrating was over, she said, "All right, let's let down to business. You have a question, Graham?"

  The boy lowered his hand and said, "I'm ready with page 263."