by Carl Hiaasen
"Oh?"
"I memorized the whole thing, like Dr. Waxmo told us to. Gametes and chromosomes!"
"That's good," Mrs. Robertson said patiently, "but I use a different teaching method than Dr. Waxmo's. I find it's more helpful to study chapter by chapter, instead of choosing random pages."
Graham looked crestfallen as Mrs. Robertson instructed the students to open their textbooks to Chapter 10. It was then Nick noticed that Smoke was absent, which meant that Nick's biology book was absent, too. He would have to share with somebody else.
Marta passed him a note: Where's your new friend?
Nick shrugged. Maybe the new, improved Duane Scrod Jr. was back to his old ways.
Torkelsen parked his SUV on the dirt road and approached the helicopter where the oilman was waiting.
"Hop in," he said to the fire investigator.
Torkelsen strapped himself in one of the back seats. "When did you find it?" he asked.
"About an hour ago. I called you right away," Jimmy Lee Bayliss said.
The chopper ride took only about three minutes Torkelsen looked out the window while Jimmy Lee Bayliss chewed up a handful of Tums and hoped that the fire investigator wouldn't ask about the tool marks on his lips. The helicopter touched down in a dry clearing and the two men stepped out, Jimmy Lee Bayliss leading the way.
"Watch out for rattlers," he warned.
"You bet," the fire investigator said.
They made their way to a hammock of cabbage palms. The camo-print book bag lay on the ground, partially concealed by dead fronds. Jimmy Lee Bayliss thought he'd done a very convincing job of planting the evidence.
Torkelsen picked up the bag and examined it.
"We were doin' a fly-by when I saw some wild hogs runnin' through these trees," Jimmy Lee Bayliss said, "so I had the pilot set her down and I took off with my rifle. Didn't catch those darn pigs, but I came across this thing and figgered you'd be interested."
The fire investigator unzipped the pockets of the satchel and carefully sorted through the contents.
"What the heck's in there?" asked Jimmy Lee Bayliss, as if he didn't know. He'd been careful to remove any assignment papers that were dated after the arson; otherwise Torkelsen would have figured out that the book bag couldn't have been left at the scene on the day of the crime.
"Schoolbooks, pencils, a calculator," Torkelsen said. "And this-"
From one of the compartments he pulled out a small butane torch.
Jimmy Lee Bayliss whistled. "You hit the jackpot!"
Torkelsen used a digital camera to take pictures, placing the book bag and the torch on a mat of palm fronds.
"This isn't far from where the fire was started, right?" Jimmy Lee Bayliss said, again as if he didn't know. "The kid must've stashed his stuff here before he took off."
"Sure looks that way."
Torkelsen jotted down the brand and model number of the butane torch, which Jimmy Lee Bayliss had purchased at his favorite hardware store on the way home from the Scrod household. Jimmy Lee Bayliss had tested the device by using it to burn up the sales receipt so that it could never be traced to him.
The fire investigator repacked the book bag, slung it over one shoulder, and followed Jimmy Lee Bayliss back to the helicopter. The pilot lifted off and made an extra-wide turn to avoid flying over the area of Section 22 where Red Diamond Energy was erecting its illegal oil-drilling platform. Even though the site was well concealed among the woods, Jimmy Lee Bayliss wasn't taking any chances, especially with a sharp-eyed passenger such as Torkelsen.
When the chopper landed on the dirt road, Jimmy Lee Bayliss got out and walked with the fire investigator to his SUV.
"Is there a name tag on that backpack?" Jimmy Lee Bayliss asked innocently.
"Yep," said Torkelsen. "It's that same kid I told you about-Duane Scrod Jr."
"Then you've got your arsonist!"
Torkelsen placed the incriminating bag in the back of the SUV. "This is a big help, Mr. Bayliss. Thanks a million."
"Call me anytime." Jimmy Lee Bayliss silently congratulated himself as he returned to the chopper, though he wouldn't have had such a merry spring in his step if he'd known that he was being spied upon at that very moment.
Perched halfway up a cypress and shielded by branches, Twilly Spree sucked on a slice of store-bought grapefruit and waited for the Red Diamond helicopter to fly away. Then he climbed down and waded slowly out of the strand.
The spiders and mosquitoes didn't concern him, nor did the poisonous snakes and the snapping turtles. Twilly was utterly at ease in the Black Vine Swamp, as he was in almost any wilderness. He felt much safer hiking among a few hungry gators and bears than driving down Interstate 75 at rush hour.
As he did every morning before the oil company workers arrived, Twilly went searching for signs of a particular panther. He would have been elated to see one measly paw print, but he found nothing. Twilly hadn't laid eyes on the animal since the day he'd heard two rifle shots in the area, He never came across its body or any spots of blood, so he'd concluded that it had safely gotten away.
On the day of the fire, Twilly had heard a panther scream-there was no mistaking the hair-raising wail-and lie chose to believe that it was the one that he'd been seeking. The sooner the feline returned to its territory, the better. This was truly a matter of life and death, although not Twilly's own.
On the trail leading back to camp, he encountered the kid.
"You're supposed to be in school," Twilly said.
"I dreamed I saw the cat."
"Where?"
"On the boardwalk," said Duane Scrod Jr. "I had to check it out, in case it was, like, an Indian dream. But it wasn't."
"Too bad." Twilly himself rarely dreamed, but he knew Seminoles and Miccosukees who had visions that sometimes came true.
Facing the sun, Duane Scrod Jr. squinted out across the swamp. "So you didn't find anything? No tracks?"
Twilly shook his head. "A bobcat and some deer, that's all. You saw that chopper, right?"
"Don't worry," Duane Scrod Jr. said. "They didn't see me. I hid the bike real good, too."
"You need to get your butt to school. The alternative isn't pretty."
"Yeah, I know."
"Did your book bag ever turn up?"
"Nope. I swear I took it home," the kid said, "but I can't find it anywhere. Weird."
"You ask your old man?"
Duane Scrod Jr. snorted. "He's locked inside his music room with that crazy bird. Says he chased off a government tax man and next they're gonna send the FBI. There's no use talkin' to him when he gets like this."
The boy clearly had a rocky situation at home-his mother had run off to Europe and his father didn't always have both oars in the water. Twilly Spree felt bad for him, although not bad enough to risk blowing the mission.
"Hey, I saw the bottles got here," Duane Scrod Jr. said.
"Yep. Everybody's okay, for now."
"That was a cool thing you did."
"Go to school," Twilly told him. "Don't make me say it again."
"Right. Later, dude."
Watching the boy walk away, Twilly wished that he were better qualified to give out advice and wisdom. However, he'd spent most of his own life following his gut impulse instead of his brain, so he was hardly the proper model of a sensible grown-up.
He headed back toward camp, moving quietly by habit through the marshes and prairies and tree islands. On a soggy stretch he came upon something dark in the middle of the trail, something that hadn't been there earlier in the morning.
Twilly dropped to the ground and put his face closer in order to be sure. Eagerly he studied the fresh find. He poked it with a twig. He turned it with a leaf. He even sniffed it.
There was no doubt: panther poop!
Dr. Dressler's day turned sour when his lunch was interrupted by the arrival of George and Gilda Carson. They had come to make their weekly plea to have their "brilliant" son Graham moved up one or two grad
e levels at Truman.
Based on Graham's most recent report card, which Dr. Dressier held in his hand, Graham was exactly where he should have been.
"He has a C-plus average," Dr. Dressier reminded the Carsons. "There's nothing wrong with that, but it tells me that your son has all the challenges he can handle right now."
"What do you mean by that?" huffed Gilda Carson.
"Yes, what are you driving at?" George Carson chimed in.
Part of Dr. Dressler's job was putting up with the unreasonable demands of parents, but sometimes it wasn't easy to be polite.
"We don't normally advance a student unless he or she has straight A's," he explained, "and only then if they pass a series of tests showing that they're ready to skip ahead of all the other students their age."
Gilda Carson said, "We told you to give Graham those tests."
"And I did." Dr. Dressier handed her a copy of the not-so-brilliant results, which she showed to her husband.
"So he had one bad day. Big deal," said George Carson. "Let him take the tests again."
Dr. Dressier glanced wearily at the brass clock on his desk. He said, "Graham is a fine young man. He pays attention in class. He asks lots and lots of questions. He tries hard, but-"
"But what?" sneered Graham's mother.
"But he's a C-plus student."
"Which is the fault of his teachers, Dr. Dressier. Clearly Graham is underachieving," George Carson said, waving the test paper, "and that shouldn't happen at a place like Truman. We pay an arm and a leg for tuition here...."
Dr. Dressier tuned out the arm-and-a-leg speech, which he'd heard dozens of times from parents who'd decided to blame the school because their children were falling short of their expectations. More often than not, the students improved with a little extra help and went on to graduate with solid marks.
However, the Carsons were in no mood for a pep talk, and Dr. Dressier was in no mood for the Carsons. He was on the verge of saying something very frank to them when his assistant cracked open the door.
"Sorry to interrupt, Dr. Dressier, but Detective Marshall is here to see you."
"Certainly. Right away." The headmaster was relieved to be rid of the Carsons (who departed, grousing), but he was worried about this new visit from the sheriff's detective. It probably wasn't a social call.
Once Jason Marshall entered the office, he got directly to the point. "I'm here to arrest Duane Scrod Jr.," he said.
"For the fire in the swamp?"
The detective nodded soberly. Dr. Dressler's spirits sank as he envisioned the awful headline: TRUMAN STUDENT BUSTED FOR ARSON.
Because he was still a minor, Duane Scrod Jr. could not be openly named by the authorities, although it hardly mattered. The news that anyone enrolled at Truman was being charged with such a serious crime would bring horrible publicity, and Dr. Dressier anticipated a strong reaction from the school's board of trustees, not to mention some of the wealthy donors.
"The fire department called about an hour ago," Jason Marshall said. "It sounds like they've got all the evidence they need."
Dr. Dressier didn't bother asking for details. Given the boy's history of setting fires, the headmaster had no doubt that Duane Scrod Jr. was guilty. Obviously there was a good reason why the other students called him Smoke.
"It's only twenty minutes until school's dismissed," Dr. Messier said. "Can't we wait?"
The detective said, "No, let's get it over with."
Dr. Dressier checked the schedule and saw that Duane Scrod Jr. was in Mr. Riccio's English seminar.
"It's probably better if you stay here," the headmaster told Jason Marshall, who agreed.
The classroom was on the other side of the campus, and Dr. Dressier hurried to get there. Duane Scrod Jr. showed little emotion when the headmaster tapped on the door and summoned him outside.
Halfway to the administration building, the boy finally asked why he'd been called out of class.
"We've got a problem, Duane," said Dr. Dressier.
"Whaddya mean?"
"A man from the sheriff's department wants to speak with you."
"Again? How come?"
"Is your father home? Because you'll probably want to give him a call later."
"When hell freezes over," the boy said.
The Truman School had a strict rule against cussing, but Dr. Dressier let it slide. Duane Scrod Jr. was a large person, and the headmaster didn't want to rile him. He knew that the detective was far more experienced at handling such situations.
Jason Marshall, it turned out, was waiting with a set of handcuffs.
"No way," muttered Duane Scrod Jr. when he realized what was happening.
"I'm sorry, son," the detective said. "Turn around, please."
The boy didn't move. He sighed heavily and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "This is so wrong," he said. Dr. Dressier was now extremely nervous. Nobody had ever been arrested in his office before. "Duane, please do what Detective Marshall says."
Slowly, very slowly, the boy turned around.
Thank goodness, thought the headmaster.
Then, just as Jason Marshall stepped forward to snap on the handcuffs, Duane Scrod Jr. bolted out the door.
"Hey!" shouted the detective, charging after him. "Stop!"
Dr. Dressier stood there alone, dumbfounded and flustered. He felt like he was in an episode of Cops.
The headmaster looked out the window in time to see Duane Scrod Jr. sprinting toward the athletic field. For such a stocky kid he was very quick, and he steadily widened the gap between himself and the detective. Dr. Dressier wondered why nobody had ever talked Duane Scrod Jr. into playing for the Truman football team, which was in dire need of a fullback.
A lacrosse squad was practicing at the west end of the field, and Duane Scrod Jr. made a beeline for one of the players. Even from a distance, Dr. Dressier easily identified the student as Nick Waters because of the bulky sling contraption that he wore on his right shoulder.
The headmaster watched in puzzlement as Duane Scrod Jr. pulled Nick aside and spoke to him briefly. Then the boy again dashed away, jumping a chain-link fence and vanishing into a deep stand of pine trees. Detective Jason Marshall ran far behind, waving and hollering.
Dr. Dressier didn't think that Duane Scrod Jr. had any friends at the Truman School, so he wondered why the kid had singled out Nick Waters to speak to-and what message could have been so important as to prompt him to interrupt his escape.
Had Dr. Dressier been able to hear every word that Duane Scrod Jr. said on the practice field, he might have reserved his opinion about the arson in the Black Vine Swamp.
The first thing that the boy called Smoke told Nick Waters was: "Your biology book's in my locker. The combination is 5-3-5."
And the second thing he said was: "I didn't do that fire, man. I'm innocent."
SEVENTEEN
When Nick got home from school, he saw his father in the backyard throwing baseballs left-handed into the pitching let. Nick dropped his blazer on a chair, yanked off his necktie, and ran outside.
"How's your ... you know ..." He pointed at his dad's bandaged shoulder.
"My stump, you mean." His father smiled ruefully. "Actually, it's more like a stump of a stump."
Nick thought: At least he hasn't lost his sense of humor.
His dad said, "The infection's almost gone, but I'd be lying if I said I felt like a million bucks."
"Then you should take it easy." "No, sir." Capt. Gregory Waters grabbed another ball from a bucket by his feet. "Take off your sling, Nicky, and we'll play some catch."
Nick knew it was useless to argue. "Throw it here," he said.
"Unstrap your right arm and go get your glove."
"Come on, Dad, just throw it."
"Suit yourself." His dad wound up and pitched. The ball made a smack when it landed in Nick's bare hand-and it stung.
"Whoa!" Nick whistled and shook his ringers. "That's pretty good."
"I'm
gettin' there," his father said.
Nick tossed back the ball, which went straight enough, though not terribly hard. He still felt awkward throwing with the wrong arm.
"Dad, how long have you been out here practicing?"
"Four hours and change."
"Geez, you're not tired?"
Greg Waters laughed. "Are you kidding? I'm whipped," he said, "but it's the best way to build up my strength and get some muscle memory."
His next pitch was low and off the mark. Nick scooped it off the grass, took a big step, and hurled it back-five feet over his father's head.
Greg Waters chuckled and said, "Even when I had two arms I couldn't jump that high."
Nick retrieved the baseball from a bed of geraniums and jogged back to the other end of the yard.
"Who's your favorite lefty of all time?" he asked his dad on the next throw.
"Steve Carlton of the Phillies, way before your time. But you should've seen his fastball."
"Better than Johan Santana's?"
"Ask me again when Johan is in the Hall of Fame." He zipped another one back at Nick, who didn't mind the sting.
It was exciting to see his dad throwing so hard and so accurately from what was once his weak side. "So, Nicky what's the hot news at Truman?"
Nick had planned to tell his parents about Smoke at dinner. They would have heard about it eventually anyway.
"Libby's dad came to arrest a kid at school, only the kid ran off into the woods and got away," Nick said.
Greg Waters stopped in the middle of his pitching motion. He lowered his arm but hung on to the ball.
"What was he being arrested for?"
"That fire in the swamp that I told you about, the day we went on the field trip," Nick said. "But here's the thing, Dad-I don't think he did it."
"How do you know?"
The back door opened and Nick's mom came outside wearing a first-baseman's mitt as big as a ham. She pounded a fist into the pocket and called out to Nick's dad: "Come on, soldier boy, let's see what you've got!"
Greg Waters grinned and hurled the ball, which she snagged easily and threw underhanded-but with plenty of juice-to Nick. His mother hadn't played softball since college, but she still had an excellent arm.