by Carl Hiaasen
"How long have you been home?" Nick asked her.
"About thirty seconds. I saw you two rookies out here in the yard and figured you needed some backup or else you were gonna break out some windows on Mrs. Storter's house."
"Not me!" Nick's father said, pretending to be insulted. "Nicky's the wild one."
For half an hour they played three-way catch in a breezy pleasant silence, just as they used to do before Greg Waters had been sent to Iraq. To Nick it seemed unreal that not even two weeks had passed since his dad had been seriously wounded-yet he was already back home, slinging the baseball! It was like a miracle, Nick thought.
Then again, his father was no ordinary patient.
Greg Waters said, "Nick, tell your mom what happened at school today."
"Oh, I already know about it. Gilda Carson text-messaged every parent in the phone book," said Nick's mother. "That boy who ran from the police is the same one who stopped over last night to borrow Nick's biology book."
"Really? Nicky didn't mention that." Greg Waters looked concerned, but he kept on throwing.
"His name is Duane Scrod Jr.," Nick's mother said. "His dad did a stretch in jail for arson, so I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree-"
"Mom, he didn't do it," Nick cut in firmly.
"What makes you so sure?"
"He told me so," Nick said. "While he was running away from Detective Marshall, he stopped me at lacrosse practice and said he was innocent. Why would he bother to do that if it wasn't true?"
Nick's mother tossed him the baseball. "People do lie, Nicky, especially when they're in trouble."
"But I believe him! You guys didn't see the look in his eyes, but I did." Nick heaved the ball to his dad, who bobbled it and then dropped it on the grass. Obviously he was distracted by what he was hearing.
Nick's mom said, "Tell your father what the other kids call Duane Jr."
"Aw, it's just a nickname," Nick protested.
"Let's hear it," said his dad.
"Smoke," Nick said quietly, knowing it would be harder than ever to convince his parents that Duane Scrod Jr. was innocent.
"Smoke?" Greg Waters picked up the baseball and turned it over and over in his hand. "Let me guess why they call him Smoke."
"Because that's what he likes to be called. Nobody knows why," Nick said. Then he added: "Okay, the police said he set two fires a long time ago-but that doesn't automatically mean he did this one."
Nick assumed that his mother had already learned about Smoke's previous arsons from Mrs. Carson, who'd probably gotten the information from Graham.
"Nicky, this doesn't sound good," his father said.
"But what happened in the past shouldn't matter-if he didn't start this fire, he shouldn't be arrested for it," Nick said. "That's not right, Dad."
Nick's mother walked over and put an arm around him, her softball mitt resting behind his back on the lump that was his wrapped-up right arm. She said, "According to Mrs.
Carson, they've got real strong evidence that Duane Jr. did it."
"Like what?"
"She didn't say in the message. But she made it sound solid."
Nick pulled away and sat down in a patio chair. "Well, I don't believe that. Anyway, you're supposed to be innocent till proven guilty, right?"
If Smoke was lying to me on the lacrosse field, Nick thought, then that kid is the world's greatest actor.
"Did the police catch him?" he asked.
"Not yet," his mom said. "I'd better go start dinner. We can talk about this later."
Capt. Gregory Waters sat down, flexing the fingers in his left hand. He looked sore and exhausted. "Maybe tomorrow I'll try the fly rod," he said.
Nick found himself staring at the empty right sleeve of his father's shirt-getting used to the sight of him without one arm would take time. His dad even joked about how "lopsided" he appeared in the mirror.
"Can I ask you something about the war?" Nick said.
"Sure."
"That man who died when the rocket hit your Humvee-you said he was like a brother to you."
"It's true. He was," Nick's father said.
"How long did you know him before then?"
Greg Waters thought for a moment. "Two weeks. Maybe three."
"That's not a very long time," Nick said.
"Well, sometimes you make a connection right away." "And not just because you're, like, in battle together?" "No, the same thing would happen when I played ball in the minors," said Nick's dad. "You'd start talking to a new player the first day of spring training, and right away you knew he was okay. And then some other guy would walk up, and in two seconds you could tell he was a complete ass."
"I know what you mean," Nick said. "It's like a weird radar."
"Yeah, sort of."
Nick stood up. "I need to make a phone call before dinner."
His father said, "This boy that the police are hunting for-is he a friend of yours?"
"That's a good question," said Nick. "I think maybe he is."
After setting the table for his mom, Nick went to his bedroom, shut the door, and called Libby Marshall on her cell. She was out walking her dog, Sam.
"No, they didn't catch him yet," she said, anticipating Nick's question. "But they will. And my dad is so not amused-he pulled a hamstring while he was chasing him!"
Nick had to be careful what he said to Libby. It was natural for her to believe that Smoke was guilty, because that's what her father surely told her.
Libby said, "He's still on probation for torching that billboard on the interstate, so they can lock him up until his next trial, my dad says. Six months, maybe longer."
No wonder he ran away, Nick thought. "Are they still out there looking for him?"
"Nah. He's not, like, a serial killer or something," Libby said. "They'll bust him as soon as he goes home. Dad says that's where they usually find juvenile fugitives."
"But what if he doesn't show up?"
"Right, Nick. Where else is he gonna go?"
Nick thought: I wish I knew.
"Why are they so sure he did it?" Nick was hoping that Libby's father had mentioned something about the mysterious new evidence.
And luckily, he had.
"Somebody found Smoke's book bag near the place where the fire was started," Libby said. "Guess what was in it-a portable torch, just like the arsonist used! He's toast, Nick. Case closed."
"His book bag from school? The camo one?"
"Hang on a second," Libby said. "Sam, no! Bad dog! BAD DOG!"
While she hollered at her pet, Nick held the phone away from his ear. It didn't make sense that Smoke's backpack had suddenly turned up at the Black Vine Swamp.
When Libby came back on the line, she was out of breath. "Sorry, Nick, I gotta go. Sam's cornered a humongous ol' tomcat and it's about to scratch his nose off...-No!
Bad boy! I said NO!!!"
Nick hung up and immediately called Marta.
"What are you doing first thing tomorrow?" he asked.
"Sleeping," she replied. "It's Saturday, remember?"
"We're going on a bike ride."
"I don't think so, Nick."
"Be ready at eight."
"Get serious," said Marta. "I plan to be snoring like a polar bear at eight o'clock in the morning."
"No, this is important. I'll explain everything when I see you."
"Don't you dare take me back to Mrs. Starch's house! I don't want to end up with glass eyeballs and a tag around my neck, like all those other dead animals."
Nick said, "Don't worry. That's not where we're going."
The next morning, as Duane Scrod Sr. crept into the kitchen to get some sunflower seeds for Nadine, he heard a knock at the front door and then a voice calling, "Duane? Are you there?"
It sounded too young to be an FBI man, but Duane Scrod Sr. wasn't taking any chances. He scrambled back to the music room and barricaded himself inside. His macaw, who was famished, peevishly latched on to one of his e
ar-lobes, yet Duane Scrod Sr. gritted his teeth and remained silent in spite of the pain.
He didn't want to go back to jail, although he realized that the odds were stacked against him. Attacking that tax man wasn't the brightest move he'd ever made, and he figured it was only a matter of time before his house was surrounded by heavily armed agents of the U.S. government
Earlier in the day, Duane Scrod Sr. had hidden from another stranger, a man who had knocked repeatedly and identified himself as a sheriff's deputy searching for Junior Duane Sr. had snatched Nadine from her cage and run to cower under a quilt in the music room.
"Duane, open up! It's me-Nick Waters," the new visitor shouted.
Then a girl's voice said, "I told you so. He's not even here."
It occurred to Duane Scrod Sr. that the persons on the porch might actually be looking for his son, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Except for one or two Miccosukee Indians, Junior didn't have any friends his own age.
No, thought Duane Scrod Sr., this must be a trap. The FBI could be extremely sneaky.
As soon as the voices outside stopped, Nadine let go of Duane Scrod Sr.'s ear. After a few minutes he cautiously approached the small spinet piano that was blocking the mu-sic room door and prepared to push it aside.
"Ich habe Hunger!" Nadine complained. "J' ai faim!"
"Hush up, bird," Duane Scrod Sr. whispered, "or I'll sell you to Colonel Sanders."
A female voice from behind piped, "Don't do that."
Duane Scrod Sr. wheeled around and cowered beside the piano. Framed in the open window were two faces-a boy and a girl, watching him.
"What do you want?" he demanded. "Did the guv'ment send you, too?"
The boy said, "We go to school with Duane. We need to find him."
"Yeah, well, get in line."
"He's in our biology class," the girl added.
Nadine screeched and flapped around the room two or three times before alighting on a dusty chandelier.
"Go away!" Duane Scrod Sr. barked at the kids. He still wasn't convinced that they weren't FBI agents in disguise. The boy said, "Duane's running from the police. They're going to arrest him for arson, but we don't think he did it."
"No, Nick," the girl interrupted, "you don't think he did it."
"Whatever. We've got to talk to him."
Duane Scrod Sr. said, "Even if I knew where he was- which I don't-I wouldn't tell ya. So kindly take a hike. And I mean now."
But the two kids didn't move.
What's wrong with this world? thought Duane Scrod Sr. When did the grown-ups stop being in charge?
"That's a nice piano," the girl remarked. "I've been taking lessons since I was four."
"How thrilling for you," Duane Scrod Sr. grumbled, "Now get lost."
He was astounded to see both kids calmly climb through his window to enter the room. The girl said, "You know what I played at our fall recital? Rachmaninoff's Prelude number 4 in D."
"You're kidding," Duane Scrod Sr. said. Rachmaninoff was one of his all-time favorites. He slid the spinet away from the door and the girl sat down on the piano bench and played the whole piece from memory.
"That's downright lovely," Duane Scrod Sr. admitted.
She said, "My name's Marta. And this is Nick."
"I'm Duane's dad. But I still can't tell ya where he's at, 'cause I don't have a clue. Besides, you might be undercover FBI."
The girl said, "That's the dumbest thing I ever heard. I didn't even make the J.V. cheerleader squad." Duane Scrod Sr. reddened.
The boy named Nick said, "Didn't you hear what happened at school yesterday?"
"Nope. Junior never came home is all I know."
"That's because he's a fugitive from justice," the girl named Marta said dramatically.
"Oh, that's great," Duane Scrod Sr. muttered.
The boy described what had occurred when the sheriff's detective went to the Truman School to arrest Duane Scrod Jr. for the arson at the Black Vine Swamp.
"But D.J. said they didn't have any evidence!" his father objected. "He promised me!"
"They didn't have a thing until yesterday," said the boy named Nick. "Then they found his book bag at the scene of the fire."
Now Duane Scrod Sr. was really puzzled. "D.J. had a book bag?"
The girl sighed impatiently. "For school, Mr. Scrod."
"It was camo-colored," the kid named Nick went on, "like a hunter's backpack."
"Okay. Yeah." Now Duane Scrod Sr. remembered the bag.
"When's the last time you saw it?" the boy asked.
"Day before yesterday." The two kids whispered to each other; then the girl turned to Duane Scrod Sr. and asked, "Are you a hundred percent sure?"
"You bet I am. It was when the guv'ment tax man was here, violatin' my personal privacy. He grabbed Junior's bag off the floor and tried to murder my dear sweet Nadine with it-ain't that right, darlin'?"
"Oui," replied the macaw, rocking the chandelier. "So where's the backpack now?" the girl asked.
"Beats me. Maybe the tax guy ran off with it." Duane Scrod Sr. wondered how long he could put off calling Millicent Winship to tell her that her grandson was in trouble with the law again.
The boy named Nick said: "I don't think Duane is guilty."
Duane Scrod Sr. coughed. "I'd dearly like to believe Bat's true, but D.J.'s got what they call a 'history' with fires."
"Well, this time he didn't do it," declared the boy "That's what he told me, and I believe him."
"And what do you 'spect me to do? Go march at the courthouse?" Duane Scrod Sr. shrugged. "Junior won't come out of the woods till he's good and ready, and they'll never find him out there. Not in a trillion years."
"When you hear from him-"
"Who says I will?"
"But if you do," the girl named Marta said, "tell him to quit running and turn himself in. That's the only way he'll clear his name."
Duane Scrod Sr. cackled bitterly. "This ain't the movies, you know. Life doesn't shake down so simple."
The boy went out the window first. The girl followed, pausing briefly on the sill. She said, "That's a sweet little piano. Do you play?"
Smoke's father shook his head. "Not in years."
"Well, you should take it up again."
"Yeah? What for?"
"Because you'll feel better," the girl said, and dropped out of sight.
On the ride home, Nick was so agitated that he had trouble keeping his bike on the sidewalk.
"Don't you see? It's a total setup!" he exclaimed to Marta. "Smoke couldn't possibly have ditched his book bag in the swamp on the day of the fire, because his father saw the same bag in the house two days ago. You know what? I remember seeing it under Smoke's desk in biology class the first day Waxmo was there!"
Marta said, "Easy, dude. You're gonna hyperventilate."
"I'm serious: somebody stole his backpack, stashed a torch inside, and left it at the scene of the arson. Smoke's .been framed!"
"But why? That's crazy."
Nick had to agree-some vital pieces of the puzzle were missing. Although Duane Scrod Jr. kept to himself at Truman, he didn't seem to have made any enemies. Nick couldn't think of a single person who'd want to see the kid wrongfully locked up in jail.
"Don't forget," Marta said, "the guy's dad is a major screwball, too. I mean, come on: Why would a tax collector steal a kid's book bag?"
"What if he wasn't really a tax collector?" Nick said. "What if he went to Smoke's house just to take something that he could plant at the Black Vine Swamp, something incriminating?"
Marta gave a skeptical grunt. "Now, don't get mad," she said, "but here's another what-if."
"Okay."
"What if Smoke had two book bags, Nick? One for his school stuff and one for his pyro gear."
Nick was growing frustrated with Marta-why couldn't she see what was happening? "But he came over Thursday night to borrow my biology book, remember? He said he'd lost his backpack. I told you about it the next day."
"He also said he needed to study for a nonexistent exam," Marta pointed out. "The whole story was pretty sketchy. You said so yourself."
Nick braked his bike under the shade of a tree and tried to gather his thoughts. Nothing about the fire in the Black Vine Swamp made much sense, from the disappearance of Mrs. Starch to the appearance of Duane Scrod Jr.'s backpack.
Marta stopped her bicycle beside Nick's. "What if Smoke heard his book bag had been found where the fire was set, and what if he was trying to make an alibi for himself by coming over and telling you that he'd, quote, 'lost' it. Then he gets his dad to lie and say the bag was in the house two days ago but some stranger conveniently ripped it off."
Nick said, "I like my theory better."
"If he's not guilty, why did he run from Libby's dad?"
"Because he was scared of getting arrested. He freaked out, that's all."
Marta said, "Everybody says they're innocent, no matter what. Don't you watch Court TV?"
To himself Nick admitted that it was possible that she was right, and that Smoke was playing him for a sucker. But Nick's father always said to go with your gut, and Nick's gut said the kid was telling the truth.
"Marta, I still say he didn't do it."
"Fine. Then tell me one good reason why anyone in town would want to frame him. Name one person, okay?. .. Hick?"
He wasn't listening. He had gotten off his bicycle and started jogging across the street. "Come on," he called back to her.
"Are you cracking up, or what?" she shouted.
"Hurry!" Nick motioned excitedly toward a strip mall. Marta hastily locked both bikes to the tree and ran after him.
Mrs. Starch's Prius with the "Save the Manatee" license plate was parked outside a pizza joint called Little Napoli. The car was empty and unlocked.
Nick checked around to make sure nobody was watching. Then he dove into the backseat, leaving the door open for Marta.
"What exactly are you doing?" she demanded, anxiously looking over her shoulder.
"Waiting for that Twilly guy, or whoever's driving this thing. Get in."
"But he said he never wanted to lay eyes on us again! Or did you forget?"
Nick hadn't forgotten. He said, "This is the only way we'll get some answers. I don't know about you, but I'm tired of being confused."