Scat

by Carl Hiaasen

"What's the meaning of this?" she demanded.

  "They carjacked me," Twilly said. "Sort of."

  Mrs. Starch scowled. "Oh, please."

  Despite the chilly reception, Nick was relieved to see his biology teacher unharmed and still as, ornery as ever. Except for the straw hat, she had on the same clothes from the field trip: baggy long-sleeved shirt, canvas pants, and wading boots. Still, Mrs. Starch looked different-older, and more tired. Her heavy makeup had worn off, and a stripe of coffee-brown roots bisected her mass of tinted blond hair, which was tied in a ragged ponytail. There was no sign of her huge dragonfly sunglasses.

  "It's your turn to entertain them. I'm heading out on poop patrol," Twilly told her, and sauntered back into the woods. Nick assumed he was taking a bathroom break.

  Mrs. Starch began pacing, as she did in class. It had the same nerve-wracking effect on Marta as always; she turned greenish and queasy. Nick set the pizza boxes on a tree stump.

  "What do you have to say for yourselves?" Mrs. Starch said.

  Marta was in no condition to speak, and Nick had not yet composed a presentation. The best he could muster was: "We were worried."

  "Worried, or just plain nosy?" Mrs. Starch shot back. "It's rude enough that you broke into my home. Now this?"

  Nick thought he heard a faint, muffled cry, but he couldn't tell where it came from. Still clutching her phone, Marta sat down on a log near the fire pit and took deep breaths to ward off the nausea.

  The wind picked up from the north, putting a cool bite in the air. Mrs. Starch's footsteps crunched on crisp twigs and leaves as she stalked back and forth in front of them. She seemed not quite as tall as Nick remembered.

  "You have no right to be here. No right," she said.

  Marta raised a limp hand. "It was all Nick's idea."

  "Undoubtedly," said Mrs. Starch.

  "We just want to know what's going on," Nick heard himself say.

  "Get more specific."

  "Okay, the fire. Tell us about the fire."

  "Ah," said Mrs. Starch.

  "And Smoke-I mean Duane Jr." The teacher stopped pacing and planted her knuckles on her hips. "Anything else?"

  "Yes," Nick said. He had so many questions.

  Marta peeped: "Your house-all those stuffed animals ..."

  Mrs. Starch wagged a bony forefinger in protest. "Now, that's personal. Way too personal."

  Again Nick heard an odd cry-like a bird trapped in a pillowcase. "What is that?" he asked Mrs. Starch.

  She glanced worriedly behind her. In the dappled shade, the anvil-shaped scar on her chin was so dark that it looked almost purple.

  "I didn't hear anything," Marta said.

  Mrs. Starch bent down until she was nose to nose with Kick, and up close her nose wasn't especially attractive. It was smudged with mud and freckled with what appeared to be tiny insect bites.

  "I'm going to show you something extraordinary," she said, "but if either of you tells a living soul, if you blab a single word about this, then I swear I'll.. . I'll. . ."

  "Flunk us?" said Nick.

  "Kill us?" asked Marta.

  "Worse!" exclaimed Mrs. Starch. "I'll lose all respect for you. All respect."

  Nick blinked. It was news to him that Mrs. Starch had any respect whatsoever for them, and judging by Marta's baffled reaction, it was news to her as well.

  "Nobody else besides you two must know," the teacher said forcefully. "Not your mummy or daddy, not your gabby little pals on Facebook, not your third cousin in Goose Falls, Arkansas, nobody. Is that clear?"

  "As a bell," Marta murmured.

  Mrs. Starch grabbed Nick's left shoulder. "This is life-or-death," she whispered. "Can you understand that?"

  "We won't tell anyone," said Nick.

  "Life-or-death," Mrs. Starch repeated. Then she dropped to all fours and scurried into her tent.

  As expected, the local newspapers and TV stations identified Duane Scrod Jr. as "an unnamed juvenile" with previous arrests for arson. But even if the authorities had released the boy's full name, the impact on Dr. Dressler's steady, well-organized existence would have been no more shattering. TRUMAN STUDENT, SOUGHT FOR ARSON, FLEES COPS That was just one of the unpleasant headlines that prompted the school's board of trustees to call an emergency meeting on a Saturday. The board members were highly distressed and asked many tough questions of Dr. Dressier, who answered as best he could.

  Some of the remarks were quite unfair, in the head' master's opinion, yet he didn't waste energy trying to defend himself. The mood in the room was too tense, which he could understand. It was disgraceful enough that a Truman

  student had been charged with a serious crime, but the sensational media accounts of Duane Scrod Jr.'s escape and mad dash across campus-leaving the sheriff's detective panting in defeat-had pitched the board of trustees into a fever.

  Although technically it wasn't his job to arrest and handcuff arsonists, Dr. Dressier expected to be punished, possibly even fired, for allowing the detective to confront the boy while classes were in session.

  In the end, the board voted to reprimand the headmaster and ordered him to expel Duane Scrod Jr. from school, effective immediately. When Dr. Dressier pointed out that Duane Jr.'s grandmother donated large sums of money to Truman every year, the board members quickly huddled for another vote. This time they decided that the boy should be "suspended temporarily" until his criminal case went to court, at which point his status at the Truman School would be reviewed.

  Dr. Dressier faced two undesirable chores. One was to notify Millicent Winship, Duane Jr.'s wealthy grandmother, and the other was to notify Duane Scrod Sr., his kooky father. The headmaster had flipped a coin, and now he was driving to the Scrod residence.

  Turning down the road, he noticed a sheriff's deputy sitting in a squad car parked on one corner. At the other end he could see a black sedan with tinted windows-probably another officer in an unmarked car. They were waiting to grab Duane Scrod Jr. if he tried to sneak home, although Dr. Dressier thought they'd have a better chance if they concealed themselves.

  The headmaster pulled in next to the graffiti-sprayed Tahoe belonging to Duane's father. As before, concert music was coming from the windows: Beethoven, this time not Bach. Reluctantly, Dr. Dressier got out of the car and trudged up the steps and rapped on the screen door.

  The stereo cut off and a raspy voice yelled, "Come in! Make it quick!"

  "Mr. Scrod?"

  Cautiously the headmaster stepped inside. Duane Scrod Sr. was reclining in a Naugahyde lounger in front of the TV set. The picture was on, but the volume was turned down. Duane Sr.'s cap was propped crookedly on his head, and his faded shirt was unbuttoned to the waist. Perched on the threadbare arm of his chair was the enormous blue-and-gold macaw.

  "I 'member you," Duane Scrod Sr. said groggily to Dr. Dressier. "So does Nadine."

  "May I sit down?"

  "Nope. State your business and be on your way. I already had too many visitors today." Duane Sr. didn't take his eyes off the television screen. The bird, too, seemed entranced.

  "What are you watching?" Dr. Dressier asked.

  "A cookin' show. From France."

  That wouldn't have been the headmaster's first guess. Based on Duane Sr.'s rough appearance, Dr. Dressier would have expected to find him tuned to pro wrestling or maybe a demolition derby on a Saturday morning. But you can't judge a book by its cover, Dr. Dressier reminded himself. After all, the man was into classical music.

  Duane Sr. took a slug of Mountain Dew and said, "Junior's mom lives in Paris. We were thinkin' she might turn up on this TV show, when they get to the part of the recipe where they put in the cheese. She has a shop, that's all she sells-fancy cheese! You imagine?"

  Dr. Dressier didn't know what to say. He reached in his coat and took out two packets of onion crackers from the school cafeteria. "I brought these for Nadine."

  In a flash the bird swooped across the room and snatched the treat from his hand, then flew ba
ck to the chair.

  Duane Scrod Sr. scolded the macaw for bad manners. "What do you say to the man, Nadine?"

  "Thanks a million!" the bird screaked. "Danke schon! Merci beaucoup!"

  Dr. Dressier pressed onward. "I came to talk to you about Duane Jr.," he said. "After everything that's happened, I'm afraid we have to suspend him from school."

  Duane Scrod Sr. finally turned and stared directly at the headmaster. "I sure don't wanna be the one to tell his granny."

  "No, sir, that's my job. Did you see the news?"

  "Yeah. Least they left his name out of it."

  "The situation is very serious," Dr. Dressier said.

  Duane Sr. agreed. "It's a shame, too. Past few days, D.J.'s been hittin' the books pretty hard. Then all this nonsense had to break loose." He brushed a piece of cracker off his sleeve and said, "Nadine, you eat like a pig."

  He and the bird returned their attention to the French cooking program. Dr. Dressier stood there, feeling out of place and unsure what to do next. As headmaster of the Truman School, he had a duty in such troubled moments to say something wise and helpful to parents, but never before had he dealt with a character like Duane Scrod Sr.

  "Can I say one more thing?" Dr. Dressier asked.

  "All right, but only 'cause you brought crackers."

  "The best thing your son can do is turn himself in to the police, as soon as possible."

  Duane Sr. scratched his cap. "You might be right, but what if you're not? What happens to Junior then?"

  "Mr. Scrod, they'll catch up with him eventually," Dr. Dressier said, "and when they do, they'll come down twice as hard. If you see Duane, please tell him."

  "Heck, tell him yourself. Hey, Junior?" Duane Scrod Sr. sat forward and raised his voice. "D.J., come on out here!"

  Dr. Dressier heard a door creak, followed by footsteps in the hallway. Duane Scrod Jr. appeared, looking calm but serious. He wore camouflage hunting-style clothes and carried his motorcycle helmet under one arm.

  The headmaster, who'd never been in the presence of a fugitive, was more nervous than Duane Jr. "What are you doing here?" he asked the boy.

  "My laundry," Duane Jr. replied matter-of-factly. "But the police are staked out at both ends of the street!"

  "I came in the back way," the boy explained, "through the neighbors' yard. They're at the rodeo in Zolfo Springs."

  Duane Sr. spoke up: "Junior, the man says you're suspended from school."

  "Duh."

  "He also says you should give yourself up."

  "Yeah, right," said Duane Jr.

  The bird screaked, rose from the chair, and buzzed Dr. Dressier in search of more crackers. The headmaster ducked, to no avail. The macaw landed squarely on his neck and began poking its gnarly beak through his hair. "Nadine!" barked Duane Scrod Sr.

  "Help me," Dr. Dressier whimpered.

  Duane Jr. grabbed the bird and launched it out the front door. His father sighed and sat back to watch the cooking program. Dr. Dressier gingerly probed the collar of his shirt to make sure that Nadine hadn't left him a nasty little present.

  "That bird's a royal pain," Duane Jr. muttered, wiping his hands on his trousers.

  "Am I bleeding?" Dr. Dressier asked.

  "Just a scratch. Wash it out real good when you get home."

  The headmaster weighed his next words carefully. "Duane, you can't keep running forever."

  "I don't plan to."

  "If you had a lawyer, he'd advise you to surrender to the police immediately."

  "And I'd tell him the same thing I'm tellin' you," Duane Jr. said. "I can't prove I'm innocent if I'm locked up in jail."

  "Duane, just listen-"

  "No, you listen. I didn't set that fire, and I'm not takin' the fall."

  Duane Jr. looked angry, and it didn't seem like an act. Over the years, the headmaster had heard many lame lies and invented stories from students who'd gotten into trouble, and he regarded himself as a hard man to fool. Now, as he looked into Duane Scrod Jr.'s eyes, it occurred to Dr. Dressier that the boy might be telling the truth.

  "If you aren't the arsonist, who is?"

  "No idea," Duane Jr. said.

  "How'd your book bag end up in the swamp?"

  Duane Jr. glanced over at his father and lowered his voice. "Pop says a tax man came here and stole it, but who knows. Some days, he's all over the map."

  They heard a loud thwap and turned to see Nadine hanging like a giant moth on the screen door. Duane Sr. looked up from the TV and shook a fist. "Don't you dare let her back in till she says she's sorry! In all three languages, too!"

  Duane Jr. paid no attention. To Dr. Dressier he said: "Now I got a question for you."

  "Certainly." The headmaster was eager to offer some sensible guidance, but that was not what the young man wanted.

  "Be straight up with me," he said. "After you leave this house, are you gonna run and tell those cops I'm here?"

  Dr. Dressier hesitated, yet only for a moment. He was startled to hear himself say, "No, Duane, I won't breathe a word. That's a promise."

  "Thanks, dude," said the boy called Smoke, and disappeared down the hall.

  Mrs. Starch came out of the tent cradling her straw hat, with the crown facedown. The hat seemed to be crying.

  "Hush now," said Mrs. Starch. Then, very quietly, to Marta: "There's a cooler full of milk bottles under the tarp. Would you please get me one?"

  Mrs. Starch sat cross-legged at the base of a cypress tree with the hat in her lap. She warmed the bottle in her hands, uncapped it, and attached a rubber nipple. Nick and Marta knelt in front of her. Peeking inside the hat, they saw a squirming ball of honey-colored fur.

  It was a kitten unlike any they'd ever seen.

  "We call him Squirt," Mrs. Starch said, "because he pees all day long."

  The little cat lunged for the bottle and began to suck noisily. When Marta reached to pet it, Mrs. Starch stopped her. "Rule number one: No cuddling," she said.

  "He's so awesome," Marta whispered, edging as close as Mrs. Starch would allow. "What is it?"

  "I bet Nick knows."

  He said, "It's a baby panther."

  A smaller, living-and-breathing version of the stuffed one that he'd seen in Mrs. Starch's house.

  The teacher smiled. "That's correct. A Florida panther. Scientific name?"

  "Puma concolor coryi."

  "Correct again. Somebody's actually read the class syllabus!" Mrs. Starch said. "The other acceptable answer would be Felis concolor coryi, although Puma is more poetic. In parts of South America, the word means 'mighty magic animal.'"

  To Nick, the kitten was a thing of unreal beauty, exotic yet delicate. Its pelt was dappled with spots that would fade over time, and its long tawny tail bent upward at the end but was ringed, almost like a leopard's. Oversized and pointy, the ears were woolly and as white as cotton on the inside.

  The panther's muzzle was framed by bands of coal-black fur, now dribbled with milk, that gave the appearance of an outlaw-style mustache. Its eyes, barely open, were a creamy shade of blue. Soon they would turn brown and eventually pale gold, Nick remembered from his reading. The front paws, already larger than a tomcat's, were clasped around the rim of the nursing bottle.

  And what a powerful motor for such a pint-sized critter-more rumble than purr.

  "Where's the momma?" Marta wanted to know.

  "Not so loud, dear," Mrs. Starch said.

  "Is the mother cat dead?" Nick asked, fearing the worst. There were so few panthers left in the wild that hardly anybody ever laid eyes on one.

  "No, the mother's alive," Mrs. Starch said. "At least that's what Mr. Spree believes, and he fancies himself the expert."

  The kitten abruptly spit out the nipple and emitted a lion-sized burp. Mrs. Starch laughed, an uncommon sight.

  To Nick and Marta she said: "You two have lots of questions, and I'll get to all of them in due time. But right now, little Sir Squirt needs to finish his lunch-don't you, baby?"r />
  As if on cue, the cat mewed for more formula.

  Mrs. Starch gently lifted the bottle to the kitten's mouth and began humming a lullaby. The tune was surprisingly soothing and pretty. Marta and Nick were stunned; this was a side of their teacher that they'd never observed, or had even imagined to be part of her buzz-saw personality.

  So, for a while, they sat peacefully in the swamp, listening to Mrs. Starch hum while the little panther slurped happily and the emerald leaves overhead shimmied and shook in the sunlight.

  The cool breeze felt good. Nick reached for Marta's hand.

  TWENTY

  On his search for the missing panther, Twilly Spree had crisscrossed hundreds of acres in the Black Vine Swamp. The quest was slow and often tedious, and on this day it led him toward an impressive cypress stand that he'd not yet explored.

  Neck bent, eyes bolted to the ground, he moved ahead with measured, deliberate steps. In thick cover, panther poop wasn't always easy to see.

  A flash of pink caught his attention, and at first it looked like the petal of a morning glory. Yet when Twilly picked it up, he found himself holding a small flag attached to a wire stem. Then he spotted another flag, and then another and still more, planted in a perfectly straight line.

  Twilly's stride quickened. He followed the markers to the edge of the cypress, where he came upon a mucky area that appeared to have been flattened by all-terrain vehicles turning around, backing up, braking, spinning their fat wheels. . . .

  He moved along, uprooting each plastic flag he saw. The trail took him under the lush canopy and into a wide clearing so sheltered by trees that it was virtually capped off from the sun and the sky.

  The centerpiece was a man-made rectangular pit. Nearby loomed a stack of black iron pipes twice as tall as Twilly Spree and of the same eight-inch diameter as those he'd confiscated on the oil company's property and donated to Haiti. There were also four pallets of two-by-fours, a circular water tank (empty), and a fuel tank (full). On the opposite side of the clearing sat several crates bearing shipping labels from equipment companies in Texas and Oklahoma. The labels were all addressed to "J. L. Bayliss d/b/a Red Diamond." Twilly pried the lid off one bulky container, revealing a new diesel engine that he assumed would be used to power the drill.