Scat

by Carl Hiaasen

  A criminal's hand it was, too: some warped outlaw, some lame excuse for a comedian who had replanted them on their stems, all those little pink flags, brightening a patch of parched prairie like candles on cornbread.

  Rearranged in such an obvious way that anyone flying low enough in a helicopter couldn't help but see the double-edged insult.

  "S-C-A-T," the flags sneered in fluttering capital letters, as cheery as confetti. SCAT.

  "Either he's telling you to go away," the pilot mused, "or he's calling you a name."

  Or both, thought Jimmy Lee Bayliss with disgust.

  Still shading a grin, the pilot said, "You want me to land so you can look around?"

  "No, sir," Jimmy Lee Bayliss said gravely. "I want you to find out where I can rent me some bloodhounds."

  They heard Smoke's motorcycle crank up and speed off.

  Mrs. Starch said, "The helicopter must've spooked him."

  Nick peered up through the thick branches at a blue pane of sky. "Was it the sheriff?"

  "I don't believe so."

  Marta was dejectedly examining her waterlogged sneakers. "We need to go," she said. "Is it safe yet?"

  "Not without Mr. Spree." Mrs. Starch opened the second pizza box. "Anybody care for a slice?"

  Nick said, "So, what exactly is the master plan?"

  Marta jerked on his right sleeve. "If I don't get home soon, I'm gonna be grounded until I'm, like, a hundred. Hey, your arm grew back!"

  "Teacher's orders," said Mrs. Starch, gnawing on a slice of pepperoni. "Is it Saturday or Sunday? I lose track of time out here."

  Nick told her it was Saturday. Her brow furrowed, but she continued to eat. Marta reached over and flicked a fat red ant off her pants.

  "The plan," said Mrs. Starch, "is to get that kitten back with his momma as soon as possible. The longer they're apart, the harder it's going to be. There will come a day, sadly, when the mother cat simply gives up and moves on. . . ."

  "Okay, what can we do?" Nick asked.

  "Number one: Stay close to Duane. Make sure he doesn't try anything crazy."

  Marta rolled her eyes. "You mean like running from the cops? Gee, that's not crazy at all."

  Nick said, "Mrs. Starch, nobody gets close to Smoke." "And what does that have to do with the panthers, anyway?" Marta asked.

  Patiently, Mrs. Starch explained: "Your friend Duane has a special talent that's crucial to this mission. There's no chance of succeeding without him."

  Nick was intrigued. "What kind of talent?"

  Exasperated, Marta said, "He's a fugitive! If we help him, we're breaking the law."

  But he's also innocent, Nick thought. Another heavy decision.

  "Watch after Duane, please," Mrs. Starch urged. "If you don't, Squirt might die out here in my arms. So watch after Duane."

  A sharp, familiar whistle rose from fifty yards away. Mrs. Starch smiled and glanced at the watch on her wrist.

  Twilly Spree entered the campsite at a dead run. He was Panting hard and slick with sweat.

  "Let's move!" he snapped, beckoning to Marta and Nick.

  "Finally," Marta said, and sprang to her feet.

  Nick asked Twilly what was wrong.

  "Just follow me, and stay quiet," he said.

  Mrs. Starch stood up. "Hold on. What happened?"

  "I'll tell you later."

  The teacher folded her arms rigidly, as if addressing a wayward pupil. "What did you do now, Mr. Spree?"

  "I left 'em a message. They deserved it."

  "What sort of message?"

  "The four-letter sort."

  "Oh Lord," said Mrs. Starch. "Don't bother sharing it, please."

  "I couldn't resist."

  "Take these young people back to town immediately, and try not to corrupt them on the way."

  The jog to the car was tense and hurried, Twilly keeping well ahead of Nick and Marta as he bulled through the hammocks and bounded across the flatlands and vaulted over the saw palmettos. Nick was glad to have both arms free to shield his face from the whippy twigs, ropy vines, and gluey spiderwebs. Marta struggled to stay close and, as instructed by Twilly, said nothing. It was an ordeal for her to remain quiet for more than a few minutes, and Nick was impressed by her self-restraint.

  The Prius was barreling down the rutted farm road- Nick and Marta bouncing against their seat

  belts-when

  Twilly finally spoke.

  "How much did Aunt Bunny tell you?" he asked.

  "Everything except the part about how Smoke got involved," Nick said.

  "I see."

  "It would be good to know."

  "Good for whom?" said Twilly. He put on his ski beanie and black wraparound sunglasses.

  Marta sat forward. "You trust us. Stop pretending that you don't."

  "Ha!"

  But a few minutes later, Twilly grudgingly opened up: "A couple of years ago, I was driving from Tallahassee to Chokoloskee, nonstop, and don't ask why. After about seventeen cups of coffee, I pulled off the interstate to answer the call of nature."

  "Where?" Nick asked.

  "Right here in Naples. Beautiful Exit 101," Twilly said. Four in the morning, fog thicker than clam chowder, and I'm standing there watering the weeds under some billboard when I smell smoke-and I don't mean your friend. I mean smoke, as in fire. I look up through the mist and see flames. The billboard is definitely burning."

  "It was Duane being a pyro, right?" Marta said.

  "I took off from one way and he took off from another, and we literally ran smack into each other," Twilly recalled. "First thing out of his mouth: 'I'm the one who did it!' As if I hadn't figured that out, him with his jerry can of gasoline and burned mops. I asked him why and he told me. I asked his name and he told me that, too. Then we heard the sirens and I promptly hauled butt. Duane, he stayed behind and gave himself up."

  Marta asked why Smoke hadn't escaped while he had the chance.

  Twilly said he didn't know. "But I'll tell you what was on that billboard he torched: a big ad for American Airlines. They were running a winter special-Miami to Paris for three hundred and ninety-five dollars."

  "Paris?" Nick said. Now it made sense. "Mrs. Starch told us about Duane's mom."

  "Yeah. A tough deal." Twilly shook his head ruefully.

  "Was that the same flight she took?" Marta asked.

  "Never even said goodbye."

  "That sucks," Nick said.

  "Big-time. I felt bad for the kid," said Twilly. "Offered to find him a good defense lawyer, but his granny took care of all that. He ended up getting probation for torching the billboard."

  "But you stayed in touch," Marta said.

  "We go fishing now and then."

  Nick couldn't wait any longer to ask: "Why do you need Smoke's help to save the baby panther? What's his 'special talent' that Mrs. Starch was talking about?"

  "Simple: the boy's a born tracker. Anybody can find the mother cat, it's him."

  Twilly told them about a camping trip to Highlands County when Duane Scrod Jr. dogged the trail of a black bear for miles at night in a driving rain, across two muddy creeks and three county roads, all the way to the animal's den tree. Then he carved his initials in the trunk, turned around, and hiked back through the storm, as giddy as a child on Christmas morning.

  "It's a gift. Even the old Seminoles aren't sure how he does it," Twilly said. "So the plan is for me to find the scat and then put Duane on the trail of the panther. Once we know where she is, we turn the cub loose nearby. After that, there's nothing left to do but pray they find each other before a bobcat or a coyote gobbles the little one."

  Marta shuddered at the thought. "Have you seen any, you know . . . ?"

  "Panther poop? Yes, ma'am, I hit the jackpot yesterday. Whether it was left by Squirt's mother or not, I couldn't say." The car struck a pothole and Twilly grunted.

  "There's an oil company out here that's up to no good," he said. "They don't want anybody snooping around, especially game
wardens on the lookout for endangered critters."

  For Nick, the threads of the story were coming together at last. "That's who started the fire at the Black Vine Swamp, isn't it? The oil guys. That's who framed Smoke."

  "Yeah, and that's who scared off the momma panther," Twilly added, "with a gun. The Red Diamond Energy Corporation."

  Marta was outraged. "How do we stop 'em? What can we do?"

  "They've had a few problems finishing their project They're about to have more."

  Nick said, "Are you a monkey wrencher?"

  In the rearview mirror he could see Twilly react with a curious smile.

  "Well, are you?" Nick asked. "In that book I'm reading, this crazy gang is running around the desert, blowing up bridges, wrecking bulldozers. . . ."

  "Burning billboards," Twilly added with a wink. "Acts of crime, each and every one. Although it's hard not to root for those folks, isn't it? Fighting to save a place they love."

  To Nick, Marta whispered, "I guess that answers your question."

  Twilly said, "There's some rough language in that book. Maybe you should put it down until you're older."

  "Tell the truth. Are you trying to be Hayduke?" Nick was referring to the fictional leader of the Monkey Wrench Gang.

  When Twilly spoke again, he sounded tired and impatient. "Do you remember that panther screaming on the day of the fire?"

  "I'll never forget it," Nick said.

  Marta shuddered. "Me neither."

  "Well, that was the cat I've been hunting for. I'd come across her tracks near the road where your school bus was parked, so I knew she was close, hunkered down and waiting for dusk-probably waiting to come search for her baby."

  Twilly drummed his ringers on the steering wheel. "Then the fire started. Or, I should say, the arson."

  "She took off" again?" Nick said. Twilly nodded grimly. "Most wild animals, they run at the first whiff of smoke," he said. "But there's a chance she's back. The scat I found yesterday was fresh."

  They reached the intersection at Route 29, where Twilly turned south and ended up behind a line of vegetable trucks.

  "How long until she forgets about the cub?" Nick asked. "Each day, the odds get worse."

  A sheriff's car sped by, going the opposite direction. Nick noticed that Twilly was driving five miles below the speed limit and was dutifully wearing his seat belt.

  "What the heck were you doing out in that swamp when you found the kitten?" Marta asked.

  "Minding my own business," Twilly replied. "You should try it sometime."

  "Mrs. Starch says you're rich."

  "Just born lucky."

  Nick said, "Definitely not Hayduke."

  Twilly steered the car off the pavement and parked near a row of newspaper racks. He snatched the ski beanie from his head, rubbed his brow, and then suddenly slugged the dashboard so hard that Nick and Marta jumped.

  Turning in his seat, Twilly raised his sunglasses and fixed the kids with a raw, pained stare.

  "Let me tell you something even dear Aunt Bunny doesn't know," he said. "After that, don't ever ask again about who I am or am not, or why a man like me lives in a tent. I've got a gutful of anger about what's happening to this land and everything that lives out here. That's all you need to know."

  He sounded more sorrowful than angry. "Some days are worse than others," he said.

  Nick and Marta weren't sure how to react.

  Twilly raised two fingers. "That's how many there were."

  "How many what?" Marta asked, puzzled.

  "Panther cubs," he said. "That's how many I found. The mother cat had two."

  Nick closed his eyes.

  "One of them died," Twilly said. "I tried everything, but the smaller one didn't make it through the first night. I never told Bunny or Duane. Never told anybody."

  Marta covered her face.

  Twilly lowered his glasses. "Any more questions?"

  "No," said Nick quietly. "No more."

  TWENTY-TWO

  On Sunday morning, Duane Scrod Sr. dragged himself out of bed and stumbled to the front door.

  "How'd you get here so fast?" he asked Millicent Winship.

  "Chartered a jet plane. Now open the door."

  With fake cheer, Duane Scrod Sr. welcomed his mother-in-law into the house. She almost knocked him down as she whisked past. There was not a wrinkle to be seen in her elegant gray pants suit, nor one silver hair out of place on her head.

  "Did you sleep in that stupid hat?" she asked.

  "I guess." Duane Sr. was more worried about her reaction to his NASCAR boxer shorts.

  Mrs. Winship scowled and looked away. "Go put on some pants, for heaven's sake. And keep that awful parrot away from me or I'll pluck her bald."

  "Millie, she's not a parrot. She's a macaw."

  "A nuisance is what she is. Hurry up."

  Duane Scrod Sr. pulled on some blue jeans and wrestled Nadine into her cage. When he returned to the living room, Mrs. Winship was waiting with folded arms.

  "So my grandson is now a fugitive," she said. "I got the whole ugly story from the headmaster. D.J.'s been suspended from Truman as well, but I suppose that's the least of our problems."

  "The cops are makin' a big mistake."

  "Where is he now?"

  "I don't honestly know," Duane Sr. said. "He comes and goes like some sorta ghost."

  "And you have no way of reaching him? What about the cell phone I bought him?"

  "He never picks up, Millie. Did you tell his mom about this mess?"

  "Of course. I phoned her right away."

  "Is she coming back?"

  "No, Duane. What good would that do?" Mrs. Winship brushed the stale cracker crumbs off a chair and sat down. Her daughter had offered to call the boy and urge him to surrender, but she had not offered to come home and see him.

  Duane Sr. said, "It's not cheap, I guess, flying all the way from France."

  "Money has nothing to do with it. I would have bought her a first-class ticket."

  "Then what?"

  The only time that Mrs. Winship felt old was when she had to talk about her daughter. "Whitney says she has to stay and take care of the shop. She says it's the busy season."

  Duane Sr. gazed drearily at the floor. "In other words, cheese is more important than her own flesh and blood."

  "I'm sorry, Duane. Truly I am."

  "What's gonna happen to Junior?"

  "I've contacted a lawyer. Where do you think he's hiding?"

  "Somewhere out there in the boonies." Duane Sr. motioned with a limp wave.

  "That's very helpful," Mrs. Winship muttered. "Narrows it down to about two million acres."

  She stood up, smoothed her slacks, and slung her purse over one shoulder. "Next time you see your son, please inform him that his grandmother strongly suggests that he turn himself in to the police as soon as possible. Tell him that's the only way I can help him out of this mess."

  "I will, Millie, but D.J. listens to me about as good as Whitney listens to you."

  Mrs. Winship let the remark slide. Duane Sr. had a right to be bitter. He loved Whitney, but she'd left him anyway.

  "According to the newspapers, Duane's book bag was found at the scene of the arson," Mrs. Winship said. "How could that possibly be true, if he's innocent?"

  Duane Sr. spilled out his jumbled theory about the government tax collector stealing Junior's backpack from the house. Mrs. Winship looked doubtful.

  "Well, we've certainly got our work cut out for us," she said, shouldering past Duane Sr. on her way out the door.

  "Thank you, Millie," he called after her.

  She spun around on the steps. "Thanks for what?"

  "Caring so much about the boy."

  "Believe it or not, I care about both of you," Mrs. Winship said gruffly. "Now go play with your parrot."

  Drake McBride went straight from the hospital to a suite at the swanky Ritz-Carlton Hotel so he could recuperate in high style. Jimmy Lee Bayliss, followi
ng orders, brought the man with the bloodhound up to the room.

  The dog's name was Horace. It had humongous flappy ears and rubbery wet jowls and a nose like a loaf of gingerbread. It promptly lay down on the floor and dozed off in a puddle of drool.

  "Horace is tired," explained the handler.

  "Is this all you got? We need more than one hound," Drake McBride complained.

  "No, you don't," said the handler.

  "They hunt better alone. I checked it out with my buddies back in Houston," Jimmy Lee Bayliss said.

  Drake McBride, still sprawled in bed, insisted they needed a whole pack of dogs. "That's how they catch bears, right?"

  The handler said, "I didn't know you was after bears. I thought you was after humans."

  "We are," Jimmy Lee Bayliss said. His stomach felt like he'd swallowed a handful of hot barbecue coals. He explained to his boss that Horace was a world-class man-hunter. "They use him to track down missing persons, lost hikers, escaped convicts. Twice he was on America's Most Wanted."

  "All he needs is a scent," the handler said.

  "Do we have a scent?" Drake McBride asked grumpily.

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss said, "We do." The culprit's odor was on dozens of pink flags that he'd touched while rearranging them.

  When Drake McBride reached for a glass of water on the nightstand, he let out a yelp of pain, which caused Horace briefly to open his watery brown eyes and blink.

  "Mr. McBride got thrown from a horse and busted some ribs," Jimmy Lee Bayliss informed the dog handler.

  "Got me a concussion, too," Drake McBride added. "Hey, pardner, you know anybody who wants to buy a Thoroughbred real cheap?"

  The handler said no.

  "Can you get started today?" Jimmy Lee Bayliss asked. "We'll take you out there by helicopter."

  "That's fine."

  "And you're sure this dog can follow the smell of a person through a tropical swamp?"

  "He can follow the smell of a person through a vinegar factory," the handler said.

  Drake McBride pointed at the bloodhound, whose eyelids had once again sagged shut. "When will ol' Horace be done with his nap?"

  "Whenever I say so."

  "How about right now? Because I gotta talk to Mr. Bayliss in private." Drake McBride clapped his hands three times loudly. "Horace, wake up! Horace!"