Scat

  The dog did not stir, much to Jimmy Lee Bayliss's dismay.

  Drake McBride scratched his unshaven cheeks. "Well, I ain't impressed. Let's find us another mutt, Jimmy Lee."

  The bloodhound handler softly clicked his tongue. Horace sprang up from the floor as if electrified, nostrils in the air, tail erect, eyes wide and shining.

  "Don't call him a mutt," the handler said.

  Drake McBride chuckled. "Sorry, Horace. Now will you two excuse us, please?"

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss led the bloodhound and the handler to the door of the suite, and said he'd meet them in the lobby in ten minutes. When he returned to the bedroom, he found Drake McBride upright, massaging his head. His pajama shirt was unbuttoned, exposing his heavily taped chest.

  "My old man called last night," he said unhappily. "I lied and told him everything down here was goin' smooth as silk."

  "And it will be, once we get rid of our problem." Jimmy Lee Bayliss was well aware that the Red Diamond Energy Corporation wouldn't exist if it weren't for Drake McBride's rich father. He was also aware that Drake McBride's father had dwindling patience with Drake McBride. "Sir, once that bloodhound hunts down this guy on the property-"

  "Or guys," Drake McBride said. "Whoever's messin' with our stuff."

  "Right. But after we catch 'em, what do we do with 'em?" Jimmy Lee Bayliss asked. "What if they already found the pirate well? We can't call the cops on 'em, because they'll just rat us out. Then you and me are the ones who get hauled off to jail."

  "No, we can't call the cops. Definitely not," agreed Drake McBride.

  "So what are we s'posed to do with these vandals? If they already know about Section 22, I mean."

  There was a pause that got heavier with each passing second.

  "I haven't worked out all the details," Drake McBride said finally, "but we'll do whatever it takes to protect this project. You understand, pardner? Whatever it takes."

  It was not an answer that made Jimmy Lee Bayliss's belly stop burning.

  The digital clock by Nick's bed said 9:15, which was odd. On most Sunday mornings, his mother awoke him at eight sharp so they could make buttermilk pancakes and bacon.

  He rolled out of bed and put on a robe. From down the hall came the sound of muffled voices; a discussion was under way. Through the window he saw a gray U.S. Army van parked in the driveway.

  Nick ran to the living room just as his father was being helped into a wheelchair by two young soldiers. His mother stood stiffly by the door, the knuckles of one hand pressed to her chin.

  "What's going on?" Nick asked.

  "Minor setback," his father said hoarsely. "They miss me up at Walter Reed, I guess." His face looked feverish, and his eyes were red with fatigue.

  Nick turned to his mom. "Did the infection come back?"

  "It never went away."

  One of the soldiers rolled the wheelchair out to the van, which had a ramp that elevated Nick's dad to the side door. The other soldier carried a small nylon suitcase that Nick's mother had packed, and he placed it in the van beside the wheelchair. Capt. Gregory Waters kicked a woolen blanket off his legs and said, "I'm not eighty years old!"

  Nick's mother kissed his father goodbye and said, "I'll come up and see you in a day or two."

  "Me, too," Nick said.

  "No, sir, you're not missing one more day of school," his father told him. "But, Dad-"

  "That's enough. I'll be home again before you know it."

  He squeezed Nick's right arm. "Hey, are you keeping the sling off? Don't tell me you're giving up the southpaw life."

  "Just wait. By the time you get back I'll be a total hard' core lefty."

  His father managed a smile, but Nick could see the pain in his face. "Yeah, Nicky, we'll go fly-fishing down in Everglades City, just the two of us."

  Nick and his mother waved as the van pulled out of the driveway, and they continued waving long after Capt. Gregory Waters could no longer see them. Nick was dazed; the whole scene seemed like a terrible dream. His dad had seemed okay the night before.

  "What's going on, Mom? Tell me!"

  "After breakfast," she said crossly.

  "I'm not hungry."

  "Well, I am."

  She was, too: three pancakes, two strips of bacon, a banana, a half-cup of blueberries, and a tall glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.

  Nick picked at a bowl of dry granola. He waited, fidgeting, until his mother finished eating. There was no point in nagging her.

  After pouring herself a cup of coffee, she settled in and told him what had happened. "Remember when you tried to call your dad at the hospital but he was gone?"

  "Sure. That was the day he came home."

  "Yes, he came home," Nick's mother said. "He came home without telling his doctors. Strolled out of Walter Reed at four-thirty in the morning, grabbed a cab, and went straight to the airport."

  "No way!"

  "It was a foolish thing to do. He wasn't ready, Nicky."

  "So he lied?"

  "He didn't want us to worry."

  "Is he crazy, or what?" Nick said angrily.

  "Your dad wanted to be here more than anything. He was sure he'd get better faster if he was home with you and me."

  "But he didn't get better," Nick said bleakly. "He got worse."

  His mother was staring at her coffee, stirring it slowly with the wrong end of a spoon. She said, "Last night he woke up with chills and a 104-degree fever, so I knew the infection wasn't gone. He was so miserable that he finally admitted the truth-he's still got shrapnel from that rocket in his shoulder. He needs more surgery."

  "Oh no." Nick sagged in the chair.

  "Your dad's a tough customer. He'll be all right."

  "What about you, Mom?"

  "I'm pretty darn tough myself, in case you hadn't noticed. Now," she said, rising, "I'd better go pack. I'm flying up to be with your father."

  Nick held her tight. "I can't believe he bailed out of the hospital. If I ever did something like that, I'd be grounded for a year."

  "It wasn't the brainiest move," Nick's mother agreed, "but he missed us, Nicky, that's all. Let's just be thankful he's not in Iraq anymore. As soon as the doctors in Washington finish fixing him, he'll be home for good."

  After his mom left, Nick tried to keep busy and not worry about his dad. He cleaned the kitchen sink and loaded his dirty laundry into the washing machine and worked some algebra problems and rewrote the outline for an English essay that wasn't due for two weeks.

  Marta called twice, but Nick didn't answer the phone. He wasn't in the mood to talk with any of his friends. For lunch he fixed a peanut butter sandwich, but he took only three bites; he had absolutely no appetite, and too much nervous energy.

  So he put on a Red Sox cap and went out to the backyard and threw baseballs left-handed at the pitching net until his elbow throbbed. There was so much he'd wanted to talk to his father about, yet he understood that this was no time to be selfish. It was essential for his dad to return to the hospital and get the operation he needed.

  After retrieving the balls from the net, Nick lugged the bucket back to the homemade pitching mound and resumed throwing again, as hard as he could, despite the burning ache.

  In the middle of a windup, a voice from behind said, "You're gonna wreck your arm, dude."

  Nick spun and saw Smoke walking his motorcycle around the corner of the house.

  "What're you doing here?" Nick asked.

  Duane Scrod Jr. leaned the bike against the wall and said, "You gotta help me. They turned a manhunter dog loose out there near the camp."

  "Who did?"

  "The oil company."

  "Where's Twilly?"

  "Running like crazy. He's the one told me to come see you." Smoke looked around nervously. "I can't hide out at home 'cause of the cops. Now they got a squad car parked right in front of the house!"

  "What about Mrs. Starch and the baby panther?" Nick said.

  "They're okay, so far. But th
at dog is good, man. That dog is a pro."

  "How can I help?" asked Nick, knowing what the answer would be.

  "I need a place to stay," Smoke said, "just for a while."

  "Sure."

  Nick dropped the baseball into the bucket. He wondered how, or even if, he should tell his mom. It would probably be the first time she had a fugitive as a houseguest.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Detective Jason Marshall didn't usually work on Sundays, but he wasn't going to relax until he tracked down Duane Scrod Jr., the missing arson suspect. It didn't help that the other detectives kept needling him because the kid had dashed away before he could snap on the handcuffs, and then had easily outrun him.

  Every night Jason Marshall took two aspirins and pressed a heating pad against his sore hamstring muscle and drifted off into a fitful sleep, wondering where Duane Jr. was hiding.

  And every morning Jason Marshall woke up thinking of evidence to follow that might lead him to the boy, or at least lock up the arson case. On this particular day, the detective decided to skip church and do some Internet research on handheld butane torches.

  The brand found in Duane Scrod Jr.'s book bag was called The Ultra Igniter, and the company's Web site helpfully provided a list of retail outlets that sold its products in Collier County. There were only three, all hardware stores.

  One had gone out of business, and Jason Marshall figured the other two would be closed on a Sunday, but he was wrong. The store on the east side of Naples was open.

  The detective drove there, bringing a photograph of Duane Scrod Jr. that had been taken after his arrest for setting fire to the billboard. The owner of the hardware store swore he'd never seen the kid before.

  "Do you sell lots of those Igniter torches?" the detective asked.

  "Not many," the store owner replied. "I can look it up on the computer and tell you the exact number."

  The store had sold only two Ultra Igniters during the past thirty days. Jason Marshall wrote down the dates.

  "You wouldn't happen to have the names of the customers, I suppose," the detective said.

  "Nope. All I can tell you is that both items were bought with a credit card."

  "You sure about that?"

  "Yup. Our inventory software keeps track of whether it's a cash purchase or plastic," the store owner explained.

  Jason Marshall thought it was highly unlikely that Duane Scrod Jr. would be using a credit card, unless it belonged to his father or he'd stolen it.

  "I notice you've got security cameras," the detective said.

  "Doesn't everybody, these days?"

  "Do you still have the videotapes from the dates that you sold the Ultra Igniters?"

  "I doubt it," the store owner replied, which was a lie. He saved all the security videotapes for six months, in case they were needed to prosecute shoplifters. On this particular day he just didn't feel like sifting through hours of videos.

  "Let's take a look," Jason Marshall said.

  "Actually, I'm sorta busy right now. Maybe you could stop by another time."

  "I'm pretty busy myself," said Jason Marshall. "So let's see those tapes."

  It didn't take very long to review the surveillance film, and the detective found both sales transactions that he was looking for. He informed the store owner that he was keeping the tapes as evidence.

  "What's this all about?" the man asked worriedly. "Am I In trouble or something?"

  "Not at all," Jason Marshall said.

  Driving back to the sheriff's office, he phoned Torkelsen, the arson investigator with the fire department. He told him he'd located a store that had sold two butane torches identical to the one found in the backpack of Duane Scrod Jr.

  "One was bought on the day before the fire at the swamp," the detective said.

  "Good work!"

  "But the second torch was purchased only three days ago."

  The arson investigator said, "I don't care about that one."

  "Well, you should," Jason Marshall said, "because the same guy bought both of them-and it wasn't the Scrod kid."

  "How do you know?"

  "The hardware store has security cameras. I got the tapes."

  There was an edgy silence on the other end: Torkelsen, trying to figure out what this information could mean.

  "Maybe the boy has an accomplice. Maybe they bought the second torch because they're planning another fire," he said finally. "How old is that customer on the video?"

  "Between fifty-five and sixty, I'd say."

  "Oh," said Torkelsen. "So it's not the boy's father."

  "Nope."

  "Well, there's got to be an explanation."

  "I can think of one," the detective said.

  "Let's hear it."

  "Maybe we're after the wrong guy."

  After another uneasy pause, the arson investigator said, "I need to see those tapes."

  "Yes, you do," agreed Jason Marshall.

  The oak tree was forty feet high and dead as a doornail, killed years earlier by a lightning strike. Way up high was a hole in the trunk where a female raccoon was living with three little ones.

  One day a huge backhoe arrived on the lot and started smashing down trees. The boy, who'd been spying on the raccoon family for weeks, jumped off his bicycle and shouted at the driver of the backhoe to steer clear of the dead oak.

  But the driver never heard him. He just waved the boy away, revved the big machine, and flattened the den tree, killing all the raccoons, including the mother. The boy could do nothing but watch from a distance, and sob.

  The construction company that owned the backhoe was clearing the property to make way for a patio-furniture warehouse. Two days after all the trees were demolished, the company set up a shiny double-wide office trailer with a bright banner heralding the new project. That same night, the boy rode his bike out to the property and set fire to the double-wide, which burned to a rather immense and twisted cinder. Nobody was inside at the time.

  "I made sure of that," Smoke assured Nick, who'd listened to the entire arson story without interrupting.

  "See, I'm not a true pyro," Smoke added. "I didn't do it for kicks. I was just mad."

  "Still, that's ..."

  " 'Dumb' is the word. Same with torching the billboard," Smoke said. "My mom had just taken off for Paris and I was all messed up. When I saw that big sign for the airline, I flipped out. You wouldn't understand, dude. Nobody does."

  Nick didn't say a thing. It was impossible for him to envision his own mother getting on a plane and flying away forever without even saying goodbye. Such heartbreak was beyond Nick's experience.

  Smoke chuckled bitterly. "They built that stupid furniture warehouse anyway. Just like they put up a brand-new billboard in the same spot as the other one."

  "Did you set any other fires?" Nick asked.

  "Never."

  "So why do you want people to call you Smoke?"

  "Because it sounds a lot cooler than Duane."

  They were sitting on the floor in Nick's bedroom. The shades were drawn and the door was locked.

  "Twilly says you're a tracker," Nick said.

  "It's the one thing I'm good at, I guess."

  "He says that if anybody can find that mother panther, it's you.

  "I sure aim to try." Smoke spoke with determination.

  "Mrs. Starch says there's not much time."

  "She's right. And this bloodhound sniffin' all over the place doesn't make the job any easier," Smoke said. "Wild cats run like crazy from dogs."

  Nick had to ask. "What's the deal with you and her?"

  "Mrs. Starch? She's not so bad."

  "Everybody thought you hated her guts after what happened in class."

  Smoke grinned. "For sure I did. But come to find out she's not as mean as she acts. Hey, I heard a car pull up!"

  Moments later, the front door opened and Nick's mother began calling his name. Smoke grabbed him by the shoulders. "Don't say a word about me!"


  "But I can't lie," Nick whispered.

  "Listen, bro. Once she knows I'm hidin' here, she's gotta tell the cops or else she can go to jail."

  "What're you talking about?"

  "Harboring a fugitive is what I'm talkin' about," Smoke said. "If you tell your mom I'm here, you're draggin' her into the middle of this whole mess. Is that what you want?"

  From down the hall: "Nicky? Where are you?"

  "I'll be right out, Mom!"

  Smoke edged himself sideways into Nick's bedroom closet. "Go!" he said to Nick. "Act like nuthin's wrong."

  Nick slipped out the door and closed it behind him. He walked down the hall to the living room, where he was surprised to see that his mother wasn't alone.

  "Nicky, you remember Peyton?"

  "Sure," he said.

  Peyton Lynch had been one of Nick's regular babysitters back when he was in elementary school and she was in high school. Now she attended junior college and worked part-time at a sandal shop.

  "Hey, Nicky," she smacked through a cheekful of bubble gum.

  Nick's mother said Peyton would be staying at the house for a few days while she went to be with his father. "There's a flight out of Fort Myers late this afternoon that connects to Washington."

  "That's good," Nick said.

  And it was good-for Nick's dad, and also for Nick. Peyton Lynch was a nice girl, but she wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, as Mrs. Starch might say.

  When Nick was little, he'd done pretty much whatever he'd pleased while Peyton was there, because she was usually yakking on the phone or painting her toenails blue or staring at MTV. She was the ideal babysitter-clueless.

  One time, when Nick was nine years old, he'd accidentally bounced a golf ball through the screen of his desktop computer. Peyton hadn't heard the tube explode because her headphones were turned up so loud. Nor had she shown the slightest spark of curiosity when Nick had emerged from his room carrying a box full of broken glass.

  Nick's mother said, "Make yourself at home, Peyton. I'll go finish packing."

  Peyton dropped her travel bag on the rug and plopped down on the sofa. "So, how's school, Nicky?"

  "It's okay," he said.