Carl Hiaasen Collection: Hoot, Flush, Scat

  “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 fingers 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. He
r 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 in-form 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 DJ. 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, following 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 ginger-bread. 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!”

  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 hardcore 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.”