Graham alone waved his hand. Mrs. Starch pivoted toward Mickey Maris and said, “Well …?”
Mickey Maris swallowed and began pawing frantically through his textbook. “Watson’s crickets?” he asked.
“It’s Watson and Crick,” Mrs. Starch said testily.
“Please?” Graham Carson beseeched from across the room. “Please, Mrs. Starch?”
She turned back and sighed in surrender. “All right, Graham, let’s get this over with.”
He popped to his feet and composed himself. “Watson and Crick were two scientists who came up with a model of DNA called the double helix. It shows two strands of nucleotides twisting around each other. The outside of the helix is made up of sugar phosphates and the inside is nitrogen bases.”
The other students sat stunned and gaping. Mrs. Starch herself rocked back slightly on her crutches.
“Well done, Graham,” she managed to say. “This is an historic day.”
Nick snuck a peek at Marta, who didn’t appear even slightly nauseated, as she often was in Mrs. Starch’s class. Marta smiled back and whispered, “I memorized the whole chapter, too.”
Having recovered from the shock of Graham’s correct answer, Mrs. Starch told him he could sit down.
“But I’ve got a question. A really important one,” Graham said.
“It had better be.”
“How are you?”
“What?”
“I mean, are you gonna be okay?” Graham asked. “Everybody’s been worried.”
Mrs. Starch seemed overwhelmed. Her eyes flickered first to Nick and Marta, and then over to Duane Scrod Jr.
After a moment of fluster, she said, “Thank you for your concern, Graham. I’m going to be fine.”
She plucked a yellow Ticonderoga No. 2 pencil from the cup on her desk and tapped the eraser against her left hip.
“The bullet entered right here, below the joint,” she said, “and passed all the way through my leg. Luckily, it missed the femoral artery, though barely.”
With a skeptical eye she scanned the rapt faces of her students. “I don’t suppose anybody besides Libby Marshall can describe the role of the femoral artery in the human circulatory system.”
Libby’s cheeks flushed. Mrs. Starch said, “Relax, young lady. There’s no shame in being smart.”
Because of her injury, Mrs. Starch didn’t cover as much territory as when she paced before. However, as always, she stayed in motion.
“Before we discuss the features of the double helix,” she said, moving down the center aisle, “I have one small piece of unfinished business.”
She stopped at Smoke’s desk and handed some papers to him. He examined them closely, his brow knitted.
“That’s your acne essay,” Mrs. Starch said.
“Right.” He brushed a shock of black hair away from his forehead.
She said, “The title is quite clever: ‘The Curse of the Persistent Pimple.’ A nice touch of alliteration.”
“Thanks,” Smoke murmured warily.
“I knew you had a sense of humor, Duane. Didn’t I tell the whole class? A wicked sense of humor.”
He looked up at her. “But it says here I got an A-minus.”
Mrs. Starch nodded. “Correct. If you hadn’t misspelled ‘endocrine,’ I would’ve given you an A.”
Marta whistled under her breath. Mrs. Starch was notoriously stingy with As.
Smoke said, “But Dr. Waxmo gave me a D-plus.”
“That’s because Dr. Waxmo is hopeless,” said Mrs. Starch. “A dim bulb, if I may be so frank.”
The cruel red slashes from Wendell Waxmo’s pen were as vivid as ketchup stains all over Smoke’s essay. So, too, was the supersized A—that Mrs. Starch had scrawled on the top page to block out the substitute teacher’s grade.
“I never got an A before,” Smoke said. “This isn’t some kinda joke, is it?”
Nick hoped it wasn’t. He hoped Mrs. Starch wasn’t messing with the kid, not after he’d helped Twilly lug her out of the boonies and rush her to a hospital so she wouldn’t bleed to death.
Balancing on her crutches, Mrs. Starch said, “Duane, I don’t joke about academic matters. Not ever.”
“Do I still have to read it aloud?”
“Not unless you want to.”
“Nope,” Smoke said.
“You wrote a solid, well-researched paper. I learned a few things about pimples that I never knew before.” Mrs. Starch reached over and waggled the tip of her yellow Ticonderoga at the A—she’d marked on the essay. “You earned this,” she told Duane Scrod Jr.
“I guess,” he said. Then he casually chomped the pencil in half, chewed up the splinters along with the graphite, and downed the entire mouthful with a crunchy gulp.
The classroom fell quiet as a tomb; nobody could believe what they’d just seen. Nick was vaguely aware that his own jaw was hanging open. From the corner of one eye, he noticed Marta clutching her head in gloom.
Mrs. Starch narrowed her eyes and ominously studied the moist stump of wood in her fingers. Then, slowly, she broke into a rare grin.
“You got me that time, Duane.”
“Totally,” he said, returning the smile.
That same morning, Jimmy Lee Bayliss posted bail at the Collier County Jail. A female guard named Waters escorted him from his cell to the front desk to collect his belongings.
“Did he turn up yet?” Jimmy Lee Bayliss asked.
He was referring to his ex-boss, Drake McBride, who’d been missing in the Big Cypress since the day he’d run off into the fog. In the meantime, to avoid a long prison hitch, Jimmy Lee Bayliss had agreed to plead guilty to setting the illegal fire in the Black Vine Swamp. He’d also promised to testify against Drake McBride, who faced a pile of serious charges, including the attempted killing of an endangered Florida panther.
“Funny you should ask,” Officer Waters said to Jimmy Lee Bayliss. “Mr. McBride turned up yesterday at a fancy hotel in Miami Beach. He’d grown a goatee and shaved his head and was using a fake name.”
Jimmy Lee Bayliss was astonished that the moron even made it out of the wilderness, considering his lack of survival skills and lame sense of direction. The jail guard said Drake McBride had lost twenty-two pounds while hiking in circles through the Black Vine Swamp. Eventually he’d stumbled out on Route 29, where a sympathetic trucker had picked him up.
“They busted him while he was getting a massage,” Officer Waters said.
“How’d they know where he was hiding out?” Jimmy Lee Bayliss asked.
“His own father turned him in.”
“Beautiful.”
“Apparently Mr. McBride had called up begging for money. His dad got so ticked off that he phoned the police and gave them the address of the hotel. The room number, too.”
Jimmy Lee Bayliss said, “Couldn’t happen to a sweeter guy. Is my lawyer here?”
“He’s waiting outside,” said Officer Waters.
She handed Jimmy Lee Bayliss a paper bag containing his wristwatch, wallet, cell phone, and a crumpled empty wrapper for Tums stomach tablets. He thanked her and proceeded to the meshed steel door that led to the outside world.
The guard said, “Before you go, Mr. Bayliss, there’s something else you should know. My son was one of the students in the swamp that day you started the fire. He was also out there when your pal went ballistic with that rifle.”
Jimmy Lee Bayliss realized he was a captive audience, literally. Officer Waters held the keys to the jail door, and she seemed in no rush to open it.
“I’m real sorry, ma’am. I hope your boy wasn’t hurt,” he said. “But please believe me, Drake McBride was never my ‘pal.’ ”
“Man up, Mr. Bayliss. You guys were in on the oil scam together. Everything that happened out there was your fault as much as his.”
She was right, and Jimmy Lee Bayliss didn’t have the nerve to argue.
“I’m gonna try to make up for it,” he said dismally.
&nbs
p; “You were greedy.”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s true enough.”
“And reckless,” she added.
“I know.” Jimmy Lee Bayliss gazed longingly at the locked exit door. Officer Waters stepped closer and poked him in the chest.
“My son fractured his arm out there,” she said.
“Geez, how many different ways can I say I’m sorry?” Jimmy Lee Bayliss felt nervous and trapped. Up until now, the female guard had always treated him decently.
She said, “When you go to court, Mr. Bayliss, you’d better get up on that witness stand and give the truth. That means telling the judge everything you did, and everything you know.”
“Sure. Of course.”
“You made a deal. Keep it.”
“I aim to,” Jimmy Lee Bayliss insisted.
“And don’t get any clever ideas.” Officer Waters produced a stack of glossy travel brochures from Mexico. Jimmy Lee Bayliss paled.
“I found these under the mattress in your cell,” she said.
Jimmy Lee Bayliss managed a shrug. “A man can dream, can’t he?”
“Not when a judge is holding his passport, he can’t. Goodbye, Mr. Bayliss.”
Nick Waters’ mother unlocked the heavy steel door, and Jimmy Lee Bayliss walked out of jail with no bounce in his step.
The lawyer, whom he’d met only over the phone, was waiting in the lobby. He wore a black double-breasted suit and carried a briefcase made from a dead crocodile. His name was Bernard Beanstoop III.
“But everyone calls me Bernie the Bean,” he said brightly.
Jimmy Lee Bayliss shook the lawyer’s hand and said, “Pleasure to meet you, Bernie.”
But he didn’t really mean it.
Millicent Winship banged on the screen door with as much force as she could summon from her seventy-seven-year-old, ninety-two-pound body. She was determined to be heard over the Mahler symphony that was blaring from her son-in-law’s house.
Finally she stalked down the steps and picked up a rusty crowbar that was lying in the cluttered yard. Her chauffeur knew better than to interfere as Mrs. Winship calmly walked up to a window and shattered it with one swing.
The music stopped immediately and Duane Scrod Sr. appeared on the porch, the macaw screeching hysterically on his shoulder.
“Millie, you’re out of your mind!” he yelled.
“Kindly tell your parrot to hush up.”
“Don’t you touch Nadine!”
“Help!” cried the bird. “Au secours! Hilfe!”
A brown, floppy-eared head poked sleepily out of the frame of the broken window, startling Mrs. Winship.
“Somebody gave Junior a bloodhound,” Duane Scrod Sr. explained unhappily. “His name is Horace.”
Mrs. Winship set the crowbar down against the house. She said, “We had a luncheon engagement at noon sharp. It’s now half past one.”
Duane Scrod Sr. slapped himself on the side of the head and said, “Damn.”
Mrs. Winship stroked the hound dog’s furrowed fore-head. “You know how I feel about rudeness, Duane.”
“I got mixed up—I thought our lunch was tomorrow.”
“You also know how I feel about carelessness.”
“Sorry, Millie.”
The macaw squawked and flared its wings as if it were about to make a dive at Mrs. Winship. She glowered at the bird and said, “Don’t even think about it, Nadine.”
Duane Scrod Sr. hustled his noisy pet into its cage. Then he threw on a clean shirt and ran a comb through his hair.
Mrs. Winship had made reservations at a restaurant near the Naples Pier. She chose a table on the patio, where they could see the gulls and listen to the waves on the beach. Duane Scrod Sr. was too nervous to enjoy the sunny setting.
“I’ll pay you back,” he blurted at his mother-in-law.
“For what?”
“Hiring that lawyer for Junior. I know he didn’t come cheap.”
Mrs. Winship shook her head and speared a shrimp from her salad. “The man thinks he’s Perry Mason, but he sure lost interest in DJ. once the arson charges were dropped. Two whole weeks in juvenile detention? Let’s just say Mr. Beanstoop and I have negotiated a steep reduction in his fee.”
“Who’s Perry Mason?” Duane Sr. asked.
“Oh, never mind.”
“I still want to pay you back.”
“You take care of the broken window and we’ll call it even.”
“But I’ve got a job now, Millie. I’ll have money coming in.”
Her fork halted in midair, carrying another impaled shrimp. “What kind of a job?” she asked.
“Piano teacher. I already have three kids signed up for weekly lessons.”
Mrs. Winship smiled. “That’s excellent.”
“I won’t get rich,” Duane Scrod Sr. said, “but it’s good work. I’m liking it.”
“You’ve always had talent. That wasn’t the problem.”
“Guess what else? I got my wheels again—Smithers Chevrolet put a new transmission in the Tahoe! They finally gave up, Millie. I won!”
“Congratulations,” Mrs. Winship said.
“They’re gonna repaint it, too.”
“As they should.”
Mrs. Winship didn’t mention her recent phone conversation with Randolph Smithers. As she’d suspected, the car dealer had seen the newspaper stories and TV reports about the panther rescue, and he was aware of the important role played by young Duane Scrod Jr.
Mrs. Winship had told Randolph Smithers that her grandson hadn’t yet given any press interviews, but that if he did, he would certainly be asked about his father.
The father who had no car, no life, no future—all because the vehicle he’d purchased in good faith from Smithers Chevrolet had blown a transmission.
Randolph Smithers had quickly agreed with Mrs. Winship that it was time to let bygones be bygones, even though Duane Scrod Sr. had burned down the dealership. Smithers said he’d repair the Tahoe on the condition that the Scrods would speak only kindly of his auto business or, better yet, would not mention it at all.
“Junior went back to school today,” Duane Sr. said, finally taking a chomp of his fried grouper sandwich.
“How’s his attitude?” Mrs. Winship asked.
“Anything beats sitting in jail. I bought him a new book bag.”
“I’m impressed, Duane. Seriously.”
“And a waterproof tent for his camping trips. I intend to do better by that boy, Millie, I swear.”
Mrs. Winship said, “He doesn’t need more stuff. He needs a father.”
“You’re right. That’s what I meant.”
“Duane, do you really want to pay me back? Then be a dad to your son.” Mrs. Winship daintily devoured the last pink shrimp on her plate. She knew what the next topic of conversation would be.
“How’s Whitney?” asked Duane Scrod Sr.
“Not happy. The health department shut down her shop after some government minister got sick from spoiled brie that he’d bought there.”
“She got busted by the health department in Paris?”
“The French take their cheeses very seriously,” Mrs. Winship explained.
“So, does that mean Whitney’s coming home?”
“No, Duane, she’s not.”
“Good,” he said.
“In fact, she’s filing for divorce.”
“That’s okay with me.”
Mrs. Winship blinked. She wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly.
Duane Sr. said, “There’s a lady I intend to ask out on a date. She plays folk guitar at the Unitarian church.”
“A haircut and a shave wouldn’t hurt your chances,” Mrs. Winship suggested.
“DJ. said the same thing.”
“You might want to clean up the house, too, in case your guitarist also works for the health department.”
“Don’t worry,” said Duane Scrod Sr. sheepishly.
“And you must definitely get rid of that awful par
rot.”
“Millie, she’s not a parrot!”
Mrs. Winship said, “Just think about it, please.”
* * *
In all the media accounts of the panther episode there was no mention of Twilly Spree, which is how he wanted it. Mrs. Starch and the kids had agreed to leave him out of the story, although his role was not small.
After driving Mrs. Starch to the hospital (and leaving Duane Scrod Jr. to stay with her), Twilly had rushed back to get the two other kids. Sprinting through the Black Vine Swamp, he’d encountered first Horace and then Drake McBride, only one of whom would fit in the helicopter along with Nick and Marta. The dog was the obvious choice.
By the time Twilly reached Nick and Marta, the fog had burned away and the woods were bathed in soft sunlight. The boy’s right arm was badly broken and he’d passed out from the pain. The girl hovered beside him protectively, the rifle poised and ready. Twilly had no reason to tell her that he’d removed all the bullets before he left.
Using a crude splint made from a branch, he had stabilized Nick’s injured arm. Then, with Marta’s help, he’d hoisted the boy on his shoulders and carefully made his way toward the clearing where the chopper would land.
It was there Twilly had spotted the panther trotting a hundred yards ahead of them, carrying her cub toward a thicket of palmettos. Before vanishing, the cat had looked back just once. “Keep on moving, momma,” Twilly had urged, under his breath.
After the helicopter had landed, Twilly had strapped Nick inside and told Marta to keep an eye on him. He had no intention of riding back to Naples with them—the authorities would have more questions than he cared to answer. His pilot had been briefed on what to say: that he’d been flying from Miami to Fort Myers when he’d spotted the two kids lost in the Glades.
As for Horace the bloodhound, Twilly had instructed Marta to give him to Duane Scrod Jr., who was already at the hospital with Bunny Starch. Since dogs weren’t allowed in the emergency room, Twilly had told Marta to tie Horace to the nearest tree and give him some water.
After the chopper had buzzed away, Twilly had returned to camp and quickly packed his gear. He knew the swamp would be bustling in the coming days—news reporters, wildlife officers, and of course the work crews removing Red Diamond’s outlaw drilling equipment.