Hoot (5 page)

“I came to apologize. It's all in the letter.” Roy pointed at the envelope clutched in Dana's right hand.

“Lemme see.” Mrs. Matherson reached over her son's shoulder, but he pulled away and crumpled the envelope in his fist.

“Get lost, cowgirl,” he snarled at Roy. “Me and you will settle up when I get back to school.”

When Roy returned to the car, his mother asked: “Why are those two people wrestling on the porch?”

“The one in the pajamas is the kid who tried to choke me on the bus. The other one, that's his mother. They're fighting over my apology letter.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Eberhardt thoughtfully watched the strange scene through the car window. “I hope they don't hurt each other. They're both rather husky, aren't they?”

“Yes, they are. Can we go home now, Mom?”

FIVE

Roy zipped through his homework in an hour. When he came out of his room, he heard his mother talking to his father on the phone. She was saying that Trace Middle had decided not to take disciplinary action against Dana Matherson because of his injuries. Apparently the school didn't want to provoke Dana's parents, in case they were considering a lawsuit.

When Mrs. Eberhardt began telling Mr. Eberhardt about the wild tussle between Dana and his mother, Roy slipped out the back door. He wheeled his bicycle from the garage and rode off. Twenty minutes later, he arrived at Beatrice Leep's bus stop, and from there he easily retraced Friday's ill-fated foot chase.

When Roy got to the golf course, he locked his bike to the pipes of a water fountain and set off jogging down the same fairway where he'd gotten clobbered. It was late in the afternoon, steamy hot, and few golfers were out. Nonetheless, Roy ran with his head down and one arm upraised for deflection in case another errant ball came flying in his direction. He slowed only when he reached the stand of Australian pines into which the running boy had vanished.

The pine trees gave way to a tangled thicket of Brazilian peppers and dense ground scrub, which looked impenetrable. Roy scoured the fringes, looking for a trail or some human sign. He didn't have much time before it would get dark. Soon he gave up trying to locate an entry point and elbowed his way into the pepper trees, which scraped his arms and poked his cheeks. He shut his eyes and thrashed onward.

Gradually the branches thinned and the ground beneath him began to slope. He lost his balance and went sliding down a ditch that ran like a tunnel through the thicket.

There, in the shadows, the air was cool and earthy. Roy spotted a series of charred rocks encircling a layer of ashes: a campfire. He knelt by the small pit and studied the packed dirt around it. He counted half a dozen identical impressions, all made by the same set of bare feet. Roy placed his own shoe beside one of the prints and wasn't surprised to see they were about the same size.

On a whim he called out, “Hello? You there?”

No answer.

Slowly Roy worked his way along the ditch, hunting for more clues. Concealed beneath a mat of vines he found three plastic garbage bags, each tied at the neck. Inside the first bag was common everyday trash—soda bottles, soup cans, potato chip wrappers, apple cores. The second bag held a stack of boys' clothing, neatly folded T-shirts, blue jeans, and underpants.

But no socks or shoes, Roy observed.

Unlike the other bags, the third one wasn't full. Roy loosened the knot and peeked, but he couldn't see what was inside. Whatever it was felt bulky.

Without thinking, he turned the bag over and dumped the contents on the ground. A pile of thick brown ropes fell out.

Then the ropes began to move.

“Uh-oh,” Roy said.

Snakes—and not just any old snakes.

They had broad triangular heads, like the prairie rattlers back in Montana, but their bodies were muck-colored and ominously plump. Roy recognized the snakes as cotton mouth moccasins, highly poisonous. They carried no rattles to warn in advance of a strike, but Roy saw that the tips of their stubby tails had been dipped in blue and silver sparkles, the kind used in art projects. It was a most peculiar touch.

Roy struggled to remain motionless while the fat reptiles untangled themselves at his feet. Tongues flicking, some of the moccasins extended to their full lengths while others coiled sluggishly. Roy counted nine in all.

This isn't good, he thought.

He almost leaped out of his sneakers when a voice spoke out from the thicket behind him.

“Don't move!” the voice commanded.

“I wasn't planning to,” Roy said. “Honest.”

 

When he lived in Montana, Roy once hiked up Pine Creek Trail into the Absaroka Range, which overlooks Paradise Valley and the Yellowstone River.

It was a school field trip, with four teachers and about thirty kids. Roy had purposely dropped to the rear of the line, and when the others weren't looking, he peeled away from the group. Abandoning the well-worn path, he angled back and forth up the side of a wooded ridge. His plan was to cross over the top and quietly sneak down ahead of the school hikers. He thought it would be funny if they trudged into the campsite and found him napping by the creek.

Hurriedly Roy made his way through a forest of towering lodge pole pines. The slope was littered with brittle dead logs and broken branches, the debris of many cold, windy winters. Roy stepped gingerly to avoid making noise, for he didn't want the hikers down below to hear him climbing.

As it turned out, Roy was too quiet. He walked into a clearing and found himself facing a large grizzly bear with two cubs. It was impossible to say who was more startled.

Roy had always wanted to see a grizzly in the wild, but his buddies at school told him to dream on. Maybe in Yellowstone Park, they said, but not up here. Most grownups spent their whole lives out West without ever laying eyes on one.

Yet there was Roy, and a hundred feet across the glade were three serious bears—snorting, huffing, rising on their hind legs to scope him out.

Roy remembered that his mother had packed a canister of pepper spray in his backpack, but he also remembered what he'd read about bear encounters. The animals had poor eyesight, and the best thing for a human to do was remain perfectly still and silent.

So that's what Roy did.

The sow bear squinted and growled and sniffed for his scent on the wind. Then she made a sharp coughing noise, and her cubs obediently dashed off into the woods.

Roy swallowed hard, but he didn't move.

The mother bear rose to her full height, bared her yellow teeth, and faked a lunge toward him.

Inside, Roy was quaking with terror but on the outside he remained calm and motionless. The bear studied him closely. Her changing expression suggested to Roy that she'd figured out he was too meek and puny to pose a threat. After a few tense moments, she dropped to all fours and, with a final defiant snort, lumbered off tocollect her cubs.

Still, Roy didn't move a muscle.

He didn't know how far the bears had gone, or whether they might come back to stalk him. For two hours and twenty-two minutes Roy remained as stationary as a plaster statue on that mountainside, until one of his teachers found him and led him safely back to the group.

So Roy was extremely good at not moving, especially when he was scared. He was plenty scared now, with nine venomous snakes crawling around his feet.

“Take a deep breath,” advised the voice behind him.

“I'm trying,” Roy said.

“Okay, now step backwards real slow on the count of three.”

“Oh, I don't think so,” said Roy.

“One ...”

“Now wait a second.”

“Two ...”

“Please!” Roy begged.

“Three.”

“I can't!”

“Three,” the voice said again.

Roy's legs felt like rubber as he teetered backward. A hand seized his shirt and yanked him into the thicket of pepper trees. As Roy's butt landed in the dirt, a hood came down over his face and his arms were jerked behind his back. Before he could react, a rope was looped twice around his wrists and secured to the trunk of a tree. Roy could feel the smooth sticky bark when he wiggled his fingers.

“What's going on!” he demanded.

“You tell me.” The voice had moved in front of him. “Who are you? Why're you here?”

“My name is Roy Eberhardt. I saw you run by the school bus the other day.”

“I don't know what you're talkin' about.”

“On two different days, actually,” Roy said. “I saw you running and I got curious. You looked kind of ... I don't know, wired.”

“Wasn't me.”

“Yeah, it was.” The snake wrangler was using a false husky tone—the voice of a boy trying to sound like a grownup.

Roy said, “Honest, I didn't come out here to hassle you. Take off this hood so we can see each other, okay?”

He could hear the boy's breathing. Then: “You're gonna have to get outta here. Like right now.”

“But what about the snakes?”

“They're mine.”

“Yeah, but—”

“They won't go far. I'll catch 'em again later.”

Roy said, “That's not what I meant.”

The boy laughed. “Don't worry, I'll take you out the back way. Just do as I say and you won't get bit.”

“What a guy,” muttered Roy.

The boy untied him from the Brazilian pepper and boosted him to his feet. “I gotta admit, you did pretty good,” the boy said. “Most kids would a peed their pants.”

“Are those cottonmouths?” Roy asked.

“Yep.” The boy sounded pleased that Roy knew what kind of snakes they were.

“Where I used to live, we had lots of rattlers,” Roy volunteered. He thought that if he could start a friendly conversation, the kid might change his mind and take the hood off Roy's face. “I never heard of a cottonmouth with sparkles on its tail.”

“They're goin' to a party. Now start walkin'.” The boy grabbed Roy from behind and guided him forward. He had a strong grip. “I'll tell you when to duck for branches,” he said.

The hood was either black or dark blue, and Roy couldn't see a speck of light through the heavy fabric. Blindly he stumbled and swayed through the thicket, but the barefoot boy kept him from falling. Roy knew they were out of the trees when the air got warmer and the ground beneath his feet got flat. He could smell thefertilized sod of the golf course.

Soon they stopped marching, and the kid began to loosen the knots on Roy's wrists. “Don't turn around,” he said.

“What's your name?” Roy asked.

“I don't have a name no more.”

“Sure you do. Everybody's got a name.”

The kid grunted. “I been called Mullet Fingers. And I been called worse.”

“You don't really live out here, do you?”

“None a your business. What'f I do?”

“All by yourself? What about your family?” Roy asked.

The boy rapped him lightly on the back of the head. “You ask too many nosy questions.”

“Sorry.” Roy noticed his hands were free, but he continued to hold them behind his back.

“Don't turn around until you count to fifty,” the kid instructed him. “Otherwise, you're gonna wake up one morning with one of those big ole cottonmouths in your bed. Got it?”

Roy nodded.

“Good. Now start countin'.”

“One, two, three, four...,” Roy said aloud. When he reached fifty, he whipped the hood off his head and wheeled around. He was alone in the middle of the driving range, surrounded by acres of golf balls.

The barefoot boy was gone, again.

Roy ran all the way back to his bicycle and rode home as fast as he could. He wasn't frightened and he wasn't discouraged. He was more excited than ever.

SIX

At breakfast the next morning, Roy asked if it was against the law for a kid his age not to go to school.

His mother said, “Well, I'm not sure if it's an actual
law
but—”

“Oh yes, it is,” his father cut in. “Truancy is what it's called.”

“Can they put you in jail?” Roy asked.

“Usually they just put you back in school,” Mr. Eberhardt said. Half-jokingly he added, “You weren't thinking of dropping out, were you?”

Roy said no, school was all right.

“I bet I know what this is about,” Mrs. Eberhardt said. “You're worried about bumping into that Matherson boy again. See, didn't I tell you the apology letter was too assertive?”

“The letter was just fine,” Roy's father said, spreading open the newspaper.

“If it was ‘just fine,' then why is Roy so scared? Why's he talking about dropping out of school?”

“I'm not scared,” Roy said, “and I don't want to drop out of Trace Middle. It's just ...”

His mother eyed him. “What?”

“Nothing, Mom.”

Roy decided not to tell his parents about his encounter with Mullet Fingers, the running boy. Being in law enforcement, Roy's father probably was required to report all crimes, even truancy. Roy didn't want to get the kid in trouble.

“Listen to this,” Mr. Eberhardt said, and began reading aloud from the newspaper: “ ‘A Coconut Cove police cruiser was vandalized early Monday morning while parked at a construction site on East Oriole Avenue. The officer had fallen asleep inside the car at the time, according to a police spokesperson.' Can you believe that?”

Roy's mother clucked. “Sleeping on duty? That's disgraceful. They should fire that fellow.”

Roy thought the story was pretty amusing.

“It gets better,” his father said. “Listen: ‘The incident happened shortly before sunrise, when an unknown prankster sneaked up to the patrol car, a 2001 Crown Victoria, and spray-painted the windows with black paint.' ”

Roy, who had a mouthful of raisin bran, burst out laughing. Milk dribbled down his chin.

Mr. Eberhardt was also smiling as he continued: “ ‘Coconut Cove Police Chief Merle Deacon declined to release the name of the officer who fell asleep, saying that he is part of a special surveillance team investigating property crimes on the east side of town. Deacon said the officer has recently been ill with the flu and had been given medication that made him drowsy.' ”

Roy's father looked up from the article. “Medication, ha!”

“What else does the story say?” Mrs. Eberhardt asked.

“Let's see....It says this was the third suspicious incident within a week at this location, which is the future home of a Mother Paula's All-American Pancake House.”

Roy's mother brightened. “We're getting a Mother Paula's here in Coconut Cove? That'll be nice.”

Roy swabbed a napkin across his chin. “Dad, what else happened out there?”

“I was wondering the same thing.” Mr. Eberhardt skimmed the rest of the article. “Here it is: ‘Last Monday, unknown intruders uprooted survey stakes from the property. Four days later, vandals entered the site and placed live alligators in three portable toilets. According to police, the reptiles were captured unharmed and later released into a nearby canal. No arrests have been made.' ”

Mrs. Eberhardt rose and started clearing the breakfast dishes. “Alligators!” she said. “Good heavens, what next?”

Mr. Eberhardt folded the paper and tossed it on the kitchen counter. “This is turning out to be an interesting little town after all, isn't it, Roy?”

Roy picked up the newspaper to see for himself. East Oriole Avenue sounded familiar. As he read the story, Roy remembered where he'd seen that street sign. Beatrice Leep's bus stop, the place he had first spotted the running boy, was on
West
Oriole Avenue, just the other side of the main highway.

“The article doesn't say how big those gators were,” Roy remarked.

His father chuckled. “I don't think it's important, son. I think it's the thought that counts.”

 

The police captain said, “I've read your report, David. Is there anything else you'd like to add?”

Officer Delinko shook his head. His hands were folded on his lap. What could he say?

His sergeant spoke up: “David understands how serious this is.”

“ ‘Embarrassing' is the word,” the captain said. “The chief has been sharing some of the e-mails and phone messages with me. It's not pretty. Did you see the newspaper?”

Officer Delinko nodded. He had read and reread the article a dozen times. Each time it made his stomach churn.

“You probably noticed that your name wasn't mentioned,” the captain said. “That's because we refused to release it to the media.”

“Yes. Thank you,” Officer Delinko said. “I'm very sorry about all this, sir.”

“And you read Chief Deacon's explanation for what happened? I assume you're comfortable with that.”

“To be honest, sir, I haven't had the flu. And I wasn't taking any medication yesterday—”

“David,” the sergeant cut in, “if the chief says you were taking flu medicine, you were
definitely
taking flu medicine. And if the chief says that's why you fell asleep in your patrol car, then that's
exactly
what happened. Understand?”

“Oh. Yes, sir.”

The captain held up a yellow slip of paper. “This is a bill from the Ford dealership for four hundred and ten bucks. They got that black paint off your windows, that's the good news. Took 'em all day, but they did it.”

Officer Delinko was sure that the captain was going to hand him the repair bill, but he didn't. Instead he placed it inside the patrolman's personnel file, which lay open on his desk.

“Officer, I don't know what to do with you. I just don't.” The captain's tone was one of paternal disappointment.

“I'm very sorry. It won't happen again, sir.”

Officer Delinko's sergeant said, “Captain, I ought to tell you that David volunteered for this surveillance duty at the construction site. And he went out early in the morning, on his own off-duty time.”

“His own time?” The captain folded his arms. “Well, that's commendable. David, can I ask why you did that?”

“Because I wanted to catch the perpetrators,” Officer Delinko replied. “I knew it was a priority with you and the chief.”

“That's the only reason? You didn't have some sort of personal stake in this case?”

I do now, thought Officer Delinko. Now that they've made a fool of me.

“No, sir,” he said.

The captain turned his attention toward the sergeant. “Well, there's got to be some type of punishment, whether we like it or not. The chief's taking too much grief over this.”

“I agree,” the sergeant said.

Officer Delinko's heart sank. Any disciplinary action would automatically become part of his permanent record. It might be an issue when it came time for a promotion.

“Sir, I'll pay that bill myself,” Officer Delinko offered. Four hundred and ten dollars was a serious chunk out of his paycheck, but keeping his record spotless was worth every penny.

The captain said it wasn't necessary for Officer Delinko to cover the bill—and that wouldn't satisfy the chief, anyway. “So I'm putting you on desk duty,” he said, “for a month.”

“David can live with that,” said the sergeant.

“But what about the Mother Paula's surveillance?” Officer Delinko asked.

“Don't worry, we'll get it covered. We'll pull somebody off the midnight shift.”

“Yes, sir.” Officer Delinko was depressed at the idea of being stuck behind a desk, doing nothing for a whole boring month. Still, it was better than being suspended. The only thing worse than sitting at headquarters would be sitting at home.

The captain stood up, which meant the meeting was over. He said, “David, if anything like this ever happens again ...”

“It won't. I promise.”

“Next time you're definitely going to see your name in the newspaper.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Under a headline that says:
OFFICER TERMINATED.
Is that clear?”

Officer Delinko cringed inwardly. “I understand, sir,” he said quietly to the captain.

He wondered if the little jerks who'd sprayed his Crown Victoria realized how much trouble they were getting him into. My whole career is in jeopardy, Officer Delinko thought angrily, all because of some smart-ass juvenile delinquents. He was more determined than ever to catch them in the act.

In the hallway outside the captain's office, the sergeant told him, “You can pick up your car at the motor pool. But remember, David, you're off road patrol. That means you're allowed to drive the unit home and back, but that's all.”

“Right,” said Officer Delinko. “Home and back.”

He had already thought of a route that would take him directly past the corner of East Oriole and Woodbury, the future location of Mother Paula's All-American Pancake House.

Nobody said he couldn't leave his house extra early in the morning. Nobody said he couldn't take his sweet time getting to work.

 

Dana Matherson was absent from school again. Roy felt somewhat relieved, though not enough to relax. The longer Dana had to stay away so his nose could recover from Roy's punch, the nastier he would be when he finally returned to Trace Middle.

“You've still got time to blow town,” Garrett suggested helpfully.

“I'm not running away. Whatever happens just happens.”

Roy wasn't trying to act cool. He'd thought a lot about the Dana situation. Another confrontation seemed inevitable, and part of him simply wanted to get it over with. He wasn't cocky, but he had a stubborn streak of pride. He had no intention of spending the rest of the year cowering in the rest room or sneaking through the halls just to avoid some dumb bully.

“I probably shouldn't tell you this,” said Garrett, “but some of the kids are taking bets.”

“Great. They're betting on whether Dana's going to beat me up?”

“No, on how many
times
he's going to beat you up.”

“Nice,” Roy said.

Actually, two good things had come out of the altercation with Dana Matherson. The first was Roy successfully tailing the barefoot boy to the golf course. The second was Roy being booted off the bus for two weeks by the vice-principal.

It was nice having his mother pick him up at school. They got to chat in the car, and Roy arrived home twenty minutes earlier than usual.

The phone was ringing when they walked in the door. It was his mother's sister calling from California to chat. Roy seized the opportunity to retrieve a cardboard shoe box from his room and slip quietly out the back door of the house.

He was heading for the golf course again, with a slight detour. Instead of making a left on West Oriole, toward the bus stop, Roy rode his bicycle across the highway to East Oriole. He'd gone less than two blocks when he came upon a scrub-covered lot with a dented work trailer in one corner.

Parked beside the trailer was a blue pickup truck. Not far away sat three bulldozer-type vehicles and a row of portable toilets. Roy figured this had to be the same place where the police car got spray-painted and the alligators were hidden inside the latrines.

As soon as Roy stopped his bicycle, the door of the trailer flew open and a stocky bald man charged out. He wore stiff tan work pants and a tan shirt that had a name stitched to the breast. Roy was too far away to read it.

“What do you want?” the man snapped, his face flushed with anger. “Hey, kid, I'm talking to you!”

Roy thought: What's
his
problem?

The man came toward him, pointing. “What's in that box?” he yelled. “What've you and your little buddies got planned for tonight, huh?”

Roy spun his bike around and started pedaling away. The guy was acting like a total psycho.

“That's right, and don't you come back!” the bald man hollered, shaking a fist. “Next time there'll be guard dogs waiting for you. The meanest damn dogs you ever saw!”

Roy pedaled faster. He didn't turn around. The clouds were darkening, and he thought he felt a raindrop on one cheek. From the distance came a rumble of thunder.

Even after crossing the highway to West Oriole, Roy didn't slow his pace. By the time he made it to the golf course, a steady drizzle was coming down. He hopped off his bicycle and, shielding the shoe box with both arms, began to jog across the deserted greens and fairways.

Soon he reached the thicket of pepper trees where he'd encountered the boy called Mullet Fingers. Roy had mentally prepared himself to be blindfolded and tied up again—he'd even composed a short speech for the occasion. He was determined to persuade Mullet Fingers that he was someone to be trusted, that he hadn't come to interfere but rather to help, if Mullet Fingers needed it.

While working his way through the thicket, Roy grabbed a dead branch off the ground. It was heavy enough to make an impression on a cottonmouth moccasin, though he hoped that wouldn't be necessary.

When he got to the ditch, he saw no signs of the deadly sparkle-tailed snakes. The running boy's camp was gone—cleaned out. All the plastic bags had been removed, and the fire pit had been buried. Roy poked the tip of the dead branch through the loose dirt, but it yielded no clues. Glumly he checked for footprints and found not one.

Mullet Fingers had fled without a trace.

As Roy emerged into the fairway, the purple sky opened up. Rain slashed down in wind-driven sheets that stung his face, and lightning crashed ominously nearby. Roy shivered and took off running. In an electrical storm, the worst place to be was on a golf course, standing near trees.