Carl Hiaasen Collection: Hoot, Flush, Scat

by Carl Hiaasen

  “Hush up, bird,” Duane Scrod Sr. whispered, “or I’ll sell you to Colonel Sanders.”

  A female voice from behind piped, “Don’t do that.”

  Duane Scrod Sr. wheeled around and cowered beside the piano. Framed in the open window were two faces—a boy and a girl, watching him.

  “What do you want?” he demanded. “Did the guv’ment send you, too?”

  The boy said, “We go to school with Duane. We need to find him.”

  “Yeah, well, get in line.”

  “He’s in our biology class,” the girl added.

  Nadine screeched and flapped around the room two or three times before alighting on a dusty chandelier.

  “Go away!” Duane Scrod Sr. barked at the kids. He still wasn’t convinced that they weren’t FBI agents in disguise.

  The boy said, “Duane’s running from the police. They’re going to arrest him for arson, but we don’t think he did it.”

  “No, Nick,” the girl interrupted, “you don’t think he did it.”

  “Whatever. We’ve got to talk to him.”

  Duane Scrod Sr. said, “Even if I knew where he was—which I don’t—I wouldn’t tell ya. So kindly take a hike. And I mean now.”

  But the two kids didn’t move.

  What’s wrong with this world? thought Duane Scrod Sr. When did the grown-ups stop being in charge?

  “That’s a nice piano,” the girl remarked. “I’ve been taking lessons since I was four.”

  “How thrilling for you,” Duane Scrod Sr. grumbled. “Now get lost.”

  He was astounded to see both kids calmly climb through his window to enter the room. The girl said, “You know what I played at our fall recital? Rachmaninoff’s Prelude number 4 in D.”

  “You’re kidding,” Duane Scrod Sr. said. Rachmaninoff was one of his all-time favorites. He slid the spinet away from the door and the girl sat down on the piano bench and played the whole piece from memory.

  “That’s downright lovely,” Duane Scrod Sr. admitted.

  She said, “My name’s Marta. And this is Nick.”

  “I’m Duane’s dad. But I still can’t tell ya where he’s at, ’cause I don’t have a clue. Besides, you might be under-cover FBI.”

  The girl said, “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard. I didn’t even make the J.V. cheerleader squad.”

  Duane Scrod Sr. reddened.

  The boy named Nick said, “Didn’t you hear what happened at school yesterday?”

  “Nope. Junior never came home is all I know.”

  “That’s because he’s a fugitive from justice,” the girl named Marta said dramatically.

  “Oh, that’s great,” Duane Scrod Sr. muttered.

  The boy described what had occurred when the sheriff’s detective went to the Truman School to arrest Duane Scrod Jr. for the arson at the Black Vine Swamp.

  “But DJ. said they didn’t have any evidence!” his father objected. “He promised me!”

  “They didn’t have a thing until yesterday,” said the boy named Nick. “Then they found his book bag at the scene of the fire.”

  Now Duane Scrod Sr. was really puzzled. “DJ. had a book bag?”

  The girl sighed impatiently. “For school, Mr. Scrod.”

  “It was camo-colored,” the kid named Nick went on, “like a hunter’s backpack.”

  “Okay. Yeah.” Now Duane Scrod Sr. remembered the bag.

  “When’s the last time you saw it?” the boy asked.

  “Day before yesterday.”

  The two kids whispered to each other; then the girl turned to Duane Scrod Sr. and asked, “Are you a hundred percent sure?”

  “You bet I am. It was when the guv’ment tax man was here, violatin’ my personal privacy. He grabbed Junior’s bag off the floor and tried to murder my dear sweet Nadine with it—ain’t that right, darlin’?”

  “Oui,” replied the macaw, rocking the chandelier.

  “So where’s the backpack now?” the girl asked.

  “Beats me. Maybe the tax guy ran off with it.” Duane Scrod Sr. wondered how long he could put off calling Millicent Winship to tell her that her grandson was in trouble with the law again.

  The boy named Nick said: “I don’t think Duane is guilty.”

  Duane Scrod Sr. coughed. “I’d dearly like to believe that’s true, but D.J.’s got what they call a ‘history’ with fires.”

  “Well, this time he didn’t do it,” declared the boy. “That’s what he told me, and I believe him.”

  “And what do you ’spect me to do? Go march at the courthouse?” Duane Scrod Sr. shrugged. “Junior won’t come out of the woods till he’s good and ready, and they’ll never find him out there. Not in a trillion years.”

  “When you hear from him—”

  “Who says I will?”

  “But if you do,” the girl named Marta said, “tell him to quit running and turn himself in. That’s the only way he’ll clear his name.”

  Duane Scrod Sr. cackled bitterly. “This ain’t the movies, you know. Life doesn’t shake down so simple.”

  The boy went out the window first. The girl followed, pausing briefly on the sill. She said, “That’s a sweet little piano. Do you play?”

  Smoke’s father shook his head. “Not in years.”

  “Well, you should take it up again.”

  “Yeah? What for?”

  “Because you’ll feel better,” the girl said, and dropped out of sight.

  On the ride home, Nick was so agitated that he had trouble keeping his bike on the sidewalk.

  “Don’t you see? It’s a total setup!” he exclaimed to Marta. “Smoke couldn’t possibly have ditched his book bag in the swamp on the day of the fire, because his father saw the same bag in the house two days ago. You know what? Í remember seeing it under Smoke’s desk in biology class the first day Waxmo was there!”

  Marta said, “Easy, dude. You’re gonna hyperventilate.”

  “I’m serious: somebody stole his backpack, stashed a torch inside, and left it at the scene of the arson. Smoke’s been framed!”

  “But why? That’s crazy.”

  Nick had to agree—some vital pieces of the puzzle were missing. Although Duane Scrod Jr. kept to himself at Truman, he didn’t seem to have made any enemies. Nick couldn’t think of a single person who’d want to see the kid wrongfully locked up in jail.

  “Don’t forget,” Marta said, “the guy’s dad is a major screwball, too. I mean, come on: Why would a tax collector steal a kid’s book bag?”

  “What if he wasn’t really a tax collector?” Nick said. “What if he went to Smoke’s house just to take something that he could plant at the Black Vine Swamp, something incriminating?”

  Marta gave a skeptical grunt. “Now, don’t get mad,” she said, “but here’s another what-if.”

  “Okay.”

  “What if Smoke had two book bags, Nick? One for his school stuff and one for his pyro gear.”

  Nick was growing frustrated with Marta—why couldn’t she see what was happening? “But he came over Thursday night to borrow my biology book, remember? He said he’d lost his backpack. I told you about it the next day.”

  “He also said he needed to study for a nonexistent exam,” Marta pointed out. “The whole story was pretty sketchy. You said so yourself.”

  Nick braked his bike under the shade of a tree and tried to gather his thoughts. Nothing about the fire in the Black Vine Swamp made much sense, from the disappearance of Mrs. Starch to the appearance of Duane Scrod Jr.’s backpack.

  Marta stopped her bicycle beside Nick’s. “What if Smoke heard his book bag had been found where the fire was set, and what if he was trying to make an alibi for himself by coming over and telling you that he’d, quote, ‘lost’ it. Then he gets his dad to lie and say the bag was in the house two days ago but some stranger conveniently ripped it off.”

  Nick said, “I like my theory better.”

  “If he’s not guilty, why did he run from Libby’s dad?”


  “Because he was scared of getting arrested. He freaked out, that’s all.”

  Marta said, “Everybody says they’re innocent, no matter what. Don’t you watch Court TV?”

  To himself Nick admitted that it was possible that she was right, and that Smoke was playing him for a sucker. But Nick’s father always said to go with your gut, and Nick’s gut said the kid was telling the truth.

  “Marta, I still say he didn’t do it.”

  “Fine. Then tell me one good reason why anyone in town would want to frame him. Name one person, okay?… Nick?”

  He wasn’t listening. He had gotten off his bicycle and started jogging across the street. “Come on,” he called back to her.

  “Are you cracking up, or what?” she shouted.

  “Hurry!” Nick motioned excitedly toward a strip mall. Marta hastily locked both bikes to the tree and ran after him.

  Mrs. Starch’s Prius with the “Save the Manatee” license plate was parked outside a pizza joint called Little Napoli. The car was empty and unlocked.

  Nick checked around to make sure nobody was watching. Then he dove into the backseat, leaving the door open for Marta.

  “What exactly are you doing?” she demanded, anxiously looking over her shoulder.

  “Waiting for that Twilly guy, or whoever’s driving this thing. Get in.”

  “But he said he never wanted to lay eyes on us again! Or did you forget?”

  Nick hadn’t forgotten. He said, “This is the only way we’ll get some answers. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of being confused.”

  Marta grimaced and clutched the sides of her head. “Are you completely, totally, hopelessly nuts? I’d rather be confused than, like, dead. The dude had bullets in his belt, Nick. Real live bullets, which means he probably has a real live gun to put ’em in.”

  “I’m not moving,” Nick said flatly. “Either go on home or get in the car with me. But you’d better make up your mind fast, because here he comes.”

  Marta got in the car.

  EIGHTEEN

  The man named Twilly showed no reaction when he saw Nick and Marta in the backseat of the Prius. He sat down behind the wheel, placed two pizza boxes on the seat beside him, and started the car.

  “Can you take us to Mrs. Starch?” Nick said.

  Twilly didn’t respond. In the rearview mirror they could see that he was counting to himself.

  “What are you doing?” Marta asked him.

  “You’ve got until the count of twenty to clear out of this car.”

  Nick said, “We’re not moving till we get some answers.”

  “And if you try to throw us out,” Marta added, “I’ll scream until somebody calls the cops.”

  Twilly sighed and said, “Such drama.” He turned in his seat and started backing the Prius out of the parking space.

  Marta pointed at him. “What is that?”

  “Vulture beaks. A friend gave them to me,” Twilly said, “for good luck.”

  Sun-bleached and crusty, the two beaks were tied to a frayed leather lanyard that dangled against his bare chest. Marta made a face at Nick and mouthed the word “Yuk.”

  Twilly eased the car into traffic. Trying to mask his nervousness with conversation, Nick said, “I’m reading one of Edward Abbey’s books. It’s sick.”

  In the mirror Twilly eyed him. “I assume that means you like it.”

  “Yeah, he’s funny. Was there a real Monkey Wrench Gang?”

  “God, I wish.” Twilly laughed to himself and pulled his ski cap down to his brow. “How about you?” he said to Marta. “What do you read?”

  She said, “All the Harry Potters—three times. Seriously, did those gross things come from vultures?”

  “Yep.”

  “So your friend—”

  “No, he didn’t shoot ’em,” Twilly said. “They were roadkills.”

  Marta nodded, fascinated. “Aren’t the beaks, like, magic or something?”

  “That I wouldn’t know.”

  As they passed the ramp to the interstate highway, heading farther and farther away from town, Nick wondered if he’d made a big mistake. They knew practically nothing about this man; he could be driving to Belle Glade to dump them in Lake Okeechobee.

  Nick said, “Mrs. Starch isn’t really your aunt, is she?”

  “Of course not,” Twilly replied.

  “So is she, like, your prisoner?” Marta asked bluntly. “We know you were out at the swamp during the school field trip because you’re on a video that Nick took—wearing the same ammo belt that you’ve got on now. Are you the one who set the fire?”

  Nick sunk down in his seat. Once Marta got comfortable, she was capable of saying anything. To Nick it seemed like a bad time to accuse Twilly of being a kidnapper and arsonist.

  Yet he didn’t get mad. “So many pesky little questions,” he said with a note of amusement. “First of all, I’m not holding dear Aunt Bunny prisoner. Anybody who tried to do that would live to regret it, I’m sure. And you’re right: I was in the Black Vine Swamp that day. But I didn’t light that fire. Somebody else did.”

  “It wasn’t Smoke, was it?” Nick heard himself say.

  “Smoke?”

  “His real name is Duane Scrod Jr.,” Nick said. “Marta saw him riding in this car the other day—with you.”

  Twilly said, “I’ve been known to pick up hitchhikers.”

  Nick went on: “Duane’s in Mrs. Starch’s biology class with us. Yesterday a detective came to arrest him for the arson, but he got away.”

  Marta was impatient. “He told Nick he’s innocent, but the fire department found his book bag at the scene.”

  In the mirror Twilly’s expression had grown serious. “The fire department didn’t find it. A civilian found it and called the arson squad.”

  “What’s the difference?” Marta said.

  “Huge difference, princess.”

  “How do you know all this?” Nick asked excitedly. “Have you seen Smoke?”

  Twilly said, “That’s enough chitchat.” He handed one of the pizza boxes to Marta.

  “One more question, please,” Nick implored, “and then we’ll shut up. Won’t we, Marta?”

  She gave Nick a sarcastically polite smile before attacking the pizza. Twilly drummed his hands on the steering wheel.

  “Who really started that fire?” Nick asked.

  “If I knew that, I’d …”

  “You’d what?”

  “Nothing,” Twilly said, and turned up the radio very loud.

  By the time Jimmy Lee Bayliss arrived at the emergency room, Drake McBride was no longer bellowing at the nurses. This was because they’d given him an injection of special medicine to make him settle down and behave. They told Jimmy Lee Bayliss that Drake McBride probably had a concussion from landing on his head, and possibly some broken ribs.

  “King Thunderbolt threw me off,” Drake McBride complained woozily. “Then he did a danged tap dance on my chest!”

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss sat down and said, “You’re gonna be fine.”

  “They won’t even let me see a doctor!”

  “You’ve gotta wait, same as everyone else.”

  “But why? I’m not like everyone else,” Drake McBride whined. “I tried to give ’em some cash to let me go first, but they got all snotty and mad.…”

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss was glad he’d missed that scene. “You can’t bribe a nurse. Hospitals don’t work that way.”

  “It wasn’t a bribe. It was a tip.” Drake McBride paused to vomit in a plastic bedpan. Looking up, he said, “Do me a favor, pardner. Go out to the barn and shoot that no-good nag for me, would you? Before he cripples somebody, namely yours truly.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jimmy Lee Bayliss, who had no intention of harming Drake McBride’s horse.

  As on most Saturdays, the hospital emergency room bustled. Among those in the waiting area with Drake McBride were a middle-aged woman who’d crashed her moped into a mailbox, an olde
r gentleman who’d been beaned by his doubles partner during a tennis match, and a surly young burglar (handcuffed to his chair) who’d been bitten by a police dog in a very sensitive area of his body.

  “That shot made me dizzy,” said Drake McBride. “And my head’s still killin’ me.”

  Even though his boss was groggy and in pain, Jimmy Lee Bayliss decided to go ahead and tell him. “Sir, I’ve got good news and bad news,” he said.

  Drake McBride groaned. “Lemme explain somethin’: If you’ve got bad news, then there ain’t no possible good news. The bad always cancels out the good.”

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss lowered his voice. “They’re gonna charge that pyro kid with doing the fire in Section 22,” he said to Drake McBride. “That means we’re in the clear.”

  “Okay, what else? Don’t hold back just ’cause I’m sittin’ here with, like, nine fractured ribs and a major brain injury.”

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss told him first about Melton. “That bozo got ambushed again. This time they spray-painted him blaze orange from head to toe and tied him to the hood of his truck.”

  “Buck nekked, same as before?” Drake McBride asked weakly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was it a Red Diamond company truck?”

  “Lucky it was me who found him and not some outsider,” Jimmy Lee Bayliss said. “Otherwise it could’ve made the newspapers or even Fox TV—a naked orange guy in the middle of a swamp.”

  Drake McBride nodded somberly. “Yeah, that’s a winner. Thanks for ruinin’ my day, which was already ruined pretty bad by that stupid horse.”

  Jimmy Lee Bayliss wasn’t finished. “Whoever did it, they took the front axle off the pickup.”

  “The company pickup.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I need to lie down.” Drake McBride slid off the chair and sprawled on the floor. The other patients, sitting with their relatives, ignored him.

  “There’s more,” Jimmy Lee Bayliss said. “A game warden called me this morning at the car wash. That’s where I took Melton to scrub off his paint job.”

  Drake McBride groaned. “State or federal game warden?”

  “The feds. A wildlife agent, he called himself.”

  “Oh, don’t tell me.”

  “Yeah, he got a report of a wild panther near our lease. He wants to come out and check around as soon as possible.”