by Ted Staunton
“How big will it get?” CC pushed forward.
“About six, seven feet; three hunnerd pounds.” He turned and grinned through his beard. “If he was home in South America, that is.” He wore a little shell on a rawhide loop around his neck.
A lady in a blue uniform shirt said, “Big or small, Animal Control can’t deal with it. We’re not trained for this. I don’t even have anything to put him in. The department will have to find someone that can handle it.”
“Look no further,” said the driver. “This just happens to be my business.” He dug some business cards out of a pocket in his safari shirt and passed them around. “Marty Raymond,” he said. “Gator Aid. Chief herpetologist. Got a regional outlet opening over at the plaza on Saturday, in fact. That’s why I was in the neighbourhood.”
People looked at the cards, then back at Marty Raymond, impressed. “I’ll round up some gear and get him tomorrow afternoon.”
“Tomorrow?” someone said.
Marty Raymond nodded at the pond. “That little guy’s not going anywhere. You want to do it right, and safe, for him and me. He’s lost and scared, doesn’t need any more stress. And I don’t want to get bit. He may be little but he’s got teeth like razor blades.” He tipped his hat back. “One o’clock tomorrow, if you care to take in the show.”
People began to chatter and move away. Some shuffled closer to the pond and got video with their phones.
“I’ll report that and be here tomorrow,” said the lady from Animal Control, waving the business card. “It’s our jurisdiction. One o’clock?”
“The more the merrier,” said Marty Raymond. “See you then.” He raised his voice, “Heck, bring your friends.”
A couple of people swung their phones to get a shot of him too. He flashed a big grin again, then lifted his own phone and started tapping something in. As he did, he said to us without looking, “You three gon’ be here? You could help. I’ll need assistants I can count on.”
“Won’t you bring helpers with you?” Zal asked. “Like, from Gator Aid?”
“We’re short-staffed right now, pardner. I can’t bring people in just for this, what with travel and all. Can you help?”
“I’m in,” said CC.
Zal said, “We could film it. Right, C?”
Marty Raymond nodded. “Video would be huge. And I’ll need a paddler. Excellent.” He talked as if we’d been a team all along.
“Um,” I said. “We’ve got— What about school?”
Marty Raymond turned to me and nodded. “Good point. I could tell you three were smart. That’s why I spoke to you. Son — what’s your name?”
“Duncan.”
“Duncan, you can sit in science class any day or you can live science, like I do. This is the real thing, wildlife biology right here. Besides, when you gonna get the chance to catch a gator again?”
“Caiman,” CC corrected.
“Beg pardon. Precision pays. You three are definitely the kind of helpers I’ll need. Duncan, you choose what’s best for you. Bring the whole darn class for all I care. More the merrier. Can’t do it, I understand, but I’d surely appreciate your help.” He winked. “Comes to it, there’s worse in life than skipping a little school. I didn’t say that. Hope to see you tomorrow.”
He shook hands with Zal and CC, then me. He had a strong grip. As we shook, he stared hard at me for an extra second. I wished I hadn’t sounded wussy about school.
“Tomorrow,” CC called as we rode off.
Marty Raymond was already texting.
CHAPTER 7
Both Sides Bounce
Do you think Miss Linton will bring us?” I puffed. It was uphill riding home.
“Naw,” Zal sighed. He swung off his bike and started to walk it. “She’d have to do parent consent forms and all that.” Zal’s parents were teachers, so he knew those kinds of things. “I wish we could, though. It would be so cool.”
“So let’s go anyway,” CC said. “Who’s going to know?”
“You mean skip off school?” Zal stared. “We’d get in trouble.”
“I bet my dad would let me.”
“Well my parents would go ballistic,” Zal sighed.
“Not if we do it right.” It took a heartbeat to realize it was me who’d just said that. I didn’t even know why I had, except a spark had flared. It was as if Marty Raymond had dared me with that handshake. I hurried on, “Look at it this way: Have we ever skipped before? Have we ever even been late? Who’s going to suspect? We’re the goodies.”
And we were. It wasn’t like we got noticed for it much. Sure, there were always a couple of guys who’d ask Zal to make himself disappear after the school talent show, and CC’s smart mouth got her into trouble sometimes, mostly with other girls. She hadn’t done herself any solids when she’d brought a stuffed animal to school for favourite things day in grade four. Not a plush toy; a real squirrel she’d stuffed with her dad’s help. It was lumpy in odd places and the eyes seemed to look in different directions. That got the girls saying CC was weird. Of course, CC was weird, but in a good way. Most of us guys were impressed by a girl who fished, camped and had a good throwing arm. Plus she punched the one guy who laughed at the squirrel and you could tell it hurt. As for me, I mostly just played along. Until now. Now I wanted like anything to break the rules.
“It would be so much cooler than school,” CC said.
Zal thought this over too. “Yeah, but how do we do it?”
Somewhere in World’s Best it says that detectives and crooks think the same way. Maybe that’s why we figured it out so fast. “This better work,” Zal said.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “it’s not like they can kick us out. We’re already going to another school.”
“How about we get grounded forever? I don’t want to mess up ball season.”
“Come on, Zal,” CC snorted. “As long as we’re home on time, how are they going to find out?”
The plan was simple. All you needed to get out of class was a note from home or a call to the school. CC couldn’t ask for permission in case her folks blabbed to Zal’s parents or Aunt Jenn, so she’d get her older brother in high school to make the call and pretend to be her dad. His voice was deep enough, and if you called before eight o’clock in the morning you just had to leave a voicemail, with a thousand others. Then CC would call the school before eight too, and fake being Zal’s mom. She’d say he needed to be excused at lunch to see his grandpa, who was sick. They couldn’t phone for me too, so I’d write myself a note.
I used our now-fixed computer and my best letter-writing style that I’d learned in class:
June 17
Dear Miss Linton,
Please excuse Duncan from class at lunchtime today, as he has a dental appointment this afternoon at the dentist.
Hoping this finds you well,
Jenn Fortune
I spelled appointment wrong but the spell-checker on the computer caught it. The only tricky part was copying Aunt Jenn’s signature onto the bottom. Sergeant Castro probably would have called this “forging,” but I told myself a note for school wasn’t important enough to count.
I hunted around for something she’d signed and found a cheque with the phone bill on the hall table. She never paid anything with a credit card or online. “Teller training,” she’d say. “I like a paper trail.” I held the cheque against the glass door to the balcony to get the light behind it, then carefully traced her signature onto a sheet of printer paper. I practised a few times, fast, on the same page, then signed the note. It looked pretty good. I put back the cheque, folded the note and put it in my backpack, tore up my practice sheet and flushed it down the toilet. Now I was on both sides of the law.
CHAPTER 8
Bump Bounce Boogie
Next morning, I made sure to hand my note to Miss Linton while she was talking to someone else, so she might not take time to look too closely at it. Sure enough, she just said, “That’s fine, Duncan. Is anyone picking yo
u up or are you going home first?”
“Going home.”
“I hope you have no cavities.” She turned back to the other kid.
As I walked to my desk, I let out the breath I’d been holding. Man, I thought, if I’d known it was this easy …
Heading to Oakwood Park, though, I got nervous again. It felt strange to be out in the middle of the day, as if I were wearing a sign that read Kid Ditching School.
I tugged my ball cap low and hustled along. I was across the street from the park, waiting to cross, when an old silver Toyota like ours came zipping along. Instantly I thought Aunt Jenn had found out and was after me.
I ducked behind a trash bin, felt stupid and stood up in time to see it was our car — I could tell by a ding in the passenger door — but it wasn’t Aunt Jenn driving. It was a bearded man with sunglasses: Lamar Del Ray. My stomach did a little flip. The car’s turn signal flashed and the Toyota scooted into the park drive. Lamar Del Ray drove even faster than Aunt Jenn.
For a moment I forgot all about caimans and skipping school. Was this the proof I needed about Aunt Jenn and Lamar Del Ray? Or was there an explanation? The traffic cleared and I dashed across the street and into the park. I was tempted to try and follow the car but the park was big and the Toyota was already long gone. I whipped out my phone to call Aunt Jenn. In the nick of time I remembered that I’d have to explain to her why I was at Oakwood Park when I was supposed to be in school. Finding out about this was going to take some planning, and right now we had a caiman to catch.
I checked the time while I had the phone out: almost one o’clock. I stuffed it back in my shorts pocket and hurried to Green Pond.
It didn’t feel as much like a jailbreak when I met up with Zal and CC. A small crowd had already gathered. Animal Control was there, and a police cruiser. The only person who wasn’t there was Marty Raymond.
A few minutes later, he rolled up in the noisy SUV. “Sorry, folks. It’s been a busy one. Hey, there’s my support team.”
That was us. Marty Raymond swung us into action. We helped lower a cage like a big cat carrier from the back of the SUV, then a longer, sturdier version of the fisherman’s landing net CC had brought to my place for the bouncy ball experiments, life jackets and an inflatable dinghy. We took turns pumping up the dinghy while Marty Raymond scouted the pond.
As we capped the air valve he came back to us. “Okay, Gator Aiders. Got the camera?”
CC nodded and held up her phone. “Zal films, I paddle. It’s my specialty.”
“What about me?” I said, feeling left out. After all, if I hadn’t had the idea for skipping, we wouldn’t be here.
Marty Raymond turned to me. “Ready to net?”
“What?” I said.
“Net means wet. Can you take it?”
“How do—”
“I’ll do it!” CC jumped in.
“No, ma’am, we need a steady hand on the paddle.” He looked back at me. “You in, Duncan?”
Somehow it was important that Marty Raymond, Gator Aid Guy, had remembered my name. “I’m in,” I said, and unslung my backpack.
“Then let’s boogie.” He looked around. “Not everyone’s here but we can get started.” He called over the Animal Control workers and the police officers. I wondered if the cops would ask us why we weren’t in school, but they didn’t. The rest of the crowd trailed behind.
“Simple plan, folks,” Marty Raymond said. “PCC: patience, calm, quiet.”
“Quiet doesn’t start with c,” CC sniffed.
Marty Raymond didn’t miss a beat. “Patience, calm, control. First off, we locate the critter, then I go in after him with my support team here. Thing to remember is, he’s jumpy, prob’ly missing his mom. Commotion will make him harder to catch. It’d be nice to get this done in time for …” His voice trailed off as he looked around the park again. “Anyway, let’s get at it. Spread out nice and quiet around the perimeter and look hard. No shouting or rushing.”
Everyone did as they were told. I stood at the edge of the pond, half hoping nobody spotted anything. I didn’t know exactly what I’d be doing, but I didn’t like the sound of what I did know. As we looked I heard more cars pull up, but I didn’t turn around. Traffic rolled past outside the park.
Finally, a lady with binoculars broke the quiet. “Got him.” She pointed to the middle of the pond, where the dark green was blanketed by light green scum. Dark bumps rode the surface. You could just see the side of the caiman’s head.
CHAPTER 9
Bottoms-Up Bounce
“Bingo,” Marty Raymond said. “PCC. Leave it to Gator Aid.” He turned to us. “Life jackets on. I go in first. Launch the boat quiet from over there when I’m well away from shore. Don’t come near, just keep it steady and film. Me and the caiman. And my face, not the back of my head. Got it? Okay.”
Zal and CC headed off.
The police had their own inflatable boat. Marty Raymond told them to stay back too. Then he handed me the last life vest and the landing net.
“Duncan, my man, you’re backup. I go in there,” he pointed. “You give me a good head start, then ease in over the other side.”
“Right in front of him?”
“A gator’s got two blind spots, right in front and right behind. I sneak up behind. You stay dead in front of him and keep the pole flat, ahead of you, just under the water. Go real slow and quiet, he won’t see you or know you’re there. If I signal, pull the net up, because if our buddy spooks he’ll dive, and go right into it.”
I looked at my shorts and sneakers, then at Green Pond. It had never looked swampier. “You mean we’re just going to wade in?”
“Why not? Cops say it’s not very deep. ’Sides, you got a life jacket on.”
“But what if—”
Marty Raymond knelt and retied one of his hiking boots. He gave me a long sideways look and whispered, “Nothing to it, pardner. He’s the scared one. Most he’ll do is scoot away from us. Just stay cool, look as if you know what you’re doing and leave the heavy lifting to me. Got it?”
I nodded in spite of myself.
“Main thing is, we give ’em a show.” He stood up and said, “Let’s do it.”
“Wait a minute,” someone said. “Surely you’re not letting those kids—”
“Sir,” Marty Raymond said, “those kids can deal with this better than most adults. They’re trainers in Gator Aid’s Kids and Critters program and they know more about handling reptiles than these folks do.” He waved a hand at the police and Animal Control officers. “Situations like this are standard procedure, a certificate requirement. Now if you’ll kindly stand back and keep the noise down, we’ll get ’er done.”
I moved to my spot. Marty Raymond moved to his and stepped into Green Pond. He moved so carefully the water barely rippled. When he got waist-deep, he waved to Zal and CC. They gently set the dinghy on the water, climbed in and quietly pushed off.
It was so still, for a moment the only sound you could hear was the single dip of CC’s paddle. Out on the road, a car rolled by. Marty Raymond waved to me.
I took a deep breath and stepped in. Water flooded my sneakers. I edged forward. The bottom sucked at my feet. The water was so murky I couldn’t see my feet by the time my knees were wet. Weeds — or something — clutched at my bare legs and I wished I’d worn jeans. I tried not to think about what might be down there and concentrated on not making ripples.
The pond got deeper faster than I expected. At waist-deep I slipped the net and pole into the water ahead of me, just under the surface, the way Marty Raymond had said. The bumps of the caiman’s eyes and snout sat on the green scum like gunsights, maybe twenty yards away. I was right on target.
I looked at Marty Raymond. He nodded.
The caiman hadn’t moved. We eased in farther. I felt the life jacket begin to bob. Marty Raymond was chest-deep in the blanket of scum now, about thirty feet back of the caiman. I was at the edge of the stuff. It was so thick you couldn’
t see the net and pole just under the surface. I could feel the bottom dropping off steeply and I couldn’t go farther without the life jacket floating me off my feet.
I stopped and stared hard at those dark little bumps. They were so still I wondered if the caiman was really there. It had to be there. Because if it wasn’t there, where was it? That was a thought I didn’t need. I clutched the pole tighter.
Then Marty Raymond sank slowly, arms stretched in front of him, until only his head seemed to bob on the surface, a hat-wearing balloon.
There was no sound. His head drifted closer and closer. Ten feet back. The caiman didn’t move. Nine feet, eight feet … I thought, teeth like razors. Six feet … five … four …
Thwup.
There was a little swirl of water, and the caiman was gone. Then Marty Raymond rose, arms high, holding a three-foot-long gator. One hand was clamped right behind its head, the other gripped the caiman’s tail just back of the hind legs.
I heard applause from the shore. Marty Raymond flashed a huge grin and turned to Zal’s camera. A second beard of green algae hung from his regular brown one. His neck and shoulders were draped in a scarf of weeds.
CC angled the dinghy closer as Zal filmed.
“Get the crowd too,” Marty Raymond ordered, holding the caiman like a trophy. “Gator Aid to the rescue,” he called, then stepped forward and vanished.
For an instant, all that was left was his straw hat, floating on the surface. Then it was joined by a caiman that shot up out of the water in my direction and belly-flopped with a splash.
I yelled. My feet slipped and I toppled backward, jerking up the landing net. It came alive. As the life jacket caught me, I saw the caiman airborne, struggling in the net. Let’s just say I held on tight.
Then a weedy Marty Raymond was honking and spluttering beside me. “All right, pardner, I got him.” He took the pole and hoisted the caiman higher. “A wrangler in action,” he called. “Training pays off. Let’s give it up for Duncan here.”
