by Carl Hiaasen
“Hmm,” said Dr. Gonzalez with a slight frown.
“What—don’t you believe me?” Beatrice’s indignation sounded genuine. Roy was impressed.
But the doctor was a cool one, too. “Oh, I believe your stepbrother was attacked by dogs,” she said. “I just don’t believe it happened today.”
Beatrice stiffened. Roy knew he had to come up with something, fast.
“The wounds on his arm aren’t fresh,” Dr. Gonzalez explained. “Judging by how far the infection has progressed, I’d estimate he was bitten eighteen to twenty-four hours ago.”
Beatrice looked flustered. Roy didn’t wait for her to recover.
“Yeah, eighteen hours. That sounds about right,” he said to the doctor.
“I don’t understand.”
“See, he passed out right after he got bit,” Roy said. “It wasn’t until the next day he finally woke up, and that’s when he came running home. Then Beatrice called me and asked if I’d help get him to the hospital.”
Dr. Gonzalez fixed Roy with a stern gaze, though there was an edge of amusement in her voice.
“What’s your name, son?”
Roy gulped. She’d caught him off guard.
“Tex,” he answered weakly.
Beatrice nudged him with her elbow, as if to say: That’s the best you can do?
The doctor crossed her arms. “So, Tex, let’s get this straight. Your friend Roy is mauled at the soccer field by several huge dogs. Nobody tries to help him, and he remains unconscious all night and most of the next day. All of a sudden he wakes up and jogs home. Is that right?”
“Yup.” Roy bowed his head. He was a pathetic liar, and he knew it.
Dr. Gonzalez turned her steely attention to Beatrice. “Why was it left for you to bring your stepbrother here? Where are your parents?”
“Working,” Beatrice replied.
“Didn’t you call and tell them there was a medical emergency?”
“They crew on a crab boat. No phone.”
Not bad, Roy thought. The doctor, however, wasn’t buying it.
“It’s hard to understand,” she said to Beatrice, “how your stepbrother could go missing for so long and nobody in the family got concerned enough to call the police.”
“Sometimes he runs away from home,” Beatrice said quietly, “and he doesn’t come back for a while.”
It was the closest thing to a true answer that she’d given and, ironically, it was the one that made Dr. Gonzalez back off.
“I’m going to go check on Roy now,” she told them. “In the meantime, you two might want to polish up your story.”
“How’s he doing, anyway?” Beatrice asked.
“Better. He got a tetanus shot, and now we’re loading him with antibiotics and pain medication. It’s strong stuff, so he’s pretty sleepy.”
“Can we see him?”
“Not right now.”
As soon as the doctor had gone, Roy and Beatrice hurried outside, where it was safer to talk. Roy sat down on the steps of the emergency room; Beatrice remained standing.
“This isn’t gonna work, cowgirl. Once they figure out he’s not you ...”
“It’s a problem,” Roy agreed: the understatement of the year.
“And if Lonna hears about this, you know he’ll end up in juvie detention,” Beatrice said gloomily, “until she finds a new military school. Probably someplace far-off, like Guam, where he can’t run away.”
Roy didn’t understand how a mother could kick her own child out of her life, but he knew such tragic things occurred. He’d heard of fathers who acted the same way. It was depressing to think about.
“We’ll come up with something,” he promised Beatrice.
“Know what, Tex? You’re okay.” She pinched his cheek and went bounding down the steps.
“Hey, where you going?” he called after her.
“Fix dinner for my dad. I do it every night.”
“You’re kidding, right? You’re not really leaving me here alone.”
“Sorry,” Beatrice said. “Dad’ll freak if I don’t show up. He can’t make toast without burning off his fingertips.”
“Couldn’t Lonna cook his dinner this one time?”
“Nope. She tends bar at the Elk’s Lodge.” Beatrice gave Roy a brisk little wave. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t let ’em operate or nuthin’ on my brother.”
“Wait!” Roy jumped to his feet. “Tell me his realname. It’s the least you can do, after everything that’s happened.”
“Sorry, cowgirl, but I can’t. I made him a blood promise a long time ago.”
“Please?”
“If he wants you to know,” Beatrice said, “he’ll tell you himself.” Then she ran off, her footsteps fading into the night.
Roy trudged back into the emergency room. He knew his mother would be getting worried, so he asked the desk clerk if he could borrow the phone. It rang a half dozen times on the other end before the Eberhardts’ answering machine picked up. Roy left a message saying he’d be home as soon as he and Beatrice finished cleaning up the mess from the science project.
Alone in the waiting area, Roy dug through a stack of magazines until he found an issue of Outdoor Life that had an article about fishing for cutthroat trout in the Rocky Mountains. The best thing about the story was the photographs—anglers wading knee-deep in blue Western rivers lined with tall cottonwoods, rows of snowy mountain crags visible in the distance.
Roy was feeling pretty homesick for Montana when he heard the approach of a siren outside. He decided it was an excellent time to go find a Coke machine, even though he only had two dimes in his pocket.
The truth was, Roy didn’t want to be in the emergency room to see what the siren was all about. He wasn’t prepared to see them wheel in somebody who’d been injured in a serious wreck, somebody who might even be dying.
Other kids could be really curious about that gory stuff, but not Roy. Once, when he was seven years old and his family lived near Milwaukee, a drunken hunter drove a snowmobile full-speed into an old birch tree. The accident happened only a hundred yards from a slope where Roy and his father were sledding.
Mr. Eberhardt had run up the hill to try to help, with Roy huffing close behind. When they’d reached the tree, they realized there was nothing they could do. The dead man was soaked with blood and twisted at odd angles, like a broken G.I. Joe doll. Roy knew he would never forget what he saw, and he never wanted to see anything like it again.
Consequently, he had no intention of hanging around the emergency room for the arrival of a new emergency. He slipped through a side door and wandered through the hospital for about fifteen minutes until a nurse intercepted him.
“I think I’m lost,” Roy said, doing his best to appear confused.
“You most definitely are.”
The nurse steered him down a back corridor to the emergency room, where Roy was relieved to find no chaos or carnage. The place was as quiet as he’d left it.
Puzzled, Roy went to the window and checked outside. There was no ambulance in the delivery zone, only a Coconut Cove police cruiser. Maybe it was nothing, he thought, and returned to his magazine.
Soon afterward, Roy heard voices from behind the double doors that led to the area where Mullet Fingers was being treated. A loud discussion was taking place in the patient ward, and Roy strained to make out what was being said.
One voice in particular rose above the rest, and Roy was distressed to recognize it. He sat there in nervous misery, trying to decide what to do next. Then he heard another familiar voice, and he knew there was only one choice.
He walked to the double doors and pushed them open.
“Hey, Mom! Dad!” he shouted. “I’m right here!”
Officer Delinko had insisted on giving the Eberhardts a ride to the hospital. It was the decent thing to do—and also a prime opportunity to score points with Roy’s father.
The patrolman hoped that Mr. Eberhardt’s son wasn’t invol
ved in the continuing mischief at the pancake-house construction site. What a sticky situation that would be!
On the drive to the hospital, Roy’s parents sat in the backseat and spoke quietly between themselves. His mother said she couldn’t imagine how Roy had got bitten by a dog while he was working on a science project. “Maybe it had something to do with all that hamburger meat,” she speculated.
“Hamburger?” said Roy’s father. “What kind of school project uses hamburger?”
In the rearview mirror, Officer Delinko could see Mr. Eberhardt put an arm around his wife’s shoulders. Her eyes were moist and she was biting her lower lip. Mr. Eberhardt appeared as tightly wound as a clock spring.
When they got to the emergency room, the desk clerk declared that Roy was sleeping and couldn’t be disturbed. The Eberhardts tried to reason with him but the clerk wouldn’t budge.
“We’re his parents,” Mr. Eberhardt said evenly, “and we intend to see him right away.”
“Sir, don’t make me call a supervisor.”
“I don’t care if you call the Wizard of Oz,” said Mr. Eberhardt. “We’re going in.”
The clerk trailed them through the swinging double doors. “You can’t do this!” he objected, scooting ahead of the Eberhardts and blocking the hallway to the patient ward.
Officer Delinko edged forward, assuming that the sight of a police uniform would soften the fellow’s attitude. He was mistaken.
“Absolutely no visitors. It says right here on the doctor’s notes.” The clerk solemnly waved a clipboard. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go back to the waiting room. That means you, too, Officer.”
Officer Delinko shrank away. Not the Eberhardts.
“Listen, that’s our son lying in there,” Roy’s mother reminded the clerk. “You called us, remember? You told us to come!”
“Yes, and you may see Roy as soon as the doctor says it’s allowed.”
“Then page the doctor. Now.” Mr. Eberhardt’s tone of voice remained level, but the volume had gotten much louder. “Pick up the phone and dial. If you’ve forgotten how, we’ll be happy to show you.”
“The doctor’s on a break. She’ll be back in twenty-five minutes,” the clerk said tersely.
“Then she can find us right here,” Mr. Eberhardt said, “visiting our injured son. Now, if you don’t move out of the way, I’m going to drop-kick you all the way to Chokoloskee. Understand?”
The clerk went pale. “I’m r-r-reporting you to my s-s-su-supervisor.”
“That’s a dandy idea.” Mr. Eberhardt brushed past and started down the hall, guiding his wife by the elbow.
“Hold it right there!” snapped a firm female voice behind them.
The Eberhardts stopped and turned. Emerging from a door marked STAFF ONLY was a woman wearing baby-blue scrubs and a stethoscope.
“I’m Dr. Gonzalez. Where do you think you’re going?”
“To see our son,” replied Mrs. Eberhardt.
“I tried to stop them,” the desk clerk piped up.
“You’re Roy’s parents?” the doctor asked the Eberhardts.
“We are.” Roy’s father noticed Dr. Gonzalez eyeing them with an odd curiosity.
“Pardon me if this is out of line,” she said, “but you sure don’t look like you work on a crab boat.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Roy’s mother said. “Is everybody at this hospital a total wacko?”
“There must be some mistake,” Officer Delinko interjected. “Mr. Eberhardt is a federal law-enforcement agent.”
Dr. Gonzalez sighed. “We’ll sort this out later. Come on, let’s go peek in on your boy.”
The emergency-patient ward had six beds, five of which were unoccupied. The sixth bed had a white privacy curtain drawn around it.
“We’ve got him on I.V. antibiotics and he’s doing pretty well,” Dr. Gonzalez said in a low voice, “but unless we find those dogs, he’ll need a series of rabies injections. Those are no fun.”
The Eberhardts locked arms as they approached the enclosed bed. Officer Delinko stood behind them, wondering what color shirt Roy would be wearing. In the patrolman’s pocket was the bright green scrap of clothing that had snagged on the Mother Paula’s fence.
“Don’t be surprised if he’s sleeping,” the doctor whispered, gently pulling the curtain away.
Nobody said a word for several moments. The four grownups just stood there, blank-faced, staring at the empty bed.
From a metal rig hung a plastic bag of ginger-colored fluid, the intravenous tube disconnected and dangling to the floor.
Finally, Mrs. Eberhardt gasped, “Where’s Roy!”
Dr. Gonzalez’s arms flapped helplessly. “I just ... I really ... I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Mr. Eberhardt erupted. “One minute an injured boy is asleep in this bed, and the next minute he’s vanished?”
Officer Delinko stepped between Mr. Eberhardt and the doctor. The patrolman was afraid that Roy’s father was upset enough to do something he might later regret.
“Where is our son?” Mrs. Eberhardt demanded again.
The doctor buzzed for a nurse and frantically started searching the emergency ward.
“But he was the only patient here,” Mr. Eberhardt said angrily. “How can you possibly lose the one and only patient you’ve got? What happened—did aliens beam him up to their spaceship while you were on your coffee break?”
“Roy? Roy, where are you!” cried Mrs. Eberhardt.
She and Dr. Gonzalez began checking beneath the other five beds in the ward. Officer Delinko whipped out his portable radio and said, “I’m calling for backup.”
Just then, the double doors to the waiting room flew open.
“Mom! Dad! I’m right here!”
The Eberhardts practically smothered their son with a tandem hug.
“Little devil,” chuckled Officer Delinko, holstering his radio. He was pleased to see that Roy wasn’t wearing a torn green T-shirt.
“Whoa!” Dr. Gonzalez clapped her hands sharply. “Everybody hold on a minute.”
The Eberhardts looked up quizzically. The doctor didn’t seem especially overjoyed to have found her lost patient.
“That’s Roy?” she asked, pointing at their son.
“Of course it is. Who else would it be?” Mrs. Eberhardt kissed the top of his head. “Honey, you get back into that hospital bed right now—”
“Not so fast,” Mr. Eberhardt said. “I’m not sure what’s going on here, but I’ve got a feeling we owe the doctor an apology. Probably several apologies.” He planted both hands on Roy’s shoulders. “Let’s see those dog bites, partner.”
Roy lowered his eyes. “I didn’t get bit, Dad. It wasn’t me.”
Mrs. Eberhardt groaned. “Okay, now I get it. I’m the crazy one, right? I’m the raving loony bird ... .”
“Folks? Excuse me, but we’ve still got a major problem,” Dr. Gonzalez said. “We’ve still got a patient missing.”
Officer Delinko was thoroughly confused. Once again he reached for his radio in anticipation of calling headquarters.
“Before my brain explodes,” said Mrs. Eberhardt, “would someone please explain what this is all about?”
“Only one person can do that.” Mr. Eberhardt gestured toward Roy, who suddenly wanted to crawl down a hole and hide. His father turned him around to face Dr. Gonzalez.
“ ‘Tex?’ ” she said, arching an eyebrow.
Roy felt his face redden. “I’m really sorry.”
“This is a hospital. This is no place for games.”
“I know it’s not. I apologize.”
“If you’re the real Roy,” the doctor said, “then who was that young man in the bed, and where did he go? I want the truth.”
Roy stared at the tops of his sneakers. He couldn’t remember another day in his life when so many things had gone so wrong.
“Son,” his father said, “answer the doctor.”
His mother squeezed hi
s arm. “Come on, honey. It’s important.”
“You can be sure we’ll find him,” Officer Delinko chimed in, “sooner or later.”
Bleakly, Roy looked up to address the grownups.
“I don’t know the boy’s name, and I don’t know where he is,” he said. “I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.”
And, technically, it was.
THIRTEEN
While Roy took a shower, his mother made a pot of spaghetti. He ate three helpings, though the dinner gathering was as quiet as a chess match.
Setting down his fork, Roy turned to his father.
“I guess it’s the den, huh?”
“That’s correct.”
It had been years since Roy had gotten a spanking, and he doubted that he was in for one now. The den was where his father summoned him whenever there was serious explaining to be done. Tonight Roy was so tired that he wasn’t sure if anything he had to say would make sense.
His father was waiting, seated behind the broad walnut desk.
“What’ve you got there?” he asked Roy.
“A book.”
“Yes, I can see it’s a book. I was hoping for the particulars.”
Roy’s father could be sarcastic when he thought he wasn’t getting a full answer. Roy figured it came from years of interrogating shifty characters—gangsters or spies, or whoever it was that his father was in the business of investigating.
“I’m assuming,” he said to Roy, “that the book will cast some light on tonight’s strange events.”
Roy handed it across the desk. “You and Mom got it for me two Christmases ago.”
“I remember,” his father said, scanning the cover. “The Sibley Guide to Birds. Sure it wasn’t for your birthday?”
“I’m sure, Dad.”
Roy had put the book on his Christmas list after it had settled a friendly wager between him and his father. One afternoon they’d seen a large reddish brown raptor swoop down and snatch a ground squirrel off a cattle range in the Gallatin River valley. Roy’s father had bet him a milkshake that the bird was a young bald eagle whose crown feathers hadn’t yet turned white, but Roy had said it was a fully grown golden eagle, more common on the dry prairies. Later, after visiting the Bozeman library and consulting Sibley, Roy’s father conceded that Roy had been right.
