by Carl Hiaasen
“That’s not the Scrod boy,” Jason Marshall said.
“Obviously.” The fire investigator hunched in front of the television screen, his knuckles propped beneath his chin.
“Well, what do you think?” Jason Marshall asked.
“I think our prosecutor friend is going to be extremely disappointed.” Torkelsen punched the Pause button on the VCR, clicked open his briefcase, and removed a clear plastic bag, which he held up for the detective to see.
Inside the baggie was a cheap ballpoint pen stamped with the name of Red Diamond Energy.
Jason Marshall said, “I remember that pen. You found it near the flashpoint of the arson.”
“That’s right,” said Torkelsen. “The man who lost it is the same one who later called to say he’d found the boy’s book bag at the scene.”
The detective tightened his necktie. Smiling now, he said, “How about that? The same book bag with the butane torch hidden in the pocket.”
“Yeah. How about that?” The fire investigator turned back to the TV screen, where the torch buyer’s face was frozen in black and white; grainy, yet easily identified.
“His name is Jimmy Lee Bayliss,” Torkelsen said. “He works for that oil company, Red Diamond.”
Jason Marshall managed to appear calm and professional, although he was very excited. “So it went down like this: Bayliss goes to the hardware store and buys torch number one to start the fire with.”
Torkelsen nodded. “Probably got rid of it the same day.”
“But later, when he finds out that you know it was arson, he gets worried.”
“More like panic-stricken.”
“So he rushes out to the same store and buys another, identical torch,” the detective said, “to frame the Scrod boy for the crime.”
“That’s how it adds up, doesn’t it?” The fire investigator returned the incriminating ballpoint pen to his briefcase.
Jason Marshall stood up and checked the back of his belt, to make sure he had the case containing his handcuffs. He said, “There’s still one big piece of the puzzle missing: Why did Bayliss set fire to that swamp in the first place?”
Torkelsen popped the videotape out of the VCR. “Let’s go ask him.”
TWENTY-FIVE
It was like tiptoeing through clouds.
Moistened by the fog, Nick’s shirt stuck to his chest. His skin felt slick, and tiny droplets of dew hung like silvery globes in his eyelashes. The swamp was bathed in a pale gray twilight; Nick could hardly believe that it was morning, and that somewhere high above hung the sun, blazing.
Smoke advanced steadily in pursuit of the mother panther, pausing now and then to point out a broken sprig, a flattened tuft of grass, or a partial paw print. With each step the searchers drew closer to the cat, yet she remained an unseen phantom, a vapor of imagination.
Was she running? Hiding in wait? Watching from the bough of an oak?
Twilly Spree had removed his lucky necklace because he feared the clicking of the dried buzzard beaks would alert the panther. He stayed at Smoke’s heels, carrying his rifle by its stock, the bluish barrel pointed skyward. Marta had dropped back a couple of steps to walk with Mrs. Starch and to be near the sleeping kitten.
Nick marveled at how quietly the five of them had learned to move together through scratchy brush and sodden marsh—in fluid unison, like a centipede or the muscles of a snake. But he also knew that panthers possessed a keen sense of hearing, that a muffled cough or a slight clearing of the throat could spook the cat into flight and it might not settle down for miles.
Tracking such a wary animal required so much stealth and concentration that Nick’s thoughts couldn’t stray far, which was a good thing. It would have been a long, restless day at school, hour upon hour in which to worry about his father lying on the operating table at the military hospital. The cat hunt was a perfect distraction, physically and emotionally. Nick had never felt more focused, more absorbed.
He had no clue where they were, or even what direction they were heading, until the boardwalk appeared out of the mist. Smoke abruptly shrank to a crouch, and the others did the same. Twilly signaled urgently for Mrs. Starch to bring the cub to the front of the line.
Carrying her straw hat with both arms, as if it held some rare and fragile treasure, the gangly teacher moved forward with wavering, slow-motion steps. She reminded Nick of a stork sneaking up on a bug. He groped behind him for Marta’s hand and tugged her close so that she could see better.
Smoke was up again, peering into the bank of fog. Twilly whispered to Mrs. Starch, and she removed the baby panther from the crown of her hat. The kitten stretched its stubby legs and yawned mightily. Then it began to squirm and writhe and thrash, the plump oversized claws raking Mrs. Starch’s hands and forearms. Somehow she got the cat under control, but Nick and Marta were surprised to see so much power in such a small, cute-looking package.
Soon the kitten began to cry, which brought a fond smile to Mrs. Starch and affirming nods from Twilly and Smoke. The crying is what they hoped would draw the mother panther out of the woods, what they hoped would lead her to the cub.
But only if she heard it.
Smoke said something to Twilly, who stiffened and swung his rifle to a ready position. Nick felt Marta’s breath on his neck.
“Somebody else is out here!”
“No way.”
“Listen, Nick! Voices.”
Smoke must have heard them, too, although Nick didn’t. The only sounds that registered in his ears were the mewling of the kitten and the thump-thumping of his own heart.
When Mrs. Starch released the cub, it scampered a few yards to a small clearing and then sat down abruptly, wideeyed and bewildered.
Twilly motioned for everyone to back away. They regrouped in a stand of young pines, where despite the fog they still had a view of Squirt—a spotted puff of fur on the ground. The little panther cried and cried, yet instinctively it knew not to move, for even a twitch might catch the attention of a hawk.
“Hurry, momma cat,” Mrs. Starch murmured in an aching voice unfamiliar to Nick and Marta. This was not the same person who terrorized them in biology class.
“Did you actually see the panther?” Nick whispered to Smoke, who shook his head.
“But she’s not far,” he said.
“How do you know?” Marta asked.
“There was fresh pee on a resurrection fern.”
“Lovely.”
Nick asked Smoke if he, like Marta, had heard voices.
“Yeah, bro, I did,” he said apprehensively.
Twilly wasn’t watching the kitten; he was scanning the trees and thickets, the gun pulled tight against his chest. The cub’s cries sounded pitiful and small in the great swamp, like squeaks from a stuffed nursery toy.
“Don’t give up, little guy,” Mrs. Starch said. She was clutching her straw hat so fiercely it had crumpled in her fists.
Marta shut her eyes. Nick figured she was saying a prayer for the baby cat; her family was very religious, and Marta never missed church on Sundays. Nick thought: A prayer couldn’t hurt.
The seconds ticked by with agonizing slowness, and the sounds from the cub became weaker. The cat was getting tired of crying.
“Not good,” Smoke said.
Twilly agreed. “Let’s give it five more minutes.”
The kitten must have heard their whispers, for it pricked its ears and turned its head toward their hiding place among the pines.
Mrs. Starch said, “This is breaking my heart.”
From deep in the fog arose a high-pitched scream, piercing and raw, like something from a slasher movie. Twilly froze, Mrs. Starch gasped, and Marta dug her fingernails into Nick’s shoulder.
“Panther!” Smoke said triumphantly.
Then came the gunshots.
Long after Special Agent Conway’s truck disappeared into the mist, Drake McBride and Jimmy Lee Bayliss paced back and forth on the dirt road. They were having an uncomfortable
conversation about the future of the Section 22 oil scam.
“We’re doomed,” Drake McBride stated bitterly. “We’re toast.”
“Maybe not. Remember, it’s the guv’ment,” said Jimmy Lee Bayliss. “Half of everything they do is half-assed.”
“No, you heard the man. They’re gonna have rangers trompin’ all over this swamp—plus a dog, too, probably a serious dog. They’re bound to find our drill site, Jimmy Lee, and then we are doomed!”
Jimmy Lee Bayliss feared that, for once, his boss was right. The officers searching for the panther probably would find the pirate well first, and then Red Diamond Energy would be in deep trouble for trying to steal petroleum from land belonging to the good citizens of Florida.
“You got nuthin’ else to say? That’s it?” Drake McBride spluttered.
“I’m just thinkin’,” Jimmy Lee Bayliss said.
“Thinkin’ about what—which of us gets the top bunk in our prison cell?”
Actually, Jimmy Lee Bayliss was thinking about Mexico. On TV it looked like a warm and friendly place to live, where nobody asked too many questions. There had to be direct flights from Tampa, or maybe Orlando. The question was, had he left his passport back in Texas?
Drake McBride rubbed his sore ribs and griped about all the rotten luck that had befallen him. “I’d give anything to know who called the feds about that cat. Had to be the same joker’s been messin’ with Melton.”
“No doubt,” said Jimmy Lee Bayliss. His mind flashed back to the spectacle of all those little pink flags, mischievously rearranged to tell the Red Diamond helicopter to S-C-A-T Jimmy Lee Bayliss hadn’t shared that story with his boss, and he saw no reason to do so now.
“What’m I supposed to tell my old man?” Drake McBride lamented.
“Tell him to get you a lawyer.”
“Oh, that’s real funny.”
Jimmy Lee Bayliss said, “I’m not jokin’.”
Drake McBride kicked at a rock. “It just ain’t fair.”
“I told you this whole thing was a bad idea. I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen,” Jimmy Lee Bayliss groused.
“Is that right? Well, pardner, I recall your squinty li’l eyes lightin’ up like the Fourth of July when you heard how many jillions of dollars we could make off this operation.”
Jimmy Lee Bayliss leaned against the wet bumper of the truck and mulled the situation. Removing all of Red Diamond’s pipes and equipment from Section 22 would take several days, and then the pit would have to be filled. There simply wasn’t enough time. Reaching into the pockets of his pants, Jimmy Lee Bayliss was dismayed to discover that he was out of Tums again.
“Hey, we could always start another fire,” Drake McBride suggested, “to stall the game wardens.”
“Are you serious?”
“I’m talkin’ about a big one this time. A real monster.”
“No.”
“A fire that would burn for weeks! We’ll keep the flames a couple hundred yards downwind from the drill site, then sneak in Melton and the boys to clear out our gear and bury the pit. Presto, we’re out of the woods!” Drake McBride paused. “How come you’re lookin’ at me that way?”
“Because you just may be the biggest bonehead I ever met.”
“What!”
“You heard me.” In his own mind, Jimmy Lee Bayliss was no longer employed by Red Diamond Energy, and therefore he felt free to insult Drake McBride. Never again would he address this numskull as “sir.”
“You want another wildfire, do it yourself,” he hissed at his ex-boss.
Red as a tomato, Drake McBride balled his fists and stepped toward Jimmy Lee Bayliss, who rose up and prepared to re-fracture Drake McBride’s ribs, if necessary.
The men stood inches apart, glowering at one another, when a blood-curdling yowl cut through the fog. It sounded almost human; a cry someone might make after falling into boiling water.
Jimmy Lee Bayliss felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Drake McBride frantically reached into the bed of the pickup truck and grabbed the rifle, which he waggled recklessly at the curtain of haze.
“Gimme my gun,” Jimmy Lee Bayliss said.
“Back off!” Drake McBride’s eyes were gleaming. “That was a panther,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Let’s get outta here.”
“No, it’s our only chance.”
“Don’t make me hurt you,” said Jimmy Lee Bayliss.
“We can be free of this mess right now—with one shot!”
With the rifle thrust forward, Drake McBride began creeping down the dirt road in the direction of the scream. Jimmy Lee Bayliss followed closely, planning to overpower his brainless ex-boss, snatch the gun, and flee the Black Vine Swamp forever. Surely an experienced oilman could find a decent job in Mexico.
“You see that?” Drake McBride stiffened, slowing his pace.
“What?”
“Somethin’ moved up ahead of us, I swear.”
Jimmy Lee Bayliss said, “I can’t see nuthin’.”
But Drake McBride was not imagining ghosts.
The fog parted and a tawny shape materialized, sleek and low-slung. It was poised on muscled haunches barely ten yards away, its pale gold eyes locked on the two startled men. The cat remained motionless except for a twitch of its long, kinked tail.
Jimmy Lee Bayliss held his breath. Never had he seen such an imperial predator up close, yet he was more amazed than afraid. The presence of the rare panther was so hypnotic that Jimmy Lee Bayliss failed to notice Drake McBride raising the rifle.
Instantly a palmetto exploded next to the cat, which snarled and made two great soaring leaps into the mist. Half-crazed with fear and fury, Drake McBride fired two more rounds.
Jimmy Lee Bayliss lunged for the gun, but Drake McBride jerked away, aiming blindly into the shrouded trees. By the time Jimmy Lee Bayliss was able to tackle him, Drake McBride had run out of bullets. A heavy, electric silence settled upon the swamp.
Twisting the rifle from his ex-boss’s hands, Jimmy Lee Bayliss said, “I oughta leave you out here to rot.”
“Did I hit the danged thing?” Drake McBride asked.
“You’d better hope not.”
“What—you gonna turn me in? I don’t think so,” Drake McBride said with a smirk. “Now stop all this nonsense and help me up, pardner.”
Both of them jumped at the sound of a metallic click, which was followed by a flat voice: “Drop the weapon and stand slowly with your hands over your head. I won’t say it twice.”
Two men stepped out of the fog. One wore a coat and tie, and he was pointing a cocked revolver at Jimmy Lee Bayliss. The other was dressed in a dark blue jumpsuit bearing the words “Collier County Fire Department.” With despair, Jimmy Lee Bayliss recognized the second man immediately—it was Torkelsen, the arson investigator.
He said, “Mr. Bayliss, I would strongly advise you to do what Detective Marshall says.”
Jimmy Lee Bayliss obediently stood up, dropping the rifle as if it were a hot poker. As he raised his hands, he kicked Drake McBride in the butt and growled, “You happy now, bozo?”
Drake McBride rose slowly, clutching his sides. If he’d been hoping for sympathy from the lawmen, he was disappointed.
“You’re both under arrest,” announced Detective Marshall.
“Hold on,” Jimmy Lee Bayliss said. “I wanna make a deal.”
Drake McBride glared at him. “I don’t believe this—you’re gonna try and hang it all on me?”
“With pleasure.”
“Gentlemen, please,” Torkelsen interjected. “Give Detective Marshall your full attention.”
“No, sir! No, sir!” brayed Drake McBride, and he ran off crashing through the swamp.
The arson investigator and the detective traded shrugs, and they made no move to chase after the president of the Red Diamond Energy Corporation.
“Is he really that stupid?” Torkelsen asked.
“Times ten,” said Jimmy Lee Bayliss, and
held out his wrists for Jason Marshall to handcuff.
TWENTY-SIX
After the first gunshot, they dove to the ground and pressed themselves flat. Then came two other shots, followed shortly by more. Nick was sure he heard one of the bullets zing off a nearby tree.
When the firing stopped, Twilly got up pointing his own rifle. He was breathing hard, listening for human footfalls.
Smoke was the next to stand; then Nick and Marta, who was trembling badly.
“Everybody okay?” Twilly asked.
The kids nodded.
But everybody was not okay. Mrs. Starch was still down. Her face was pale and her eyes looked glassy, and a crimson stain was blooming on the side of her canvas trousers.
“Oh no,” said Twilly. He put down the rifle and knelt beside her. Nick and Smoke helped turn her over while Marta stood back, sobbing softly.
Twilly hurriedly cut away the bloody pants leg to examine the bullet wound, which was serious. Nick felt lightheaded and slightly sick. “She needs a doctor,” he said.
“Is she gonna die?” Marta called tearfully.
Mrs. Starch lifted her head. “No, dear, I am not going to die.”
Her voice was weak but firm.
“We’re taking you to the hospital,” Twilly said.
There was no debate, no argument. Because Mrs. Starch was a large person, Twilly and Duane Scrod Jr., the two strongest in the group, would attempt to carry her back to the car. It would be a long, difficult haul through the marsh and hammocks.
Without asking, Twilly tore a strip of fabric from Smoke’s shirt to make a pressure bandage. “We don’t have much time. You’re bleeding like crazy.”
“I’m aware of that,” Mrs. Starch said. “Where’s the kitten?”
At that very moment, something swift and heavy burst from a nearby thicket—a tan, snarling streak that passed within arm’s reach of the fallen teacher and her helpers before bounding to the top of a craggy dead pine.
“It’s her,” Smoke said. He gazed up with pure awe at the mother panther, which was panting hotly and still spooked from the gunfire.
“Where’s the kitten?” Mrs. Starch whispered again.
