by Carl Hiaasen
He walked to the rim of the mud pit, which had partially filled with groundwater. To clear and dig out such a site in secrecy would have required careful timing and a small work crew. The project was ambitious, expensive- and highly illegal. From the research gathered by his private investigators, Twilly knew that Red Diamond didn't own or lease this particular section of land; it was part of a wildlife preserve that belonged to the state of Florida.
In the cool dome of shade, Twilly Spree sat down on a crate to ponder what he should do next. He stroked the brittle old buzzard beaks that dangled from his neck in case they might hold a trace of native magic.
Or any magic at all.
* * *
As soon as the cat-in-the-hat fell asleep, Mrs. Starch took it back to the tent. When she emerged, she said, "Now where's that delicious cold pizza?"
Nick brought her the boxes. Mrs. Starch wolfed down four slices without pausing.
Marta said, "How old is the kitten?"
"Only a few weeks, according to Mr. Spree. Pardon my manners-we're short of napkins." Mrs. Starch wiped her sleeve across her lips. "Squirt needs momma's milk. For now, we're feeding him a special formula prepared by a friend of Mr. Spree who works at the Metrozoo. The bottles are delivered every Tuesday and Friday by private helicopter, which gives you an idea of Mr. Spree's resources."
"You mean he's, like, rich?" Marta said. "He so doesn't look it."
Mrs. Starch said, "The cub is too young. Without his mother, he's not going to make it. Even if I spend the next year of my life out here in the boonies taking care of him, I can't teach him how to hunt."
"What about giving him to the zoo?" Marta asked.
"Mr. Spree says no. He says the subject is closed."
Nick asked Mrs. Starch to start at the beginning. "On the field trip," he said, "when the fire broke out."
"Yes indeed."
"And you went back into the woods for Libby's medicine." Marta said, "Yeah, that was very . . . uh . . ."
Mrs. Starch arched an eyebrow. "Very what?"
"Brave." Marta flinched with guilt.
Nick knew she felt bad because of all the mean things she'd said about Mrs. Starch.
The teacher said, "Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not a witch."
Marta's face reddened. "How did you know I called you that?"
"I wear a hearing aid in class. I don't really need one, but I do enjoy eavesdropping when you kids start to whisper." Mrs. Starch smiled slyly. "It's no bigger than a button. You probably never noticed."
Marta looked mortified. "Oh, you aren't the first student to call me a witch," Mrs. Starch said, "or to use a cruder word that rhymes."
All Marta could say was, "I didn't mean it."
"Yes, you did. But that's all right." Mrs. Starch didn't sound angry or resentful. "Look, my job is to fill young minds with knowledge, and certain fields of knowledge can be boring at times. Really boring. Which means I have to be tough in order to keep my students focused. I don't expect to win any popularity contests, but at least you'll be able to write five hundred intelligent words about the Calvin cycle when you finish my course."
She opened a different cooler and took out three bottles of cold water, keeping one for herself and handing the others to Nick and Marta.
"Getting back to the fire," she said, "it took me a while to locate the spot where Libby dropped her asthma inhaler. The smoke was heavy and I started to cough. My lungs burned, my eyes stung, and before long I lost my way back to the boardwalk. Simply could not find it. In fact, I could hardly see the nose in front of my face-and it's not a nose that's easy to miss, as you've undoubtedly noticed."
"What did you do?" Nick asked.
"Freaked out, of course," Mrs. Starch said.
Marta stifled a giggle.
"I babbled, blubbered, yelled for help," the teacher went on. "I honestly thought I might burn to death in the middle of this swamp. Then, out of nowhere, somebody runs up from behind."
"Twilly?" Marta guessed.
"Correct. He grabs my hand and practically drags me all the way to this camp. Doesn't ask who I am, or even if I'm hurt. All he says is: 'I need your help.'"
Nick was trying to visualize the scene. Twilly could make a strong first impression. "Weren't you scared of him?"
"I was more scared of the fire," Mrs. Starch said. "Mr. Spree washed out my eyes with distilled water and gave me a warm beer to drink, which I declined. Then he showed me that exquisite, glorious little feline. . . ."
Her voice trailed off as she looked sadly toward the tent.
"Did you know what it was?" Marta asked.
"Of course. I know every endangered species in Florida-and you should, too."
"Right. I'm working on it," said Marta.
"Mr. Spree told me that the mother panther had been scared off by some jerk with a gun. He'd found the kitten crying in the woods-it was so tiny, its eyes weren't even open. Next thing I know, he places it in my arms and gives Be a baby bottle and says, 'If you don't feed it, it's going to die. And it might die anyway, if we can't find its momma soon.' So here I am."
"A substitute," Nick said. This was the "family emergency" that was keeping Mrs. Starch out of school.
"Nursemaid. Surrogate. Cat-sitter. I had no choice but to step up," she said. "Mr. Spree couldn't take care of Squirt if he was gone all day trying to track down the mother. So I arranged to take my first and only leave of absence from the Truman School in eighteen years. My one regret is that you students were subjected to Dr. Waxmo, who, frankly, belongs in a different profession-the circus, perhaps."
Marta let out a groan. "That man's a total nightmare."
"Oh, I know," Mrs. Starch said ruefully. "Duane gave me a full report on Wendell. I sent Mr. Spree to chat with him, and he took ill shortly thereafter. Anyway, the new substitute, Mrs. Robertson, is a very able teacher-"
"Wait a minute. How does Duane fit into this whole picture?" Nick asked.
"I'm getting to that part. Be patient."
"The police are after him! They think he set the fire to get back at you for what happened in school, but he told me he didn't do it. Somebody stole his book bag and planted it out here to get him in trouble."
Mrs. Starch took a long, leisurely drink from the water bottle. She said, "According to the newspaper, a butane torch was also found. That looks mighty suspicious."
Nick heard his voice rise. "But I know Duane's telling the truth about his backpack getting ripped off because he came over to borrow my biology book-"
"Yeah, to study for an imaginary test," Marta cut in skeptically.
Mrs. Starch raised a hand. "It wasn't imaginary-I wrote up a test especially for Duane. I've been privately tutoring him in several subjects, academic and otherwise. You might have noticed a change in his punctuality and neatness at school. Even his acne has improved, thanks to good old-fashioned soap and water."
Nick thought: That explains Smoke's mysterious transformation. It was Mrs. Starch who created the new Duane Scrod Jr.
"And by the way," she added, "you're right: the young man is completely innocent of that arson. Now please don't interrupt me again."
Her tone was one that Nick and Marta remembered all too well from class. They fell silent and listened.
"It might seem strange that Duane and I are part of the same 'team,' " said Mrs. Starch, "but we've got more in common than you think."
Nick couldn't imagine what that could be.
"For one thing, we both love the wilderness," she went on. "Duane is happiest when he's out fishing or camping, or scouting for bears and deer. My own interest is endangered wildlife, as you surely figured out after sneaking into my house. Each of those mounted birds and reptiles and mammals that you saw was killed on the highway or in a storm, or shot."
"The young panther, too?" Nick asked.
"Sadly, yes. Struck by a car on the Tamiami Trail. I saw the body one afternoon while driving home from Miami, and I brought it to a taxidermist here in town, an
old friend."
With her usual bluntness, Marta said, "There's more dead animals in your house than I ever saw before, except in a museum."
Mrs. Starch explained that she'd had the mounts made because she believed she would never get a glimpse of those species free in the wild: "Tragically, there are too few left." the went to check on the panther cub and returned with a bag of trail mix.
Nick and Marta weren't hungry; they were too caught up in her story.
Munching away, Mrs. Starch continued: "Here's something else that Duane and I share: we both know what it's like to be abandoned. 'Dumped,' in the current jargon. One day, Duane's mother just lit out for France without even telling him. My husband did the same thing-not to Paris, but to Piano, Texas, which is more his speed. I don't know why he walked out on me, but it hurt. Still does."
Marta squirmed, which meant she'd thought of something else to ask. Nick knew what was coming.
"There's a rumor that something bad happened to Mr. Starch," Marta said. "That he's, like, dead and stuffed like a moose."
"It would be better than he deserves," Mrs. Starch remarked dryly. "No, Stanley Starch is very much alive and kicking. Every April I get a birthday card telling me about his latest girlfriend. Is there any other ugly gossip I should know about?"
"Snakes-they say you keep poisonous snakes in your basement, rattlers and moccasins and copperheads." Marta was on a roll, and Nick couldn't do anything about it.
"Also untrue," Mrs. Starch said. "For a while I was lucky enough to have a pair of eastern indigo snakes, which were rescued from a construction site by one of my students. The indigo is absolutely gorgeous, totally harmless, and nearly extinct. I released mine far out in the Fakahatchee, where I hope they found true snake love and made lots of babies. Anything else?"
"No," said Nick quickly.
"Yes," said Marta. "That." She touched a finger to her chin.
"Ah. The scar." Far from annoyed, Mrs. Starch seemed amused by Marta's boldness.
Apologetically, Nick said, "It's none of our business."
"That's right, but I'll tell you anyway," Mrs. Starch said "It happened when I was about your age. An osprey chick fell out of its nest, and being young and fearless, I decided to climb all the way up and put the little fella back with his brother and sister. The nest was high on a utility pole and lie wind was howling, but somehow I made it to the top."
Marta asked, "So what happened-did the birds bite your face or something?"
"Heavens, no! They were timid as they could be. Half-way down the pole, one of my sandals slipped off the pegs and I dropped about twenty feet-I believe the term is 'face-plant'-onto a glass soda bottle that a litterbug had tossed by the side of the road." Mrs. Starch tapped her scar. "Some people say it's the shape of an anvil, some say an hourglass. But no, Marta, it's not the mark of the devil. It's the mark of the Pepsi-Cola company."
"How many stitches?"
"Foolishly, I refused to go to the hospital. Thus the unsightly result." Mrs. Starch stretched her arms. She said she was tired and needed a nap. "Wait here for Mr. Spree. He'll drive you back to town. And remember, you're both sworn to secrecy."
"You haven't gone home since the fire?" Nick asked.
"No, I've stayed right here, day and night. Mr. Spree has been good enough to run all my errands, beginning with the return of Libby's asthma medicine. He even got the tires rotated on my car."
Marta sat upright. "Listen!"
It was the faraway whine of a high-pitched engine, gears shifting.
Mrs. Starch looked anything but worried. "A friendly," she said. "One of us."
"Is it Duane?" Nick asked.
"Correct."
"Here's what I don't understand: How did you get him to help? That day he bit your pencil in half-he was seriously ticked off about the pimple paper," Nick said.
"Oh, I never asked Duane to get involved in this project. Wouldn't have dreamed of it!" Mrs. Starch asserted. "Believe me, that boy was numero uno on my list of troublemakers. It was Mr. Spree who recruited him. They knew each other from a past adventure."
Marta said, "That figures."
"Yes, it's a small world. Imagine my shock when Duane strolled into camp one morning."
Imagine his shock, thought Nick.
The motorcycle, much closer and noisier than before, suddenly spluttered to a stop. "He'll hide the bike in the woods and hike in from the south," Mrs. Starch explained. "Usually takes him another half hour or so."
Nick's head was pounding as he struggled to absorb everything the teacher had told them. "But how did Twilly meet Duane?" he asked. "What kind of adventure are you talking about?"
"That I cannot answer. Speak to Mr. Spree." Mrs. Starch yawned and said, "Marta, may I have a word with Nick privately in my tent?"
Marta looked around dubiously. "What'm I supposed to do out here all by myself?"
"Listen to the birds."
Nick got down and followed Mrs. Starch into the tent, crawling wasn't easy with his right arm bound; he hopped like a three-legged dog. He managed to fit himself cross-legged on the ground beside her sleeping bag. Arranged neatly on a square of cardboard were a few basic items: flashlight, toothbrush, mouthwash, hairbrush, a bottle of aspirin, bar of soap, and some note-sized lavender envelopes, here was also a small manual typewriter. Nick felt uneasy in her personal space.
"Here." She handed him the straw hat, which he held in the crook of his left arm.
The kitten was dozing in the shape of a fuzzy, plump comma. Its padded paws covered its face, muffling a muscular snore.
Mrs. Starch dropped her voice. "Nick, do you want to be part of this-and help your friend Duane at the same time?"
Nick couldn't take his eyes off the cat. It was astonishing to think that he was holding one of the last panthers on earth.
"Are you in, or out?" Mrs. Starch asked.
"In."
"You must be certain."
"I am."
"Excellent." She took the hat with the kitten and Positioned it carefully on the soft flannel flap of her sleeping bag. "Nick, I'm going to ask you to do something."
"Sure."
"Take off that sling."
He was caught by surprise. "How come?"
Mrs. Starch said, "I know why you're wearing it-Duane told us what happened to your father, and I admire your devotion. But here's the present situation in the Black Vine Swamp: for what lies ahead, each of us will require a strong heart and two good arms. We need one hundred percent of you."
Nick hesitated.
"Your dad would understand," she said.
He removed his shirt and she helped unwrap the Ace bandage from his shoulder and armpit. Once his right arm was unbound, he flexed his elbow and made a fist with his hand to get the circulation flowing.
"What if Twilly can't find the mother panther?" he asked Mrs. Starch. "Or what if she won't take back her cub?"
"Hope springs eternal, Nick."
Again they heard an engine in the distance. Mrs. Starch frowned, tilting an ear toward the sound.
"That's not a motorcycle," she said. "That's a helicopter."
"Friendly?"
"I seriously doubt it."
TWENTY-ONE
Jimmy Lee Bayliss held the gun across his lap, which made the chopper pilot nervous.
"Relax. I know what I'm doin'," Jimmy Lee Bayliss said, which wasn't altogether true.
He'd never been a very good shot. Any target, moving or nonmoving, presented a challenge. His buddies back in Texas invited him along on hunting trips mostly out of pity. The deer rifle in his hands had never killed a deer, or even come close, though it had frightened many. That's all Jimmy Lee Bayliss aimed to do if he came across the trespassers who were hassling Melton and messing with Red Diamond's gear-scare 'em off by firing a couple of rounds over their sneaky heads.
Same as he'd done to that panther.
The pilot said, "You got the safety on, right?"
"Gimme a break." Jimmy Lee B
ayliss peeked at the safety button above the trigger. He was relieved to see that it was, in fact, on.
"Got any Tums?" he asked the pilot.
"No, I don't."
"Rolaids?"
"Sorry."
"Maalox?"
"Do you want me to set her down so you can make a potty stop?"
"Naw."
Jimmy Lee Bayliss wondered if his boss was feeling better. The nurses had been taping Drake McBride's ribs when Jimmy Lee Bayliss had left him at the hospital, cussing and whining and making a nuisance of himself.
The pilot said, "How low do you want to go?"
"Two hundred feet, give or take."
They circled Section 21 for fifteen minutes and saw no life on the ground except for a pair of wild boars. Jimmy Lee Bayliss decided to shoot at them for target practice. However, the pilot took his sweet time setting the helicopter in a hover, and the pigs trotted safely into the scrub.
"Nice work," Jimmy Lee Bayliss grumbled.
"Where to now?"
"The usual."
Section 22 appeared quiet, too. Jimmy Lee Bayliss ordered the pilot to take an extra-slow pass to make sure that Red Diamond's pirate well was still invisible from the air. A person looking hard enough might have noticed ATV tracks at the off-loading site, but the natural suspects would be deer poachers, not oil drillers.
As the chopper climbed to five hundred feet and angled slowly back toward the coast, the pilot pointed out his window and said, "Hey, check it out!"
At first Jimmy Lee Bayliss couldn't see what he was talking about. Then, as the nose of the aircraft tipped, the scene came into full view. His mouth went dry and his ears got hot.
"Hold it here!" he barked at the pilot. "Now!"
"Ten-four."
"Why are you laughin'?"
"Because it's funny," the pilot said.
"Not to me, it ain't. Not to Mr. McBride, either, the man who's payin' for this whirlybird!"
"Okay, fine. It's not funny."
"Damn right it's not." Jimmy Lee Bayliss was steaming mad.
All the pink flags-once laid out so precisely with the eye of a surveyor, marking the future path of the illegal pipeline from Section 22 to Section 21-had been yanked from their holes, uprooted by an unknown hand.
