Hoot (14 page)

“Well, you change your mind, meet me you-know-where at sunset,” the boy said, “and bring a socket wrench.”

Roy felt a strange mixture of apprehension and excitement. Part of him was worried about the tactics used by Beatrice's stepbrother, and part of him was rooting for the kid.

“You've been sick,” Roy said. “You need to rest up.”

“Ha! No time for that.”

“But the stuff you're doing, it won't work,” Roy persisted. “It might slow things down but it won't stop 'em. Mother Paula's is a big company. They're not just going to give up and go away.”

“Neither am I, Tex.”

“Sooner or later they'll catch you, and then you'll end up in juvenile hall and—”

“Then I'll run away again. Same as always.”

“But don't you miss, like, a normal life?”

“Can't miss what you never had,” said Beatrice's stepbrother. Roy detected no bitterness in his voice.

“Maybe someday I'll go back to school,” the boy went on, “but for now I'm 'bout as smart as I need to be. Maybe I can't do algebra or say ‘Nice poodle' in French or tell you who discovered Brazil, but I can make a fire with two dry sticks and a rock. I can climb a coconut palm and get me enough fresh milk to last a month—”

They heard a motor start and ducked back into the ice-cream truck.

“Old guy who owns the place,” Mullet Fingers whispered. “He's got an ATV—it's super cool. Goes flyin' around here like he's Jeff Gordon.”

When the growl of the all-terrain vehicle faded away toward the other side of the junkyard, the boy signaled that it was safe to leave the truck. He led Roy on a shortcut to the opening in the fence, and they slipped out together.

“Where you headed now?” Roy asked.

“I dunno. Maybe do some recon.”

“Recon?”

“You know. Reconnaissance,” Mullet Fingers said. “Scope out targets for tonight.”

“Oh.”

“Aren't ya gonna ask what I got planned?”

Roy said, “It's probably better if I don't know.” He considered mentioning that his father was in law enforcement. Maybe it would help the boy understand Roy's reluctance to participate, even though he sympathized with the owl crusade. Roy couldn't bear the thought of facing his parents through jail bars if he and Mullet Fingers got caught.

“My dad works for the government,” Roy said.

“That's swell,” said the boy. “My dad eats Hot Pockets and stares at ESPN all day long. Come on, Tex, I got somethin' way cool to show you.”

“The name's Roy.”

“Okay,
Roy
. Follow me.”

Then he took off running, again.

 

One summer in the late 1970s, long before Roy Eberhardt was born, a small but powerful tropical storm boiled out of the Gulf of Mexico and came ashore a few miles south of Coconut Cove. No one was injured or killed, though the ten-foot surge caused heavy damage to buildings and roads along the waterfront.

Among the casualties was a stone-crab boat called the
Molly Bell,
which was torn from her anchorage and swept up a swollen tidal creek, where she wallowed and sank from sight.

The storm blew itself out, the surge waters receded, and there, sticking halfway above the surface, was the lost crab boat. And there she stayed, for the creek was so slender and the currents so tricky and the oyster beds so perilous that no salvage captains would risk their own vessels to retrieve the
Molly Bell
.

Each season she grew more shrunken and dilapidated, surrendering her sturdy hull and deck to the ravages of woodworms, barnacles, and weather. After two decades, all of the
Molly Bell
that showed above the surface was the sloping, bleached roof of her pilothouse—just wide enough for two boys to sit side by side, faces upturned toward the sun, legs dangling over the pale green creek.

Roy was dazzled by the wondrous quiet, the bushy old mangroves sealing off the place from the honking and hammering of civilization. Beatrice's stepbrother closed his eyes and gustily inhaled the salty breeze.

A lone osprey hovered overhead, attracted by a glimmer of baitfish in the shallows. Upstream a school of baby tarpon rolled, also with lunch on their minds. Nearby a white heron posed regally on one leg, in the same tree where the boys had hung their shoes before swimming to the derelict boat.

“Two weeks ago I saw a crocodile in here. Nine-footer,” remarked Beatrice's stepbrother.

“Great.
Now
you tell me,” Roy said with a laugh.

The truth was, he felt totally safe. The creek was incredibly beautiful and wild; a hidden sanctuary, only twenty minutes away from his own backyard.

I might have found this place all by myself, Roy thought, if I hadn't spent so much time moping around being homesick for Montana.

The boy said, “It ain't the crocs ya gotta worry about. It's the mosquitoes.”

“Have you brought Beatrice out here?”

“Just once. A blue crab bit her on the big toe, and that's all she wrote.”

“Poor crab,” said Roy.

“Yeah, it wasn't pretty.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything but my name,” said Mullet Fingers. “I don't want one and I don't need one. Not out here.”

“What I wanted to ask about,” Roy said, “is you and your mom. What's the deal?”

“I dunno. We just never connected,” the boy said matter-of-factly. “I quit sweatin' it a long time ago.”

Roy found that hard to believe.

“What about your real dad?”

“Never knew him.” The boy shrugged. “Never even saw a picture.”

Roy couldn't think of what to say, so he quietly dropped the subject. Downstream a disturbance shook the water, and a dozen silvery cigar-sized fish jumped in unison, trying to escape some hungry predator.

“Cool! Here they come.” Beatrice's stepbrother pointed at the frantic V-shaped wake. He got flat on his belly and instructed Roy to hold his ankles.

“What for?”

“Hurry up, man, c'mon!”

With Roy anchoring his feet, the boy scooted himself forward over the rim of the pilothouse until his wiry upper torso was suspended out over the creek.

“Don't let go!” he yelled, stretching his tan arms outward until his fingertips touched the water.

Roy's hold began to slip, so he pitched forward, exerting his full weight upon the boy's midsection. He expected both of them to go tumbling into the creek, which was all right as long as they didn't scrape any oyster bars.

“Here they come! Get ready!”

“I've gotcha.” Roy managed to hang on as he felt the boy lunge. He heard a grunt, a splash, and then a triumphant “Whooo-hoooo!!!”

Grabbing the boy's belt loops, Roy pulled him safely back onto the pilothouse. The boy flipped over and sat up beaming, his hands cupped in front of him.

“Take a peek,” he told Roy.

The boy was holding a bright blunt-headed fish that sparkled like liquid chrome. How he had snatched such a slippery little ghost from the water with only his bare hands, Roy didn't know. Even the osprey would have been impressed.

“So that's a mullet,” Roy said.

“Yep.” The boy smiled proudly. “That's how come I got the nickname.”

“Exactly how'd you do that? What's the trick?”

“Practice,” the boy replied. “Trust me, it beats homework.”

The fish glittered blue and green as it wriggled in his palms. Holding it over the creek, the boy let go. The mullet landed with a soft
plop
and vanished in a swirl.

“Bye, little guy,” said Beatrice's stepbrother. “Swim fast.”

Later, after they paddled to shore, Roy's curiosity got the best of him. He heard himself saying: “Okay, you can tell me now. What's going to happen tonight at Mother Paula's?”

Mullet Fingers, who was shaking a snail off one of his new sneakers, flashed a mischievous glance. “There's only one way to find out,” he said. “Be there.”

FIFTEEN

Roy sat cross-legged on the floor, gazing up at the cowboy poster from the Livingston rodeo. He wished he was as brave as a champion bull rider, but he wasn't.

The Mother Paula's mission was simply too risky; somebody, or something, would be waiting. The attack dogs might be gone, but the company wasn't about to leave the new pancake-house location unguarded for long.

In addition to a fear of getting caught, Roy had serious qualms about trying anything illegal—and there was no dodging the fact that vandalism was a crime, however noble the cause.

Yet he couldn't stop thinking ahead to the day when the owl dens would be destroyed by bulldozers. He could picture the mother owls and father owls, helplessly flying in circles while their babies were being smothered under tons of dirt.

It made Roy sad and angry. So what if Mother Paula's had all the proper permits? Just because something was legal didn't automatically make it right.

Roy still hadn't settled the argument between his brain and his heart. Surely there had to be a way for him to help the birds—and Beatrice's stepbrother—without breaking the law. He needed to come up with a plan.

Glancing out the window, Roy was reminded that time was slipping away. The shadows had lengthened, which meant that the sun would be setting soon and that Mullet Fingers would be on the move.

Before leaving the house, Roy poked his head into the kitchen, where his mother stood over the stove.

“Where you going?” she asked.

“Bike ride.”

“Another one? You just got back.”

“When's dinner? It smells great.”

“Pot roast, honey, nothing special. But we won't be eating until seven-thirty or eight—your dad had a late tee time.”

“Perfect,” Roy said. “Bye, Mom.”

“What are you up to?” she called after him. “Roy?”

He pedaled at full speed to the block where Dana Matherson lived, and chained his bicycle to a street sign. Approaching the house on foot, he slipped unnoticed through a hedge into the backyard.

Roy wasn't tall enough to see in the windows; he had to jump and hold himself up by his fingers. In the first room he saw a thin rumpled figure lying prone on a sofa: Dana's father, holding what appeared to be an ice pack to his forehead.

In the second room was either Dana's mother or Dana himself, wearing red spandex pants and a ratty wig. Roy decided it was probably Mrs. Matherson, since the person was pushing a vacuum cleaner. He lowered himself and resumed creeping along the outside wall until he reached the third window.

And there, sure enough, was Dana.

He lay sprawled on his bed, a lazy blob in dirty cargo pants and unlaced high-top sneakers. He wore a stereo headset, and his head was jerking back and forth to the music.

Standing on tiptoe, Roy tapped his knuckles against the glass. Dana didn't hear him. Roy kept tapping until a dog on the porch next door began to bark.

The next time Roy levered himself up to peek into the room, Dana was glowering at him through the window. He had pulled off the headset and was mouthing some words that even an amateur lipreader could have figured out.

Smiling, Roy dropped to the lawn and took two steps back from the Matherson house. He proceeded to do something that was drastically out of character for a boy who was basically shy.

What he did was salute crisply, spin around, drop his pants, and bend over.

Viewed upside down (which was how Roy saw it), Dana's wide-eyed reaction suggested that he'd never been mooned in such a personal way. He seemed highly insulted.

Calmly Roy pulled up his trousers, then strolled around to the front of the house and waited for Dana to come hurtling out the door in a fury. It didn't take long.

Roy broke into a brisk jog with Dana no more than twenty yards behind him, cursing and spluttering vile names. Roy knew he was a faster runner, so he measured his pace; he didn't want Dana to get discouraged and give up.

Yet after only three blocks it became evident that Dana was in even worse shape than Roy had anticipated. Steadily he ran out of steam, the angry curses dissolving into moans of fatigue, the name calling into sickly wheezes.

When Roy checked behind him, he saw that Dana was gimping along in a lopsided half-trot. It was pathetic. They were still a half-mile from where Roy wanted to be, but he knew Dana wouldn't make it without pausing for a rest. The sorry load was about to keel over.

Roy had no choice but to pretend he was tiring, too. Slower and slower he ran, falling back in the chase until Dana was practically stumbling at his heels. Familiar sweaty hands clamped down on his neck, but Roy realized that Dana was too worn out to throttle him. The kid was simply trying to keep himself from falling down.

It didn't work. They landed in a heap, Roy pinned on the bottom. Dana was panting like a wet plow horse.

“Don't hurt me! I give up!” Roy peeped convincingly.

“Unnnggghhh.” Dana's face was as red as a pepper and his eyeballs were fluttering in their sockets.

“You win!” Roy cried.

“Aaaarrrgghhh.”

Dana's breath was foul, but his body odor was ferocious. Roy turned his head away to gulp some fresh air.

Beneath them the ground was soft and the soil was as black as coal. Roy guessed that they'd fallen in somebody's garden. They lay there for what seemed like forever while Dana recovered from the pursuit. Roy felt smushed and uncomfortable, but it was no use trying to squirm loose; Dana was dead weight.

Eventually he stirred, tightened his hold on Roy, and said: “Now I'm gonna kick your butt, Eberhardt.”

“Please don't do that.”

“You mooned me!”

“It was a joke. I'm really sorry.”

“Hey, you moon somebody and that's it. You get your butt kicked.”

“I don't blame you for being p.o.'ed,” Roy said.

Dana slugged him in the ribs, but there wasn't much muscle in the punch.

“Think it's funny now, cowgirl?”

Roy shook his head no, faking like he was hurt.

Dana grinned malevolently. His teeth were nubby and yellow, like an old barn dog's. Kneeling on Roy's chest, he hauled back to hit him again.

“Wait!” Roy squeaked.

“For what? Beatrice the Bear ain't here to save ya this time.”

“Ciggies,” Roy said in a confidential whisper.

“Uh?” Dana lowered his fist. “What'd you say?”

“I know where there's a whole case of cigarettes. If you promise not to beat me up, I'll show you.”

“What kinda cigarettes?”

Roy hadn't thought of that detail when he was cooking up the phony story. It hadn't occurred to him that Dana would be picky about his brand of smokes.

“Gladiators,” said Roy, remembering the name from a magazine advertisement.

“Gold or Light?”

“Gold.”

“No way!” Dana exclaimed.

“Way,” Roy said.

Dana's expression wasn't hard to read—he was already scheming to keep some of the cigarettes for himself and sell the rest for a tidy profit to his buddies.

“Where are they?” He climbed off of Roy and yanked him upright to a sitting position. “Tell me!”

“First you gotta promise not to beat me up.”

“Sure, man, I promise.”

“Ever again,” Roy said. “For all time.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

Dana laughed in a patronizing way. “All right, little cowgirl. I'll never, ever,
ever
pound on your sorry butt again. Okay? Swear on my father's grave. That good enough for ya?”

“Your father's still alive,” Roy pointed out.

“Then I swear on Natalie's grave. Now tell me where those Gladiator Golds are stashed. I ain't kiddin'.”

“Who's Natalie?” Roy asked.

“My mother's parakeet. That's the only dead person I know.”

“I guess that'll do.” Based on what Roy had seen of the Matherson household, he had an uneasy feeling that poor Natalie hadn't expired of natural causes.

“So, we cool?” Dana asked.

“Yeah,” said Roy.

It was time to turn the big dummy loose. The sun had dropped into the Gulf, and the streetlights were coming on.

Roy said, “There's an empty lot at the corner of Woodbury and East Oriole.”

“Yeah?”

“In one corner of the lot there's a construction trailer. That's where the cigarettes are stashed.”

“Sweet. A whole case,” Dana said greedily. “But how come you know 'bout it?”

“ 'Cause me and my friends hid 'em there. We swiped 'em off a truck on the Seminole reservation.”

“You?”

“Yeah, me.”

It was a fairly believable yarn, Roy thought. The Indian tribe sold tax-free tobacco products, and smokers came from miles away to stock up.

“Where'bouts inside the trailer?” Dana demanded.

“You can't miss 'em,” Roy said. “You want me to, I'll show you.”

Dana snorted. “No thanks. I'll find 'em.”

He placed two fingers in the center of Roy's chest and gave a stiff shove. Roy flopped back into the flower bed, his head coming to rest in the same soft indentation. He waited a minute or so before getting up and brushing himself off.

By then Dana Matherson was long gone. Roy would have been disappointed if he wasn't.

 

Curly made it through Friday night, though not without personal inconvenience. First thing Saturday morning, he drove to the hardware store and bought a sturdy new seat for the toilet in the trailer, plus a dozen jumbo rattraps. Then he stopped at the Blockbuster and got a movie in case the TV cable went out again.

From there he headed home, where his wife informed him that she would need the pickup truck, since her mother was taking the other car to the bingo hall. Curly didn't like anyone else driving his pickup, so he was sulking when his wife dropped him off at the trailer.

Before settling down in front of the television, Curly took out his gun and made a quick tour of the property. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed, including the survey stakes. He began to believe that his presence was indeed keeping intruders away from the construction site. Tonight would be the true test; without the pickup truck parked near the trailer, the place would appear deserted and inviting.

As he walked the fence line, Curly was pleased not to come across a single cottonmouth moccasin. That meant he could save his five remaining bullets for serious security threats, though he didn't want a repeat of the nerve-rattling fiasco with the field mouse.

Determined to discourage uninvited rodents, Curly carefully baited the rattraps with peanut butter and placed them at strategic locations along the outside walls of the trailer.

Around five o'clock, he nuked a frozen dinner and popped the movie into the VCR. The turkey potpie wasn't half bad, and the cherry strudel turned out to be surprisingly tasty. Curly didn't leave a crumb.

Unfortunately, the movie was a disappointment. It was called
The Last House on Witch Boulevard III,
and one of the co-stars was none other than Kimberly Lou Dixon.

A clerk at the Blockbuster had helped Curly find the film, which had been released several years earlier, before Kimberly Lou Dixon signed on for the Mother Paula TV commercials. Curly guessed it was her very first Hollywood role after retiring from beauty pageants.

In the movie, Kimberly Lou played a pretty college cheerleader who got hexed into a witch and started boiling the star football players in a basement cauldron. Her hair was dyed fiery red for the part, and she wore a fake nose with a rubber wart on the tip of it.

The acting was pretty lame and the special effects were cheesy, so Curly fast-forwarded to the end of the tape. In the final scene, the hunk college quarterback escaped from the cauldron and threw some sort of magic dust on Kimberly Lou Dixon, who turned from a witch back into a pretty cheerleader before collapsing in his arms. Then, as the quarterback was about to kiss her, she morphed into a dead iguana.

Curly turned off the VCR in disgust. He decided that if he ever got to meet Kimberly Lou Dixon in person, he wouldn't mention
The Last House on Witch Boulevard III
.

He switched to cable and found a golf tournament, which made him drowsy. First prize was a million dollars and a new Buick, but Curly still couldn't keep his eyes open.

When he awoke, it was dark outside. A noise had startled him from his nap, but he wasn't sure what it was. Suddenly he heard it again: SNAP!

Instantly a cry rang out—possibly human, but Curly wasn't sure. He muted the TV and grabbed for his gun.

Something—an arm? a fist?—thumped against the aluminum side of the trailer. Then came another SNAP, punctuated by a muffled profanity.

Curly crept to the door and waited. His heart was thumping so hard, he was afraid the intruder might hear it.

As soon as the doorknob began to jiggle, Curly went into action. He lowered a shoulder, let out a Marine-style roar, and crashed out of the trailer, snapping the door off its hinges.

The intruder let out a cry as he hit the ground in a heap. Curly pinned him there with a heavy boot on the midsection.

“Don't move!”

“I won't! I won't! I won't!”

Curly lowered the gun barrel. By the light from the trailer, he could see that the burglar was just a kid—a large, lumpy kid. He had accidentally stumbled upon the rattraps, two of which were attached crookedly to his sneakers.

That has to hurt, Curly thought.

“Don't shoot me! Don't shoot me!” the kid cried.

“Aw, shut up.” Curly stuck the .38 in his belt. “What's your name, son?”

“Roy. Roy Eberhardt.”

“Well, you're in deep doo-doo, Roy.”

“Sorry, man. Please don't call the cops. 'Kay?”

The boy began to wiggle, so Curly pressed down harder with his boot. Looking across the lot, he noticed that the padlock on the gate had been broken with a heavy chunk of cinderblock.