Hoot (19 page)

TWENTY

A smaller limousine delivered the Coconut Cove mayor, Councilman Bruce Grandy, and the chamber of commerce president to the construction site. A satellite truck from a Naples television station came next, followed by a newspaper photographer.

City workers tied red, white, and blue streamers to the fence and hung a hand-lettered banner that said
WELCOME, MOTHER PAULA
.

At ten minutes to noon, Roy and Beatrice arrived; this time she rode the handlebars and he pedaled, the camera stowed safely in his backpack. They were startled to see that they weren't the only ones to show up—the freckle-faced boy, the red-haired girl, and at least half of Mr. Ryan's history class were already there, along with a bunch of parents.

“What in the world'd you say to those kids yesterday?” Beatrice asked. “You promise 'em free flapjacks or somethin'?”

“I just talked about the owls, that's all,” Roy said.

He got another pleasant surprise when a van from the Trace Middle School Athletic Department rolled up and Beatrice's soccer teammates piled out, some of themcarrying posters.

Roy grinned at Beatrice, who shrugged as if it was no big deal. They scanned the growing crowd but saw no sign of her runaway stepbrother.

There was no sign of the owls, either, which didn't surprise Roy; with so much noise and human commotion, the birds would likely stay underground where it was dark and safe. Roy knew that's what the pancake people were betting on: that the owls would be too frightened to venture out.

At quarter past twelve, the door of the construction trailer swung open. First to emerge was a policeman whom Roy recognized as Officer Delinko; then the bald construction foreman with the rotten temper; then a snooty-looking guy with silver hair and dorky sunglasses.

The last to come out was the woman who played Mother Paula on the TV commercials. She wore a shiny gray wig, wire-rimmed glasses, and a calico apron. A few people clapped in recognition, and she waved halfheartedly.

The group marched to a rectangular clearing that had been roped off in the center of the construction site. A megaphone was handed to the silvery-haired guy, who said his name was Chuck E. Muckle, a vice-president from Mother Paula's company headquarters. He really thought he was hot snot, Roy could tell.

Ignoring the foreman and the police officer, Mr. Muckle proceeded with great enthusiasm to introduce some local big shots—the mayor, a city councilman, and the head of the chamber of commerce.

“I can't tell you how proud and delighted we are to make Coconut Cove the home of our 469th family-style restaurant,” Mr. Muckle said. “Mr. Mayor, Councilman Grandy, all of you terrific folks who've come out on this gorgeous Florida day ... I'm here to promise you that Mother Paula will be a good citizen, a good friend, and a good neighbor to everybody!”

“Unless you're an owl,” Roy said.

Mr. Muckle didn't hear it. Saluting the gathering of students, he said, “I am truly excited to see so many of our fine young people here today. This is a historic moment for your town—
our
town, I should say—and we're happy you can take a short break from your classes and celebrate with us.”

He paused and manufactured a chuckle. “Anyway, I expect we'll be seeing most of you again, once the restaurant opens and Mother Paula's busy in the kitchen. Hey, everybody, who likes licorice oatmeal pancakes?”

It was an awkward moment. Only the mayor and Councilman Grandy raised their hands. The girl soccer players held their homemade signs with the blank side facing out, as they awaited directions from Beatrice.

Mr. Muckle snickered nervously. “Mother Paula, dearest, I think it's time. Shall we do the deed?”

They all posed side by side—the company V.P., the mayor, Mother Paula, Councilman Grandy, and the boss of the chamber of commerce—for the television crew and the news photographer.

Gold-painted shovels were handed out, and on Mr. Muckle's signal all the dignitaries smiled, leaned over, and dug up a scoopful of sand. On cue, a smattering of city employees in the crowd cheered and applauded.

It was the most bogus thing Roy had ever seen. He couldn't believe anyone would put it on TV or in a newspaper.

“These people,” Beatrice said, “need a life.”

As soon as the photo pose ended, Mr. Muckle tossed down his gold shovel and snatched up the megaphone. “Before the bulldozers and backhoes get rolling,” he said, “Mother Paula herself wants to say a few words.”

Mother Paula didn't look overjoyed to have the megaphone shoved in her hand. “You've got a real nice town,” she said. “I'll see you next spring at the grand opening—”

“Oh no, you won't!”

This time the words came out of Roy's mouth as a shout, and nobody was more stunned than he. A tremor rippled through the audience and Beatrice edged closer, half-expecting somebody to come after him.

The actress playing Mother Paula seemed miffed, peering over her cheap wire-rimmed glasses into the crowd. “Now, who said that?”

Roy found himself raising his right arm. “I did, Mother Paula,” he called out. “If you hurt a single one of our owls, I'm not eating any more of your stupid pancakes.”

“What're you talking about? What owls?”

Chuck Muckle lunged for the megaphone, but Mother Paula threw an elbow and caught him squarely in the gut. “Back off, Chuckie Cheeseball,” she huffed.

“Go on, check it out for yourself,” Roy said, gesturing around. “Wherever you see one of those holes, there's an owl den underneath. It's where they build their nests and lay their eggs. It's their home.”

Mr. Muckle's cheeks turned purple. The mayor looked lost, Councilman Grandy looked like he was about to faint, and the chamber-of-commerce guy looked like he'd swallowed a bar of soap.

By now, the parents in the crowd were talking loudly and pointing at the den holes. A few of the school kids started chanting in support of Roy, and Beatrice's soccer teammates began waving their hand-lettered signs.

One said:
MOTHER PAULA DOESN
'
T GIVE A HOOT ABOUT OWLS!

Another read:
BIRD KILLERS GO HOME!

And still a third sign said:
SAVE THE OWLS, BURY THE BUTTERMILKS!

As the news photographer snapped pictures of the protesters, Mother Paula pleaded, “But I don't want to hurt your owls! Really, I wouldn't hurt a flea!”

Chuck Muckle finally recaptured the megaphone and boomed a harsh scolding at Roy: “Young fellow, you'd better get your facts straight before making such outrageous and slanderous charges. There are no owls here, not one! Those old burrows have been abandoned for years.”

“Yeah?” Roy reached into his backpack and whipped out his mother's camera. “I've got proof!” he shouted. “Right here!”

The kids in the crowd hooted and hurrahed. Chuck Muckle's face went gray and slack. He held out his arms and lurched toward Roy. “Lemme see that!”

Scooting out of reach, Roy switched on the digital camera and held his breath. He had no idea what he was about to see.

He pressed the button to display the first photograph that Mullet Fingers had taken. The instant that the blurred, crooked image appeared in the viewfinder, Roy knew he was in trouble.

It was the picture of a finger.

Anxiously he clicked to the second frame, and what he saw was no less discouraging: a dirty bare foot. It appeared to be a boy's foot, and Roy knew whose it was.

Beatrice's stepbrother had many special talents, but nature photography obviously wasn't one of them.

In desperation Roy touched the button once more, and a third picture clicked into view. This time there was definitely
something
other than a human body part visible in the frame—a distant feathery form, unevenly illuminated by the camera's flash.

“Here!” Roy cried. “Look!”

Chuck Muckle snatched the camera from him and examined the photo for all of about three seconds before bursting into cruel laughter. “What's that supposed to be?”

“It's an owl!” Roy said.

And it was an owl, Roy was certain. Unfortunately, the bird must have swiveled its head just as Mullet Fingers snapped the picture.

“Looks more like a lump of mud to me,” Chuck Muckle said. He raised the camera so that those in the very front of the audience could see the viewfinder. “Boy's got quite an imagination, doesn't he?” he added snidely. “That's an owl, then I'm a bald eagle.”

“But it
is
an owl!” Roy insisted. “And that picture was taken right here on this property last night.”

“Prove it,” Chuck Muckle gloated.

Roy had no response. He couldn't prove a thing.

His mom's camera was passed around the fringes of the crowd, and by the time it got back to Roy he knew that most people couldn't really tell it was a bird in the photograph. Even Beatrice wasn't sure, turning the viewfinder sideways and upside down as she tried in vain to identify a telltale part of owl anatomy.

Roy was crushed—the pictures taken by her stepbrother were worthless. The authorities in charge of protecting the burrowing owls would never block construction of the pancake house based on such fuzzy evidence.

“Thank you very much for coming,” Mr. Muckle told the crowd through his megaphone, “and thanks also for your patience during this rather ... 
inconsiderate
delay. We'll see all you pancake lovers next spring for a big hearty breakfast. In the meantime, this event is now officially over.”

The kids from Trace Middle stirred restlessly and looked toward Beatrice and Roy, who no longer had much of a plan. Roy could feel his shoulders sagging in defeat, while Beatrice's face had become a mask of grim resignation.

Then a young voice rose up: “Wait, it ain't over! Not by a mile it ain't.”

This time it wasn't Roy.

“Uh-oh,” said Beatrice, lifting her eyes.

A girl in the rear of the crowd let out a shriek, and everybody wheeled at once to look. At first glance the object on the ground could have been mistaken for a kickball, but it was actually ... a boy's head.

His matted hair was blond, his face was caramel-brown, and his eyes were wide and unblinking. A kite string led from his pursed lips to the handle of a large tin bucket a few feet away.

The bigshots came hurrying out of the crowd, with Beatrice and Roy on their heels. They all stopped to gape at the head on the ground.

“What now?” moaned the construction foreman.

Chuck Muckle thundered: “Is this somebody's idea of a sick joke?”

“Good heavens,” cried the mayor, “is he dead?”

The boy wasn't the least bit dead. He smiled up at his stepsister and winked slyly at Roy. Somehow he'd fit his entire skinny body down the opening of an owl burrow, so that only his noggin stuck out.

“Yo, Mother Paula,” he said.

The actress stepped forward hesitantly. Her wig looked slightly crooked and her makeup was beginning to melt in the humidity.

“What is it?” she asked uneasily.

“You bury those birds,” Mullet Fingers said, “you gotta bury me, too.”

“But no, I love birds! All birds!”

“Officer Delinko? Where are you!” Chuck Muckle motioned for the policeman to come forward. “Arrest this impertinent little creep right now.”

“For what?”

“Trespassing, obviously.”

“But your company advertised this event as open to the public,” Officer Delinko pointed out. “If I arrest the boy, I'll have to arrest everybody else on the property, too.”

Roy watched as a vein in Mr. Muckle's neck swelled up and began to pulse like a garden hose. “I'll be speaking to Chief Deacon about you first thing tomorrow,” Mr. Muckle hissed under his breath at the patrolman. “That gives you one whole night to work on your sorry excuse for a résumé.”

Next he turned his withering gaze upon the forlorn foreman. “Mr. Branitt, please uproot this ... this stringy
weed
.”

“Wouldn't try that,” Beatrice's stepbrother warned through clenched jaws.

“Really. And why not?” Chuck Muckle said.

The boy smiled. “Roy, do me a favor. Check out what's in the bucket.”

Roy was happy to oblige.

“What do you see?” the boy asked.

“Cottonmouth moccasins,” Roy replied.

“How many?”

“Nine or ten.”

“They look happy, Roy?”

“Not really.”

“What do you think's gonna happen if I tip that thing over?” With his tongue Mullet Fingers displayed the string that connected him to the bucket.

“Somebody could get hurt pretty bad,” Roy said, playing along. He had been mildly surprised (though relieved) to see that the reptiles in the bucket were made of rubber.

Mr. Muckle stewed. “This is ridiculous—Branitt, do what I told you. Get that kid outta my sight!”

The foreman backed away. “Not me. I don't much care for snakes.”

“Really? Then you're fired.” Once again the vice-president turned to confront Officer Delinko. “Make yourself useful. Shoot the damn things.”

“No, sir, not around all these people. Too dangerous.”

The policeman approached the boy and dropped to one knee.

“How'd you get here?” he asked.

“Hopped the fence last night. Then I hid under the backhoe,” the boy said. “You walked right past me about five times.”

“You're the one who painted my patrol car last week?”

“No comment.”

“And ran away from the hospital?”

“Double no comment,” the boy said.

“And hung your green shirt on my antenna?”

“Man, you don't understand. The owls got no chance against those machines.”

“I
do
understand. I honestly do,” Officer Delinko said. “One more question: You serious about the cottonmouths?”