Scat (27 page)

She spun around on the steps. "Thanks for what?"

"Caring so much about the boy."

"Believe it or not, I care about both of you," Mrs. Winship said gruffly. "Now go play with your parrot."

Drake McBride went straight from the hospital to a suite at the swanky Ritz-Carlton Hotel so he could recuperate in high style. Jimmy Lee Bayliss, following orders, brought the man with the bloodhound up to the room.

The dog's name was Horace. It had humongous flappy ears and rubbery wet jowls and a nose like a loaf of gingerbread. It promptly lay down on the floor and dozed off in a puddle of drool.

"Horace is tired," explained the handler.

"Is this all you got? We need more than one hound," Drake McBride complained.

"No, you don't," said the handler.

"They hunt better alone. I checked it out with my buddies back in Houston," Jimmy Lee Bayliss said.

Drake McBride, still sprawled in bed, insisted they needed a whole pack of dogs. "That's how they catch bears, right?"

The handler said, "I didn't know you was after bears. I thought you was after humans."

"We are," Jimmy Lee Bayliss said. His stomach felt like he'd swallowed a handful of hot barbecue coals. He explained to his boss that Horace was a world-class man-hunter. "They use him to track down missing persons, lost hikers, escaped convicts. Twice he was on
America's Most Wanted."

"All he needs is a scent," the handler said.

"Do we have a scent?" Drake McBride asked grumpily.

Jimmy Lee Bayliss said, "We do." The culprit's odor was on dozens of pink flags that he'd touched while rearranging them.

When Drake McBride reached for a glass of water on the nightstand, he let out a yelp of pain, which caused Horace briefly to open his watery brown eyes and blink.

"Mr. McBride got thrown from a horse and busted some ribs," Jimmy Lee Bayliss informed the dog handler.

"Got me a concussion, too," Drake McBride added. "Hey, pardner, you know anybody who wants to buy a Thoroughbred real cheap?"

The handler said no.

"Can you get started today?" Jimmy Lee Bayliss asked. "We'll take you out there by helicopter."

"That's fine."

"And you're sure this dog can follow the smell of a person through a tropical swamp?"

"He can follow the smell of a person through a vinegar factory," the handler said.

Drake McBride pointed at the bloodhound, whose eyelids had once again sagged shut. "When will ol' Horace be done with his nap?"

"Whenever I say so."

"How about right now? Because I gotta talk to Mr. Bayliss in private." Drake McBride clapped his hands three times loudly. "Horace, wake up! Horace!"

The dog did not stir, much to Jimmy Lee Bayliss's dismay.

Drake McBride scratched his unshaven cheeks. "Well, I ain't impressed. Let's find us another mutt, Jimmy Lee."

The bloodhound handler softly clicked his tongue. Horace sprang up from the floor as if electrified, nostrils in the air, tail erect, eyes wide and shining.

"Don't call him a mutt," the handler said.

Drake McBride chuckled. "Sorry, Horace. Now will you two excuse us, please?"

Jimmy Lee Bayliss led the bloodhound and the handler to the door of the suite, and said he'd meet them in the lobby in ten minutes. When he returned to the bedroom, he found Drake McBride upright, massaging his head. His pajama shirt was unbuttoned, exposing his heavily taped chest.

"My old man called last night," he said unhappily. "I lied and told him everything down here was goin' smooth as silk."

"And it will be, once we get rid of our problem." Jimmy Lee Bayliss was well aware that the Red Diamond Energy Corporation wouldn't exist if it weren't for Drake McBride's rich father. He was also aware that Drake McBride's father had dwindling patience with Drake McBride. "Sir, once that bloodhound hunts down this guy on the property-"

"Or guys," Drake McBride said. "Whoever's messin' with our stuff."

"Right. But after we catch 'em, what do we do with 'em?" Jimmy Lee Bayliss asked. "What if they already found the pirate well? We can't call the cops on 'em, because they'll just rat us out. Then you and me are the ones who get hauled off to jail."

"No, we can't call the cops. Definitely not," agreed Drake McBride.

"So what are we s'posed to do with these vandals? If they already know about Section 22, I mean."

There was a pause that got heavier with each passing second.

"I haven't worked out all the details," Drake McBride said finally, "but we'll do whatever it takes to protect this project. You understand, pardner? Whatever it takes."

It was not an answer that made Jimmy Lee Bayliss's belly stop burning.

The digital clock by Nick's bed said 9:15, which was odd. On most Sunday mornings, his mother awoke him at eight sharp so they could make buttermilk pancakes and bacon.

He rolled out of bed and put on a robe. From down the hall came the sound of muffled voices; a discussion was under way. Through the window he saw a gray U.S. Army van parked in the driveway.

Nick ran to the living room just as his father was being helped into a wheelchair by two young soldiers. His mother stood stiffly by the door, the knuckles of one hand pressed to her chin.

"What's going on?" Nick asked.

"Minor setback," his father said hoarsely. "They miss me up at Walter Reed, I guess." His face looked feverish, and his eyes were red with fatigue.

Nick turned to his mom. "Did the infection come back?"

"It never went away."

One of the soldiers rolled the wheelchair out to the van, which had a ramp that elevated Nick's dad to the side door. The other soldier carried a small nylon suitcase that Nick's mother had packed, and he placed it in the van beside the wheelchair. Capt. Gregory Waters kicked a woolen blanket off his legs and said, "I'm not eighty years old!"

Nick's mother kissed his father goodbye and said, "I'll come up and see you in a day or two."

"Me, too," Nick said.

"No, sir, you're not missing one more day of school," his father told him. "But, Dad-"

"That's enough. I'll be home again before you know it."

He squeezed Nick's right arm. "Hey, are you keeping the sling off? Don't tell me you're giving up the southpaw life."

"Just wait. By the time you get back I'll be a total hard' core lefty."

His father managed a smile, but Nick could see the pain in his face. "Yeah, Nicky, we'll go fly-fishing down in Everglades City, just the two of us."

Nick and his mother waved as the van pulled out of the driveway, and they continued waving long after Capt. Gregory Waters could no longer see them. Nick was dazed; the whole scene seemed like a terrible dream. His dad had seemed okay the night before.

"What's going on, Mom? Tell me!"

"After breakfast," she said crossly.

"I'm not hungry."

"Well, I am."

She was, too: three pancakes, two strips of bacon, a banana, a half-cup of blueberries, and a tall glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.

Nick picked at a bowl of dry granola. He waited, fidgeting, until his mother finished eating. There was no point in nagging her.

After pouring herself a cup of coffee, she settled in and told him what had happened. "Remember when you tried to call your dad at the hospital but he was gone?"

"Sure. That was the day he came home."

"Yes, he came home," Nick's mother said. "He came home without telling his doctors. Strolled out of Walter Reed at four-thirty in the morning, grabbed a cab, and went straight to the airport."

"No way!"

"It was a foolish thing to do. He wasn't ready, Nicky."

"So he lied?"

"He didn't want us to worry."

"Is he crazy, or what?" Nick said angrily.

"Your dad wanted to be here more than anything. He was sure he'd get better faster if he was home with you and me."

"But he didn't get better," Nick said bleakly. "He got worse."

His mother was staring at her coffee, stirring it slowly with the wrong end of a spoon. She said, "Last night he woke up with chills and a 104-degree fever, so I knew the infection wasn't gone. He was so miserable that he finally admitted the truth-he's still got shrapnel from that rocket in his shoulder. He needs more surgery."

"Oh no." Nick sagged in the chair.

"Your dad's a tough customer. He'll be all right."

"What about you, Mom?"

"I'm pretty darn tough myself, in case you hadn't noticed. Now," she said, rising, "I'd better go pack. I'm flying up to be with your father."

Nick held her tight. "I can't believe he bailed out of the hospital. If I ever did something like that, I'd be grounded for a year."

"It wasn't the brainiest move," Nick's mother agreed, "but he missed us, Nicky, that's all. Let's just be thankful he's not in Iraq anymore. As soon as the doctors in Washington finish fixing him, he'll be home for good."

After his mom left, Nick tried to keep busy and not worry about his dad. He cleaned the kitchen sink and loaded his dirty laundry into the washing machine and worked some algebra problems and rewrote the outline for an English essay that wasn't due for two weeks.

Marta called twice, but Nick didn't answer the phone. He wasn't in the mood to talk with any of his friends. For lunch he fixed a peanut butter sandwich, but he took only three bites; he had absolutely no appetite, and too much nervous energy.

So he put on a Red Sox cap and went out to the backyard and threw baseballs left-handed at the pitching net until his elbow throbbed. There was so much he'd wanted to talk to his father about, yet he understood that this was no time to be selfish. It was essential for his dad to return to the hospital and get the operation he needed.

After retrieving the balls from the net, Nick lugged the bucket back to the homemade pitching mound and resumed throwing again, as hard as he could, despite the burning ache.

In the middle of a windup, a voice from behind said, "You're gonna wreck your arm, dude."

Nick spun and saw Smoke walking his motorcycle around the corner of the house.

"What're you doing here?" Nick asked.

Duane Scrod Jr. leaned the bike against the wall and said, "You gotta help me. They turned a manhunter dog loose out there near the camp."

"Who did?"

"The oil company."

"Where's Twilly?"

"Running like crazy. He's the one told me to come see you." Smoke looked around nervously. "I can't hide out at home 'cause of the cops. Now they got a squad car parked right in front of the house!"

"What about Mrs. Starch and the baby panther?" Nick said.

"They're okay, so far. But that dog is good, man. That dog is a pro."

"How can I help?" asked Nick, knowing what the answer would be.

"I need a place to stay," Smoke said, "just for a while."

"Sure."

Nick dropped the baseball into the bucket. He wondered how, or even if, he should tell his mom. It would probably be the first time she had a fugitive as a houseguest.

TWENTY-THREE

Detective Jason Marshall didn't usually work on Sundays, but he wasn't going to relax until he tracked down Duane Scrod Jr., the missing arson suspect. It didn't help that the other detectives kept needling him because the kid had dashed away before he could snap on the handcuffs, and then had easily outrun him.

Every night Jason Marshall took two aspirins and pressed a heating pad against his sore hamstring muscle and drifted off into a fitful sleep, wondering where Duane Jr. was hiding.

And every morning Jason Marshall woke up thinking of evidence to follow that might lead him to the boy, or at least lock up the arson case. On this particular day, the detective decided to skip church and do some Internet research on handheld butane torches.

The brand found in Duane Scrod Jr.'s book bag was called The Ultra Igniter, and the company's Web site helpfully provided a list of retail outlets that sold its products in Collier County. There were only three, all hardware stores.

One had gone out of business, and Jason Marshall figured the other two would be closed on a Sunday, but he was wrong. The store on the east side of Naples was open.

The detective drove there, bringing a photograph of Duane Scrod Jr. that had been taken after his arrest for setting fire to the billboard. The owner of the hardware store swore he'd never seen the kid before.

"Do you sell lots of those Igniter torches?" the detective asked.

"Not many," the store owner replied. "I can look it up on the computer and tell you the exact number."

The store had sold only two Ultra Igniters during the past thirty days. Jason Marshall wrote down the dates.

"You wouldn't happen to have the names of the customers, I suppose," the detective said.

"Nope. All I can tell you is that both items were bought with a credit card."

"You sure about that?"

"Yup. Our inventory software keeps track of whether it's a cash purchase or plastic," the store owner explained.

Jason Marshall thought it was highly unlikely that Duane Scrod Jr. would be using a credit card, unless it belonged to his father or he'd stolen it.

"I notice you've got security cameras," the detective said.

"Doesn't everybody, these days?"

"Do you still have the videotapes from the dates that you sold the Ultra Igniters?"

"I doubt it," the store owner replied, which was a lie. He saved all the security videotapes for six months, in case they were needed to prosecute shoplifters. On this particular day he just didn't feel like sifting through hours of videos.

"Let's take a look," Jason Marshall said.

"Actually, I'm sorta busy right now. Maybe you could stop by another time."

"I'm pretty busy myself," said Jason Marshall. "So let's see those tapes."

It didn't take very long to review the surveillance film, and the detective found both sales transactions that he was looking for. He informed the store owner that he was keeping the tapes as evidence.

"What's this all about?" the man asked worriedly. "Am I In trouble or something?"