Scat (31 page)

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.

Nick scanned the clearing and spotted the cub, a frightened lump huddled on a bed of pine straw.

"He's fine," Nick assured Mrs. Starch.

"Can you handle him? It's all up to you now," she said. "You and Marta."

"We can do it."

With grim efficiency, Twilly worked on Mrs. Starch's leg to stanch the bleeding. Smoke kept his eyes glued on the panther in the tree, while Nick and Marta watched the kitten on the ground. The two cats, mother and baby, remained unaware of each other.

After a few minutes, Twilly hoisted Mrs. Starch to her feet and instructed her how to hold on. Smoke got on the other side, and together he and Twilly formed a human crutch.

"If you hear somebody coming," Twilly said to Nick and Marta, "take off running. If you can't get away, then use that." He nodded toward his rifle, leaning against a stump.

Nick had never fired a real gun; his father didn't own one, though he'd become an expert marksman in the National Guard.

Marta said, "I've shot a .22 before. My cousins in Miami took me to a target range."

"This is different," Smoke told her. "Way different."

With his free hand, Twilly pulled the vulture-beak necklace from his pocket and tossed it to Marta. "You'll need all the mojo you can get," he said with a tight smile.

Mrs. Starch was obviously in pain, and fading. "Do your best," she told Nick and Marta, and then her eyelids began to flutter.

Twilly pulled Nick aside and said: "I'll be back as soon as I can. Don't get yourselves lost."

"We'll be right here."

Then, without another word, Twilly and Smoke set off grimly across the foggy flatlands. Mrs. Starch was propped limply between them, her feet dragging, an arm around each of their shoulders. Smoke glanced back only once, with an anxious expression, and Nick waved.

Marta put on Twilly's strange necklace and said, "You ready?" The fear was completely gone from her voice.

"Let's do it," said Nick.

The cub was still shaking from the noise of the gunfire when Nick scooped him up. There was no clawing or biting; little Squirt seemed almost relieved to be held, even by an unknown human.

With the kitten curled against his chest, Nick stood beneath the tall dead pine, trying to visualize the climb. He wanted to put the cub as close as possible to the mother cat, who loomed only as a shadow, high in the gnarled boughs.

"What if it's the wrong panther?" Marta asked.

"No, Smoke said it's her."

"But what if he made a mistake?"

"He wouldn't," Nick said. "And he didn't."

"That's a nasty old tree. Don't break your neck."

"Thanks for the pep talk."

Nick began slowly, using only his right hand to pull himself upward from one bare, brittle branch to the next. Hardly stirring, the kitten was nuzzled in the crook of his other arm.

Purposely Nick didn't look up at the powerful cat who was watching every step of his ascent, but occasionally he glanced downward where Marta stood guard at the base of the tree. Although it was weird seeing his young friend holding Twilly's rifle, Nick felt unaccountably secure. For no particular reason, he was confident that Marta would know how to handle the gun if necessary. And she did.

He was halfway up the dead pine, at least thirty feet off the ground, when he heard her shout, "Stop, or I'll shoot! Stop right there!"

Alarmed, Nick craned his neck to see what was happening below. As he shifted his weight, the branch beneath him snapped off and he began dropping straight down, feetfirst, as if he were in a runaway elevator.

It all happened in a dizzying wisp of a second. Nick's right sleeve snagged on something-another jagged branch- and he heard a sickening crack. A bolt of blinding pain shot from his wrist to the core of his brain, then a wave of frozen blackness crashed over him.

He experienced the sensation of twirling slowly in midair, like a circus acrobat. When he opened his eyes, he realized that he was dangling from a broken arm, and that very soon he would pass out. His chest was on fire from hot stinging needles-it was the panther cub, digging its claws into Nick's skin to hang on.

"He ran away! He's gone!" Marta crowed triumphantly from beneath the tree.

"Who?" Nick rasped.

"Some guy wrapped in bandages. I scared him off!"

Then she looked up into the tree and saw Nick swinging by his shirt sleeve. "What in the world are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" he moaned.

"You're gonna fall and kill yourself!"

The possibility had already occurred to Nick. Reaching up with his good arm-the left arm, the same arm he'd been training with and building up for weeks-he grabbed the branch from which he was dangling . . .

And began pulling himself up.

Pulling with all his strength.

Pulling in spite of the worst pain he'd ever felt, or had ever imagined feeling.

Pulling even with a terrified wild panther cub attached like a cactus to his flesh, yowling and spitting in his face.

Pulling and pulling until he'd completed your basic one-handed chin-up, no problem.

Nick suspended himself in this grueling pose long enough to unsnag his sleeve with his teeth. His damaged arm flopped uselessly to his side; the elbow was bent at a very peculiar angle.

An instant later, by some small miracle, his feet found a toehold for support. It was a deserted woodpecker nest, a baseball-sized hole in a weathered knob of the tree.

Marta called, "I'm climbing up!"

"No!" Nick said.

Because the mother panther was climbing down.

Nick could see her silhouetted against the fog, moving closer. The animal easily weighed more than a hundred pounds, yet she darted from limb to limb as if she were light as a sparrow.

There was nothing for Nick to do but catch his breath and wait for the cub's cries to draw the big cat nearer. He supposed he should've been scared, but instead he felt oddly at ease.

The panther was elegant and agile and ghostly, mesmerizing to watch. Although Nick had seen many panther photographs in books and magazines, he found himself in a state of dreamy amazement. The scorching pain in his fractured arm had all but disappeared, causing him to wonder if he was slipping into shock.

Soon the mother cat was only a few yards away, coiled on a heavy Y-shaped branch directly above Nick's head. Her ears flattened, her nose quivered, and her bright eyes fixed with fierce intensity on the noisy bundle that had tacked itself to the front of Nick's shirt. He knew the panther must be wondering why there was only one cub crying, wondering what had happened to her other one.

Nick heard the deep rolling prelude of a growl that couldn't possibly be coming from the pint-sized kitten, and he knew the time had come.

Even with both shoes wedged in the woodpecker hole, he teetered and swayed as he struggled to unfasten the frightened baby from his chest. The little cat was now squalling loudly and with evident fright; Nick worried that the mother would soon pounce upon him in defense of her offspring.

Marta must have had the same concern, for she'd braced herself against the tree to steady Twilly's rifle, which she was pointing squarely at the adult cat.

Nick raised his eyes to the big panther and very gently said, "It's all right. I'm not gonna hurt your little guy."

The panther blinked, and her ears perked. The cub let go of Nick's shirt, and ever-so-carefully he placed it on the trunk of the tree. Its hooked claws dug into the crispy bark and, with a mighty yelp, the kitten attempted to climb.

Immediately the adult panther raised up, and a distinctly softer rumble came from her throat.

Nick knew what had to be done now. As long as he remained in the tree, the mother cat would likely hold her distance from the baby. It was easy to envision the inexperienced kitten losing its grip and falling before it reached the Y-shaped branch.

So Nick looked down and picked out a landing area.

"Don't do it!" Marta shouted.

"Stand clear," he said, and with his good, strong left arm he pushed himself away from the trunk of the tree. This time, luckily, he struck no branches on the way down.

He landed on his back, in a mound of pine straw. The last thing he saw before blacking out was the panther, outstretched in mid-leap, crossing to another tree.

She was toting her cub by the scruff of its neck.

* * *

Drake McBride tried to make up for all the rotten things he'd said about Horace.

"You're a good dog!" he shouted down from the cypress tree.

But Horace didn't budge. Horace continued to bark and howl. Flecks of foamy spittle flew from the bloodhound's large jaws.

Drake McBride was afraid to climb down because Horace looked positively crazed and ferocious-nothing like the lazy mutt that the dog handler had brought to his hotel suite.

Horace was totally wired. Horace wasn't budging from the base of the cypress tree, up which he had chased the president of the Red Diamond Energy Corporation.

It was the second jarring interruption of Drake McBride's escape. The first had occurred when he'd stumbled into a clearing and come face to face with a skinny Cuban girl holding a seriously large rifle. She had vowed to shoot if he took another step, and she'd seemed serious about it.

So he had turned and fled, and kept on running until the bloodhound caught his scent and treed him like a dumb possum. "Good boy!" hollered Drake McBride for the eighteenth time.

"Ooowwwwwoooooooooo!" replied Horace.

This went on for two hours until, suddenly, the dog wheeled around, fell silent, and began wagging its tail. Momentarily Horace was joined at the foot of the tree by a shirtless man wearing a knit ski beanie, wraparound shades, and an ammunition belt.

Drake McBride figured the man was a poacher, not that he cared.

"Help me, bro!" he begged.

"Come on down from there," the stranger said.

"What about the dog?"

"Hurry up. I don't have all day."

Timidly, Drake McBride made his way to the ground. He was relieved to see that the bloodhound was now preoccupied with a bag of hamburgers.