Scat (7 page)

SIX

After classes let out, the deputies stopped by the headmaster's office and said they were done with all the interviews except for two.

"Well, I haven't heard from Mrs. Starch yet," Dr. Dressier told them, "and Duane Scrod is absent from school."

The female deputy said a detective would follow up on the case, if necessary. "It'll be hard to prove the young man lit the fire," she said, "but sometimes they'll come right out and admit it when you ask 'em. Pyros are funny that way."

Dr. Dressier sat upright. "Whoa-back up a second. You think
Duane
started that wildfire?"

"Didn't anybody tell you?" the female deputy said.

The headmaster shook his head numbly.

"The kid has a history of doing this stuff," the other deputy added.

When she told Dr. Dressier about the other fires, he couldn't conceal his shock. "I had absolutely no idea," he said gravely. "Let me give you the boy's address."

"We already got it, thanks. From his juvenile jacket."

Dr. Dressier had heard nothing back from Duane Scrod Sr. regarding his son's whereabouts, which wasn't surprising' Perhaps the deputies would have better luck getting information from the man with the loudmouthed parrot, or whatever the heck kind of bird it was.

The headmaster wondered why the school files contained no record of Duane Jr.'s past arsons. He assumed that Duane's rich grandmother had pulled some strings to conceal those incidents from the Truman admissions committee.

It was disturbing for Dr. Dressier to think that any student might be capable of setting a dangerous blaze to get revenge against a teacher whom he didn't like.

But, as the deputy had said, proving guilt would be difficult, if not impossible. The fire department's investigators hadn't found anything incriminating at the scene, not even a burned match. The arsonist had done a good job of covering his tracks.

As soon as the officers left, Dr. Dressier tried calling Mrs. Starch, and again there was no answer at home or on her cell phone.

Dr. Dressler's secretary popped her head in the doorway. "The Carsons are here," she said.

The headmaster grunted dejectedly. At least once a week, George and Gilda Carson came in to talk about their son Graham, who they were convinced was a genius and should be advanced by at least one and possibly two grade levels.

Dr. Dressier knew for a fact that Graham Carson was a rather average student who would benefit from an algebra tutor and possibly a little extra help in French. He was a nice enough kid, just a bit overeager-and much more tolerable than his pushy, self-important parents.

"I can't deal with the Carsons. Not today," Dr. Dressier told his secretary.

"But they're waiting in the hall."

"Tell them I've got strep throat. Or my cat's having dental surgery. Make up
something
!" the exasperated headmaster said, and crept out the back door of his office.

Even with his map tracker, Dr. Dressier had trouble finding Mrs. Starch's home. The address listed in her employment file was 777 West Buzzard Boulevard, which did not appear on the GPS data disk.

So the headmaster located East Buzzard Boulevard and went west until the pavement stopped and the roadbed turned to dirt. He drove for another two miles until he reached a dead end, where a solitary tin mailbox poked up from the saw palmettos.

The number on the mailbox was 777, but there was no name.

Dr. Dressier got out of his car and scanned the scrub and woods for signs of a building. He found a scruffy narrow path that looked more like a wagon trail than a driveway, and cautiously he trekked along the winding course until it led to a clearing.

And there, shuttered and sagging, stood a three-story wooden house. Weeds crawled up the walls, and shades had been drawn behind all the windows.

As he'd be the first to admit, Dr. Dressier was not a particularly brave soul. He was uncomfortable in such a scraggly untamed place, far from the comforting clatter and clang of civilization.

Staring with trepidation at the old house, the headmaster couldn't push out of his mind the dark rumors that he'd heard about Bunny Starch. The same impulse to flee that Dr. Dressier had fought during his visit to the Scrod residence tugged at him even more urgently now.

But again he resisted his fears-Mrs. Starch might be ornery and odd, but she was a loyal and valued member of the Truman School family. It's my duty, Dr. Dressier told himself, to make sure she's all right.

He would have felt better about the mission-
much
better-if Mrs. Starch's blue Prius had been parked beside the house. It wasn't.

Dr. Dressier called her name, but there was no reply. His pulse was fluttering as he approached the front steps.

"Mrs. Starch? Are you home?"

Nothing.

"Mrs. Starch? It's me, Dr. Dressier." He put one foot on the porch, then froze. A rat was perched on a rocking chair. It was staring at him.

Not a little white rat, either, but a chubby brown one. Its mouth was open in a slight sneer, revealing long, yellowed front teeth.

Dr. Dressier wasn't fond of rodents, large or small. They ate garbage and carried terrible diseases and nested in attics and produced hordes of filthy baby rodents. ...

"Scat!" he said, clapping his hands. "Go away!"

The rat didn't move, which was distressing.

Maybe it's got rabies,
Dr. Dressier thought anxiously.
Maybe it's going to leap for my throat!

"Shoo! Get lost!" he cried.

The rat didn't blink, didn't even twitch. Dr. Dressier thought this was very suspicious.

He got an idea. He took the car keys from his pocket and tossed them at the rat. The keys clunked the vermin on the head and knocked it off the rocker onto the planks of the porch, where it lay motionless.

Motionless and stiff as a board.

"You've gotta be kidding," Dr. Dressier muttered.

The rat wasn't alive. It had been stuffed, like a deer or a trout on a trophy wall.

When the headmaster picked it up by the tail, he noticed something fastened around its neck: a tiny leather collar with a brass nameplate.

Dr. Dressier peered at the name engraved on the stuffed rat's collar: CHELSEA EVERED.

The headmaster shuddered slightly. Chelsea Evered had been a star student at the Truman School a few years earlier-straight A's, swim team, tennis team, early acceptance to Rollins College.

But Dr. Dressier remembered something else about the girl: she had once asked for-and received-a transfer out
₀
f Mrs. Starch's honors biology class.

Judging by the name on the rat, Mrs. Starch had never forgiven Chelsea Evered for that.

Dr. Dressier carefully placed the taxidermied rodent back on the rocking chair and, after getting up his nerve, knocked on the door. He was greatly relieved when there was no response.

Hurrying down the steps, he glanced back at the gloomy, lifeless house and wondered if the headmasters of other private schools ever had to cope with teachers as weird as Bunny Starch.

A long striped snake scooted across Dr. Dressler's path, and he broke into a heated jog. He was sweaty and out of breath by the time he reached the car. He jumped inside and locked the doors.

That's when something about Mrs. Starch's mailbox caught his eye, something he hadn't noticed when he arrived.

The little red flag was raised.

Which meant that she was sending out mail, which meant that she really
had
found her way home from the Black Vine Swamp . . . and that she was alive and well.

Which was good news-the best possible news, in fact!

Yet why, wondered Dr. Dressier, hadn't she returned his many voice messages? Why wasn't she picking up her Phone?

The headmaster unlocked his car door and furtively got out. After looking around to make sure he was alone-and, standing on the edge of those woods, he was
very
alone-he opened Mrs. Starch's mailbox.

Only one letter was inside. Dr. Dressier was startled to see his own name on the envelope, addressed to the Truman School.

The headmaster knew he should wait for the postal service to properly deliver Mrs. Starch's letter, but curiosity got the better of him. He snatched the envelope from the box.

Not wishing to encounter the mailman and have to explain why he was taking the letter, Dr. Dressier drove straight back to campus.

There, in the privacy of his office, he opened it and began to read:

Dear Dr. Dressier,

It is with great regret that I must request an indefinite leave of absence from my position at the Truman School, due to a sudden family emergency.

I'm sorry for any inconvenience that this may cause my students and fellow faculty members. Be assured that I will return to my teaching duties as soon as my personal situation is settled.

Thank you for your patience and understanding, and for respecting my privacy on this matter.

Most sincerely,

B. Starch

The letter had been typed on Mrs. Starch's personalized stationery. The headmaster reread it twice before folding it back into the envelope.

Mrs. Starch's file already lay open on his desk. Dr. Dressler leafed through every page-her job application, her pension records, her insurance forms.

Wherever Mrs. Starch had been asked to list her next of kin, she had printed the word "none."

Dr. Dressier wearily rubbed his forehead, thinking:
How can there be a family emergency if she has no family?

Nick brought Marta home to show her the swamp video on the television screen. It was the first time she'd been inside his house.

"That your dad?" She pointed to a framed photograph on the coffee table.

"Yeah, that's him," Nick said.

"Is that a sailfish he's got? It's huge."

"A hundred and ten pounds." Talking about his father made Nick want to go online and check for an e-mail, but he decided to wait until he was alone.

He said, "C'mon, let's look at the tape."

When he paused the part where the tan blur appeared, Marta sprang off the sofa. "I see it! I see the belt!"

"Like the kind cowboys used to wear," Nick said, "to carry their bullets."

"But is it
him
⁷
.
I can't tell." She scrunched her eyes, examining the image on the TV screen.

Nick couldn't remember if Smoke ever wore an ammo belt to hold up his pants. Marta said the Truman dress code probably didn't allow it.

"When are you gonna tell the police about this video?" she asked. "Or
are
you gonna tell 'em?"

All day, Mrs. Starch's students had been talking about their interviews with the sheriff's deputies, and about the news that Smoke was being investigated in connection with the Black Vine Swamp fire.

Nick told Marta that he didn't know what to do about the tape. "You can't see the guy's face-there's no way to be sure who it is."

"Betcha five bucks it's him," she said. "I bet he snuck out there and lit that fire to get back at Mrs. Starch."

Nick had to agree that Smoke was a likely suspect, considering his previous crimes.

"Where does he live, anyway?" Nick asked Marta.

"I don't know-and I don't
want
to know," she said. "Probably in a cave somewhere."

As soon as Marta was gone, Nick hurried to the den and checked the computer. Nothing from his dad, not a word.

Nick could no longer pretend that this was a normal interruption in communication. Never since his arrival in Iraq had Capt. Gregory Waters gone so long without e-mailing home. Nick felt sick and anxious-something must have happened. There could be no other explanation.

He really didn't want to be alone with such horrible thoughts, so he dashed out the door and ran until he caught up with Marta.

She heard his footsteps coming and turned around, surprised. "Hey, what's up?" she asked with a smile.

Nick slowed down and started walking beside her- shoving his hands in his pockets, trying to act casual. He said, "I gotta go up to the Circle K and get some milk and stuff."

"But that's, like, two miles."

"No big deal. I promised my mom." It wasn't a particularly clever story, but it was the best Nick could come up with.

"Want me to go with you?" Marta asked. " 'Kay."

Secretly Nick was elated that Marta had offered to walk with him. He hoped she would start chattering, as she often did when she was in a good mood. Nick desperately needed something to distract him from worrying about his dad.

Sure enough, Marta launched into a speech about her English essay. Jane Austen was the topic, and although Nick couldn't have been less interested, he let himself be dragged along in conversation. His imagination was much better off in the British countryside than in the Anbar province of Iraq.

To reach the convenience store, Nick and Marta had to cross Green Heron Parkway, a four-lane street that connected to the interstate. The road had been open only a few months, but already it was one of the busiest in the county.

Finally the light turned red and the traffic came to
_a
stop. Nick was halfway across the intersection when he spotted a blue Prius like the one Mrs. Starch drove. It was three or four cars back in line, and Nick shielded his eyes from the sun so that he might see the driver. The glare was blinding.

"Are you crazy?" Marta shouted back at him. "You're gonna get flattened like a pancake."

Nick hurried across the road. The light turned green and the traffic began to roll.

As the Prius motored away, Nick caught a glimpse of the driver-definitely not a woman. Nick couldn't see the guy's face, but he had wide shoulders and a dark knit hat tugged down over his ears.

Wrong car,
Nick thought.

Then he noticed Marta standing on the curb, watching the blue Prius as it disappeared down the highway. "Weird," she said. "He had the same kind of license plate as you-know-who."