Scat (11 page)

"You'll see for yourself, " he said to Jason Marshall.

Moments later, Duane Scrod Jr. walked into the office.

He didn't look like an arsonist; he looked like the future president of the Student Council. He also appeared perfectly fit and healthy, despite having digested Mrs. Starch's pencil.

Dr. Dressier introduced Detective Marshall. "He'd like to ask you a few questions, Duane."

"No problem. " Duane Scrod Jr. made himself comfortable on the headmaster's leather sofa.

Jason Marshall took out a legal pad. "I heard about the incident with Mrs. Starch, " he began.

Duane Scrod Jr. didn't deny it. "Is it against the law to bite a pencil?"

"Some of the other kids said you also threatened her, " the detective said.

"She was making fun of me. I guess I got mad, " the boy admitted. "I told her she'd be sorry if she didn't get outta my face. It was wrong, what I said. Definitely."

"So you didn't mean it?"

"'Course not."

Jason Marshall wrote down Duane Jr. 's answers. Dr. Dressier couldn't get over how
normal
the boy looked; he couldn't imagine what had caused such a dramatic change in grooming and attitude.

"Yet the next day you didn't come to school, " the detective said.

"Yeah, I skipped. That was wrong, too, " Duane Scrod Jr. said.

"Have you ever been out to the Black Vine Swamp?"

"Sure. Catchin' snakes."

"Did you go there on the day of the class field trip?"

The boy seemed to be expecting the question. "No, I went snook fishin' down at Marco. There was a mullet run and a big tide. You can ask Benjie Osceola-he was on the other end of the bridge."

Duane Scrod Jr. 's story sounded convincing to Dr. Dressier, but the detective wasn't finished.

"Duane, I'm going to ask you something, and you've got to promise not to get upset. It's my job, okay?"

"No sweat."

"Did you sneak out to the Black Vine Swamp and set a fire to scare Mrs. Starch during the field trip?"

The boy was true to his word-he stayed cool. He looked Jason Marshall straight in the eye and said, "I don't do that stuff anymore."

"So the answer is no?"

"Most definitely."

"Did you do
anything
during the last few days that might have frightened Mrs. Starch into believing your threat was real? She hasn't been back to school since the field trip."

Duane Scrod Jr. laughed. "That lady's not scared of anything, especially a kid. I don't want no more trouble from her-that's how come I did that stupid essay she wanted. Sorry, but it
was
stupid."

Dr. Dressier felt obliged to ask, "What kind of essay?"

Duane Jr. rolled his eyes. "She made me write five hundred words about zits."

The headmaster winced.

"Seriously, " the boy said.

Dr. Dressier made a mental note to have a diplomatic chat with Mrs. Starch when she returned to school. Disciplining a student was one thing; humiliating him was another.

The detective had heard enough about the pimple paper. "I'm about done here, " he said. "Thanks for stopping by, Duane."

The boy rose from the couch.

"Just a second-I have one question, " Dr. Dressier said. Duane Scrod Jr. turned, a trace of impatience in his eyes.

The headmaster said, "I'm just curious, Duane. Did something in particular happen to bring about this major change in you?"

"Whaddya mean?"

Dr. Dressier smiled in a way that he hoped would appear friendly and genuine. "The way you're dressed, the way you're acting-surely you're aware of the difference."

Duane Scrod Jr. looked down at himself and scratched pensively at a radish-colored blemish on his neck. "I went campin' for a few nights. Had tons of time to think about stuff."

"What kind of stuff?" asked Jason Marshall. "The way I was headed. Mistakes I kept makin', all those wrong turns."

Even the detective seemed touched. "That's just part of growing up, " he said.

"Yeah, well, it gets old, " the boy remarked, "not carin' about a damn thing in the world. So I decided to try it the other way. "

Dr. Dressier nodded sympathetically. "Well, we like the new you, Duane."

"It's a solid move, " Jason Marshall agreed.

"I guess," said Duane Scrod Jr., and excused himself.

Dinner was a challenge.

"I should've made fried chicken, " Nick's mother said, "something you could pick up with your fingers."

"It's okay. I need to nail this."

Nick was eyeing the pork chop on his plate, trying to figure out how to cut it. He was able to work the knife pretty well with his left hand, but he couldn't keep the meat from sliding around without his other hand there to pin it down with a fork.

"Let me unwrap your right arm, " his mom implored, "just for tonight."

"No way. This is how Dad's gotta do it, right?"

Nick's mother said, "I'd cut his food if he were home. You can bet on that."

The disappointing news had come in a phone call that afternoon: Capt. Gregory Waters was fighting an infection in his wounded shoulder. The doctor had told Nick's mother that his dad was responding slowly to the antibiotics.

On a more positive note, the doctor reported that Captain Waters' early rehab sessions were outstanding. Nick was pleased, though not surprised-his father had always kept himself in top physical shape.

"How come they wouldn't let us talk to him?" Nick asked.

"Because he was sleeping. They said he did two hours with his left arm on the weight machine this afternoon."

"That sounds like Captain Studly."

"It does indeed. " Nick's mom was watching the pork chop skate back and forth across his plate while he hacked at it with the knife.

"You're gonna starve to death, Nicky. Let me do that, " she said.

"No! I'll get the hang of it. " In frustration, he put down the knife and reached for a bread roll, which he gobbled in three bites. "It's only my first day left-handed, " he mumbled through the crumbs.

"You mean
one-
handed, " his mother said. "What'd the other kids have to say?"

"Not much. Marta thought it was cool."

"How was P. E. ?"

"Fine, " Nick said, which wasn't even remotely true. Lacrosse was extremely difficult to play with your best arm bound behind your back, and Nick had been practically useless to his team.

Later, while he was in the shower, two of the seniors had snatched his Ace bandage from the towel rack and used it to hog-tie an overweight, slow-footed freshman named Pudge Powell IV. Two coaches spent ten minutes unbinding the boy.

So P. E. class basically had been a disaster.

His mother said, "You're going to be hurting tomorrow. You ought to take a hot bath."

Nick didn't argue, though he was embarrassed to admit how sore he was-and it wasn't as if he'd been chopping wood all day. The routine tasks of taking notes, carrying a backpack, opening a few doors, and swinging a lacrosse stick had worn him out. Never again would he take for granted the luxury of having two good arms.

After soaking for half an hour and then rewrapping himself, Nick confronted his homework, which included eighteen algebra problems. At one point his mom came into the room and peeked over his left shoulder.

"I'm impressed. I can actually read your answers, " she said. "I've got no idea if they're right or wrong, but I can definitely read 'em."

"Just wait."

"Can I ask you something, Nicky? How long are you going to keep up this lefty routine?"

"Until I get good at it."

"Then what?"

"I don't know, Mom, " Nick said shortly. "I haven't thought about it."

In fact, he'd thought about it plenty. The doctors had said that Nick's father would face months of outpatient re-hab after returning home. Nick planned to be there with him, practicing all the same left-handed exercises.

After finishing his math homework, Nick read an 0. Henry story for English class, which improved his mood. Then he tackled the chore of brushing his teeth, causing only minor bleeding from his gums.

He'd planned to go to bed with his right arm wrapped, but he couldn't get comfortable. His hand kept falling asleep, and Nick became worried that the elastic bandage might cause permanent damage if he dozed off in the wrong position.

With some effort he unstrapped the arm, which felt weak and numb. He made a fist and flexed the muscles several times to get the blood circulating again.

Nick already had the lights off and was listening to his iPod when his mother cracked the door. She said, "Wow. It's only eight-thirty."

"I'm whipped."

She sat down and laid a hand on his forehead, checking to see if he had a temperature. He told her he was fine. "You bummed about Dad?" she asked. Nick nodded. "Yeah, it sucks."

"We'll call him tomorrow. I promise."

"The infection must be pretty bad."

Nick's mother told him not to worry. "The doctor said it happens sometimes after a combat amputation."

The last word jolted Nick. The truth was still sinking in: His father was an amputee.

But at least he's alive,
Nick said to himself,
and that's what really matters.

His mother said, "I'll be up watching TV for a while, in case you can't sleep."

"Thanks, Mom, but I'm ready to crash."

An hour later, Nick was still wide awake. His body was exhausted but his brain was sparking like a high-voltage wire. He couldn't stop thinking about what had happened to his father, imagining the flash from the exploding rocket, the blast of the Humvee bursting into pieces, the flames and the smoke and the screams...

Afraid of what he might dream if he shut his eyes, Nick grabbed his cell phone off the nightstand and dialed Marta's number. She answered on the second ring.

"You awake?" he said, keeping his voice low.

"Surfing Facebook. How lame is that?"

"Extremely, " Nick said.

"You talk to your dad?"

"Not today. He was rehabbing."

Marta said, "I can't sleep, either. I've been thinkin' about everything that's been happening at school, and here's what I figured out: Mrs. Starch is a witch."

"Not this again."

"No, I mean a
real
witch. Think about it-she and Smoke dropped out of sight at about the same time. Suddenly he's back in school, and it's like he got a complete personality transplant. I bet Mrs. Starch put a spell on him!"

Nick laughed. "This isn't Hogwarts, Marta. It's the Truman School."

"I didn't say she was a wizard. I said she was a witch."

"Whatever-"

"Okay, smartass, let's hear your brilliant theory."

"I don't have one, " Nick admitted. "Something weird's going on, that's for sure."

"Thank you, " Marta said.

Nick agreed that Mrs. Starch's excuse for taking a leave of absence from school-the so-called family emergency-sounded bogus. The woman hadn't missed a day of teaching since the Stone Age.

Yet even more startling and suspicious had been the appearance in class of the new, improved Duane Scrod Jr. - alert, neatly combed and dressed, academically responsible. A complete stranger, basically.

Nick had the uneasy sense of being in one of those short stories that led you off in one direction, then ended someplace else with a total surprise.

And the weirdness had all started on the day that Smoke ate Mrs. Starch's pencil.

Marta said, "Are you sitting down?"

"I'm
lying
down. In bed."

"Good. Guess what I saw this afternoon after school? Remember that blue Prius with the 'Save the Manatee' license plate-the one just like Mrs. Starch's car? Well, guess what: it
was
Mrs. Starch's car. Had to be."

"How do you know?" Nick asked skeptically.

"Because I saw it flying out of the parking lot of Ace Hardware going, like, fifty miles an hour. And guess who was chuggin' a Mountain Dew in the passenger seat- Smoke!"

"Get out, " Nick said.

"Swear to God. In his Truman blazer!"

"But who was driving?"

"Looked like a guy with a black ski beanie pulled tight over his head-but I bet it was Mrs. Starch. You know, witches can change themselves into anything, " Marta said confidently.

"Yeah, well, who changed you into a space case? There's no such thing as witches, so knock it off."

There was silence on the other end of the line. Nick was worried that he'd hurt his friend's feelings.

Marta said, "You don't believe me."

"I just don't believe in all that Harry Potter stuff, okay? But I
do
believe you saw Smoke in the blue car today, " Nick said, "and I also believe the car belonged to Mrs. Starch. It's Just too freaky to be a coincidence."

Marta was relieved that Nick didn't think she'd made the whole thing up. "So what do we do now?"

"Now?" said Nick. "Now we've gotta find out who's driving Smoke around town in Mrs. Starch's car, and what they've done with Mrs. Starch."

"Awesome!"

Although Nick stayed awake for a while longer, his imagination was no longer consumed by the Baghdad rocket attack that had maimed his father.

Instead he was thinking about the Black Vine Swamp, and what secrets it might hold.

TEN

Nobody saw the helicopter land, because no bus tours or school classes were visiting the Black Vine Swamp that morning. Drake McBride stepped from the chopper and hurried toward a truck that had the Red Diamond logo painted on its doors. Jimmy Lee Bayliss emerged from the driver's side and greeted his boss with a grim nod.

"What in creation happened out here?" Drake McBride asked.

"Pretty much what I told you on the phone."

"Is that him?" Drake McBride jerked his chin toward a figure huddled inside the truck.

"Yes, sir, " said Jimmy Lee Bayliss.

He opened the passenger door and an unhappy-looking young man got out. It was impossible not to notice that he was stark naked under a makeshift robe of clear bubble wrap, the same sort of material used to pack valuables for shipping.