Scat (33 page)

"They busted him while he was getting a massage," Officer Waters said.

"How'd they know where he was hiding out?" Jimmy Lee Bayliss asked.

"His own father turned him in."

"Beautiful."

"Apparently Mr. McBride had called up begging for money. His dad got so ticked off that he phoned the police and gave them the address of the hotel. The room number, too."

Jimmy Lee Bayliss said, "Couldn't happen to a sweeter guy. Is my lawyer here?"

"He's waiting outside," said Officer Waters.

She handed Jimmy Lee Bayliss a paper bag containing his wristwatch, wallet, cell phone, and a crumpled empty wrapper for Tums stomach tablets. He thanked her and proceeded to the meshed steel door that led to the outside world.

The guard said, "Before you go, Mr. Bayliss, there's something else you should know. My son was one of the students in the swamp that day you started the fire. He was also out there when your pal went ballistic with that rifle."

Jimmy Lee Bayliss realized he was a captive audience, literally. Officer Waters held the keys to the jail door, and she seemed in no rush to open it.

"I'm real sorry, ma'am. I hope your boy wasn't hurt," he said. "But please believe me, Drake McBride was never my 'pal.'"

"Man up, Mr. Bayliss. You guys were in on the oil scam together. Everything that happened out there was your fault as much as his."

She was right, and Jimmy Lee Bayliss didn't have the nerve to argue.

"I'm gonna try to make up for it," he said dismally.

"You were greedy."

"Yes, ma'am, that's true enough."

"And reckless," she added.

"I know." Jimmy Lee Bayliss gazed longingly at the locked exit door. Officer Waters stepped closer and poked him in the chest.

"My son fractured his arm out there," she said.

"Geez, how many different ways can I say I'm sorry?" Jimmy Lee Bayliss felt nervous and trapped. Up until now, the female guard had always treated him decently.

She said, "When you go to court, Mr. Bayliss, you'd better get up on that witness stand and give the truth. That means telling the judge everything you did, and everything you know."

"Sure. Of course."

"You made a deal. Keep it."

"I aim to," Jimmy Lee Bayliss insisted.

"And don't get any clever ideas." Officer Waters produced a stack of glossy travel brochures from Mexico. Jimmy Lee Bayliss paled.

"I found these under the mattress in your cell," she said.

Jimmy Lee Bayliss managed a shrug. "A man can dream, can't he?"

"Not when a judge is holding his passport, he can't. Goodbye, Mr. Bayliss."

Nick Waters' mother unlocked the heavy steel door, and Jimmy Lee Bayliss walked out of jail with no bounce in his step.

The lawyer, whom he'd met only over the phone, was waiting in the lobby. He wore a black double-breasted suit and carried a briefcase made from a dead crocodile. His name was Bernard Beanstoop III.

"But everyone calls me Bernie the Bean," he said brightly.

Jimmy Lee Bayliss shook the lawyer's hand and said, "Pleasure to meet you, Bernie." But he didn't really mean it.

Millicent Winship banged on the screen door with as much force as she could summon from her seventy-seven-year-old, ninety-two-pound body. She was determined to be heard over the Mahler symphony that was blaring from her son-in-law's house.

Finally she stalked down the steps and picked up a rusty crowbar that was lying in the cluttered yard. Her chauffeur knew better than to interfere as Mrs. Winship calmly walked up to a window and shattered it with one swing.

The music stopped immediately and Duane Scrod Sr. appeared on the porch, the macaw screeching hysterically on his shoulder.

"Millie, you're out of your mind!" he yelled.

"Kindly tell your parrot to hush up."

"Don't you touch Nadine!"

"Help!" cried the bird. "Au
secours! Wife!"

A
brown, floppy-eared head poked sleepily out of the frame of the broken window, startling Mrs. Winship.

"Somebody gave Junior a bloodhound," Duane Scrod Sr. explained unhappily. "His name is Horace."

Mrs. Winship set the crowbar down against the house. She said, "We had a luncheon engagement at noon sharp. It's now half past one."

Duane Scrod Sr. slapped himself on the side of the head and said, "Damn."

Mrs. Winship stroked the hound dog's furrowed forehead. "You know how I feel about rudeness, Duane."

"I got mixed up-I thought our lunch was tomorrow."

"You also know how I feel about carelessness."

"Sorry, Millie."

The macaw squawked and flared its wings as if it were about to make a dive at Mrs. Winship. She glowered at the bird and said, "Don't even
think
about it, Nadine."

Duane Scrod Sr. hustled his noisy pet into its cage. Then he threw on a clean shirt and ran a comb through his hair.

Mrs. Winship had made reservations at a restaurant near the Naples Pier. She chose a table on the patio, where they could see the gulls and listen to the waves on the beach. Duane Scrod Sr. was too nervous to enjoy the sunny setting.

"I'll pay you back," he blurted at his mother-in-law.

"For what?"

"Hiring that lawyer for Junior. I know he didn't come cheap."

Mrs. Winship shook her head and speared a shrimp from her salad. "The man thinks he's Perry Mason, but he sure lost interest in D.J. once the arson charges were dropped. Two whole weeks in juvenile detention? Let's just say Mr. Beanstoop and I have negotiated a steep reduction in his fee."

"Who's Perry Mason?" Duane Sr. asked.

"Oh, never mind."

"I still want to pay you back."

"You take care of the broken window and we'll call it even."

"But I've got a job now, Millie. I'll have money coming in."

Her fork halted in midair, carrying another impaled shrimp. "What kind of a job?" she asked.

"Piano teacher. I already have three kids signed up for weekly lessons."

Mrs. Winship smiled. "That's excellent."

"I won't get rich," Duane Scrod Sr. said, "but it's good work. I'm liking it."

"You've always had talent. That wasn't the problem."

"Guess what else? I got my wheels again-Smithers Chevrolet put a new transmission in the Tahoe! They finally gave up, Millie. I won!"

"Congratulations," Mrs. Winship said.

"They're gonna repaint it, too."

"As they should."

Mrs. Winship didn't mention her recent phone conversation with Randolph Smithers. As she'd suspected, the car dealer had seen the newspaper stories and TV reports about the panther rescue, and he was aware of the important role played by young Duane Scrod Jr.

Mrs. Winship had told Randolph Smithers that her grandson hadn't yet given any press interviews, but that if he did, he would certainly be asked about his father.

The father who had no car, no life, no future-all because the vehicle he'd purchased in good faith from Smithers Chevrolet had blown a transmission.

Randolph Smithers had quickly agreed with Mrs. Winship that it was time to let bygones be bygones, even though Duane Scrod Sr. had burned down the dealership. Smithers said he'd repair the Tahoe on the condition that the Scrods would speak only kindly of his auto business or, better yet, would not mention it at all.

"Junior went back to school today," Duane Sr. said, finally taking a chomp of his fried grouper sandwich.

"How's his attitude?" Mrs. Winship asked.

"Anything beats sitting in jail. I bought him a new book bag."

"I'm impressed, Duane. Seriously."

"And a waterproof tent for his camping trips. I intend to do better by that boy, Millie, I swear."

Mrs. Winship said, "He doesn't need more stuff. He needs a father."

"You're right. That's what I meant."

"Duane, do you really want to pay me back? Then be a dad to your son." Mrs. Winship daintily devoured the last pink shrimp on her plate. She knew what the next topic of conversation would be.

"How's Whitney?" asked Duane Scrod Sr.

"Not happy. The health department shut down her shop after some government minister got sick from spoiled brie that he'd bought there."

"She got busted by the health department in Paris?"

"The French take their cheeses very seriously," Mrs. Winship explained.

"So, does that mean Whitney's coming home?"

"No, Duane, she's not."

"Good," he said.

"In fact, she's filing for divorce."

"That's okay with me."

Mrs. Winship blinked. She wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly.

Duane Sr. said, "There's a lady I intend to ask out on a date. She plays folk guitar at the Unitarian church."

"A haircut and a shave wouldn't hurt your chances," Mrs. Winship suggested.

"D.J. said the same thing."

"You might want to clean up the house, too, in case your guitarist also works for the health department."

"Don't worry," said Duane Scrod Sr. sheepishly. "And you must definitely get rid of that awful parrot."

"Millie, she's not a parrot!"

Mrs. Winship said, "Just think about it, please."

* * *

In all the media accounts of the panther episode there was no mention of Twilly Spree, which is how he wanted it. Mrs. Starch and the kids had agreed to leave him out of the story, although his role was not small.

After driving Mrs. Starch to the hospital (and leaving Duane Scrod Jr. to stay with her), Twilly had rushed back to get the two other kids. Sprinting through the Black Vine Swamp, he'd encountered first Horace and then Drake McBride, only one of whom would fit in the helicopter along with Nick and Marta. The dog was the obvious choice.

By the time Twilly reached Nick and Marta, the fog had burned away and the woods were bathed in soft sunlight. The boy's right arm was badly broken and he'd passed out from the pain. The girl hovered beside him protectively, the rifle poised and ready. Twilly had no reason to tell her that he'd removed all the bullets before he left.

Using a crude splint made from a branch, he had stabilized Nick's injured arm. Then, with Marta's help, he'd hoisted the boy on his shoulders and carefully made his way toward the clearing where the chopper would land.

It was there Twilly had spotted the panther trotting a hundred yards ahead of them, carrying her cub toward a thicket of palmettos. Before vanishing, the cat had looked back just once. "Keep on moving, momma," Twilly had urged, under his breath.

After the helicopter had landed, Twilly had strapped Nick inside and told Marta to keep an eye on him. He had no intention of riding back to Naples with them-the authorities would have more questions than he cared to answer. His pilot had been briefed on what to say: that he'd been flying from Miami to Fort Myers when he'd spotted the two kids lost in the Glades.

As for Horace the bloodhound, Twilly had instructed Marta to give him to Duane Scrod Jr., who was already at the hospital with Bunny Starch. Since dogs weren't allowed in the emergency room, Twilly had told Marta to tie Horace to the nearest tree and give him some water.

After the chopper had buzzed away, Twilly had returned to camp and quickly packed his gear. He knew the swamp would be bustling in the coming days-news reporters, wildlife officers, and of course the work crews removing Red Diamond's outlaw drilling equipment.

So Twilly Spree had trekked south through the Big Cypress, crossing Alligator Alley in the black of night and, a few days later, the Tamiami Trail. Zigzagging to avoid several small wildfires, Twilly had plenty of time to think about Drake McBride, whose fate he'd left to chance.

There was a time when Twilly would have dealt more harshly with such a brainless greedhead, inflicting some sort of poetic public humiliation. Instead, he'd just walked away and left the man hollering in the wilderness, unharmed and unshamed. Twilly wondered whether he was going soft, or wising up.

He also found himself thinking fondly of Duane Jr.,

Marta, and Nick, who'd risked their necks for that little panther cub. The kids were tough and brave and determined to do the right thing, qualities that were often lacking among the grown-ups Twilly knew.

Aunt Bunny Starch was right, he'd mused. Hope springs eternal.

Eventually he hooked up with the Turner River and followed it all the way to the mouth of Chokoloskee Bay, where a small blue canoe had been stashed for him in the mangroves.

Twilly stocked up on food and water at Everglades City, and he also stopped at the post office to mail something to Nick. Then he loaded the canoe and began paddling through the Ten Thousand Islands with no particular destination. It was an easy place to get lost, which was precisely what he had in mind.

Three weeks after returning from the Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Nick's father announced they were going fishing.

They rode to Chokoloskee through heavy fog, which reminded Nick of the day he'd come face to face with the mother panther. The fog made him think about Twilly, too; the man had dropped completely out of sight. A few days earlier, a plain brown package addressed to Nick had arrived by mail. Inside the package was a book:
Hayduke Lives!,
by Edward Abbey. An unsigned note said, "From
your favorite monkey wrencher. We'll meet again."
Nick thought it was one of the coolest presents he'd ever received.

The fishing guide, tanned and bearded, was waiting for the Waters family at the marina. The fog was dissolving, and revealed a clear and cloudless morning. Nick and his parents got into the boat and smeared sunblock on their faces.

The guide headed straight for Chatham Bend, zipping across miles of glassy shallows strewn with tree snags and stumps. He said the tide was perfect for snook and redfish.

When they got there, Capt. Gregory Waters moved to the bow, uneasily contemplating his fly rod.

Nick said, "Go for it, Lefty."

Most fly rods are designed to be held and cast with one hand, while the other hand is used to strip in the line. That's what makes the fly scoot like a minnow through the water, and attracts big fish.