Carl Hiaasen - Hoot

"I do," Roy's father mumbled distractedly. "How many kids did you see on the road?"

"At least two, possibly three."

"And they all took off?"

"Yes, sir." Officer Delinko was trying to be as professional as possible. Perhaps someday he would apply to become an FBI agent, and Mr. Eberhardt could put in a good word for him.

"And how many bicycles?" Mr. Eberhardt was asking.

"Just one. It's in the car if you want to take a look."

Roy's parents followed the policeman out to the driveway, where he opened the Crown Victoria's trunk.

"See?" Officer Delinko motioned toward the stolen bicycle, which was a blue beach-cruiser model.

"I don't recognize it," said Mr. Eberhardt. "How about you, Lizzy?"

Roy's mother swallowed hard. It looked like the same bike ridden by Roy's new friend, Beatrice, when she'd accompanied him home from school.

Before Mrs. Eberhardt could collect her thoughts, Officer Delinko said, "Oh, I almost forgot. How about this?" He reached into a pocket and took out what appeared to be a torn-off shirt sleeve.

"You found that with the bicycle?" Mr. Eberhardt asked.

"Nearby." Officer Delinko was fudging a little bit. The construction site actually was several blocks from where he'd spotted the kids.

"Does it look familiar?" he asked the Eberhardts, holding up the ragged strip of fabric.

"Not to me," Roy's father replied. "Lizzy?"

Mrs. Eberhardt appeared relieved. "Well, it's definitely not Roy's," she informed Officer Delinko. "He doesn't own any green clothes."

"What color shirt was the boy wearing when he ran off?" Mr. Eberhardt asked.

"I couldn't tell," the patrolman admitted. "He was too far away."

They heard the phone ring, and Roy's mother hurried inside to answer it.

Officer Delinko leaned closer to Roy's father and said: "I apologize for bothering you folks with this."

"Like you were saying, it's all part of the job." Mr. Eberhardt remained polite, even though he knew the policeman wasn't telling him everything about the green rag.

"Speaking of jobs," Officer Delinko said, "you remember the other night when I brought Roy home with his flat tire?"

"Of course."

"In all that nasty weather."

"Yes, I remember," said Mr. Eberhardt impatiently.

"Did he happen to mention anything about you writing up a letter for me?"

"What kind of a letter?"

"To our police chief," Officer Delinko said. "No biggie-just a note for the permanent file, saying you folks appreciated me helping out your boy. Something along those lines."

"And this 'note' should be sent to the chief?"

"Or to the captain. Even my sergeant would be okay. Roy didn't ask you?"

"Not that I recall," said Mr. Eberhardt.

"Well, you know how kids are. He probably forgot."

"What's your sergeant's name? I'll see what I can do." Roy's father made no effort to conceal his lack of enthusiasm. He was running out of tolerance for the pushy young cop.

"Thanks a million," Officer Delinko said, pumping Mr. Eberhardt's hand. "Every little bit helps when you're trying to get ahead. And something like this, coming from a federal agent such as yourself-"

But he didn't get the chance to give his sergeant's name to Mr. Eberhardt, for at that very moment Mrs. Eberhardt burst out the front door carrying a purse in one hand and a jangling set of car keys in the other.

"Lizzy, what's the matter?" Mr. Eberhardt called out. "Who was that on the phone?"

"The emergency room!" she cried breathlessly. "Roy's been hurt!"

Roy was exhausted. It seemed like a hundred years ago that Dana Matherson had tried to strangle him inside the janitor's closet, but it had happened only that afternoon.

"Thanks. Now we're even," Beatrice Leep said.

"Maybe," said Roy.

They were waiting in the emergency room of the Coconut Cove Medical Center, which was more of a large clinic than a hospital. It was here they'd brought Beatrice's stepbrother after carrying him upright for almost a mile, each of them bracing one of his shoulders.

"He's going to be all right," Roy said.

For a moment, he thought Beatrice was about to cry. He reached over and squeezed her hand, which was noticeably larger than his own.

"He's a tough little cockroach," Beatrice said with a sniffle. "He'll be okay."

A woman dressed in baby-blue scrubs and wearing a stethoscope approached them. She introduced herself as Dr. Gonzalez.

"Tell me exactly what happened to Roy," she said.

Beatrice and the real Roy exchanged anxious glances. Her stepbrother had forbidden them from giving his name to the hospital, for fear that his mother would be notified. The boy got so agitated that Roy hadn't argued. When the emergency room clerk asked Beatrice for her stepbrother's name, address, and phone number, Roy impulsively had stepped forward and blurted his own. It had seemed like the quickest way to get Mullet Fingers into a hospital bed.

Roy knew he was also getting himself in trouble. Beatrice Leep knew it, too. That's why she had thanked him.

"My brother got bit by a dog," she told Dr. Gonzalez.

"Several," Roy added.

"What kind of dogs?" the doctor asked.

"Big ones."

"How did it happen?"

Here Roy let Beatrice take over the story, as she was more experienced at fibbing to adults.

"They nailed him at soccer practice," she said. "He came runnin' home all chewed up, so we brought him here as fast as we could."

"Hmm," said Dr. Gonzalez with a slight frown.

"What-don't you believe me?" Beatrice's indignation sounded genuine. Roy was impressed.

But the doctor was a cool one, too. "Oh, I believe your stepbrother was attacked by dogs," she said. "I just don't believe it happened today."

Beatrice stiffened. Roy knew he had to come up with something, fast.

"The wounds on his arm aren't fresh," Dr. Gonzalez explained. "Judging by how far the infection has progressed, I'd estimate he was bitten eighteen to twenty-four hours ago."

Beatrice looked flustered. Roy didn't wait for her to recover.

"Yeah, eighteen hours. That sounds about right," he said to the doctor.

"I don't understand."

"See, he passed out right after he got bit," Roy said. "It wasn't until the next day he finally woke up, and that's when he came running home. Then Beatrice called me and asked if I'd help get him to the hospital."

Dr. Gonzalez fixed Roy with a stern gaze, though there was an edge of amusement in her voice.

"What's your name, son?"

Roy gulped. She'd caught him off guard.

"Tex," he answered weakly.

Beatrice nudged him with her elbow, as if to say: That's the best you can do?

The doctor crossed her arms. "So, Tex, let's get this straight. Your friend Roy is mauled at the soccer field by several huge dogs. Nobody tries to help him, and he remains unconscious all night and most of the next day. All of a sudden he wakes up and jogs home. Is that right?"

"Yup." Roy bowed his head. He was a pathetic liar, and he knew it.

Dr. Gonzalez turned her steely attention to Beatrice.

"Why was it left for you to bring your stepbrother here? Where are your parents?"

"Working," Beatrice replied.

"Didn't you call and tell them there was a medical emergency?"

"They crew on a crab boat. No phone."

Not bad, Roy thought. The doctor, however, wasn't buying it.

"It's hard to understand," she said to Beatrice, "how your stepbrother could go missing for so long and nobody in the family got concerned enough to call the police."

"Sometimes he runs away from home," Beatrice said quietly, "and he doesn't come back for a while."

It was the closest thing to a true answer that she'd given and, ironically, it was the one that made Dr. Gonzalez back off.