Carl Hiaasen - Hoot

When the growl of the all-terrain vehicle faded away toward the other side of the junkyard, the boy signaled that it was safe to leave the truck. He led Roy on a shortcut to the opening in the fence, and they slipped out together.

"Where you headed now?" Roy asked.

"I dunno. Maybe do some recon."

"Recon?"

"You know. Reconnaissance," Mullet Fingers said. "Scope out targets for tonight."

"Oh."

"Aren't ya gonna ask what I got planned?"

Roy said, "It's probably better if I don't know." He considered mentioning that his father was in law enforcement. Maybe it would help the boy understand Roy's reluctance to participate, even though he sympathized with the owl crusade. Roy couldn't bear the thought of facing his parents through jail bars if he and Mullet Fingers got caught.

"My dad works for the government," Roy said.

"That's swell," said the boy. "My dad eats Hot Pockets and stares at ESPN all day long. Come on, Tex, I got somethin' way cool to show you."

"The name's Roy."

"Okay, Roy. Follow me."

Then he took off running, again.

One summer in the late 1970s, long before Roy Eberhardt was born, a small but powerful tropical storm boiled out of the Gulf of Mexico and came ashore a few miles south of Coconut Cove. No one was injured or killed, though the ten-foot surge caused heavy damage to buildings and roads along the waterfront.

Among the casualties was a stone-crab boat called the Molly Bell, which was torn from her anchorage and swept up a swollen tidal creek, where she wallowed and sank from sight.

The storm blew itself out, the surge waters receded, and there, sticking halfway above the surface, was the lost crab boat. And there she stayed, for the creek was so slender and the currents so tricky and the oyster beds so perilous that no salvage captains would risk their own vessels to retrieve the Molly Bell.

Each season she grew more shrunken and dilapidated, surrendering her sturdy hull and deck to the ravages of woodworms, barnacles, and weather. After two decades, all of the Molly Bell that showed above the surface was the sloping, bleached roof of her pilothouse-just wide enough for two boys to sit side by side, faces upturned toward the sun, legs dangling over the pale green creek.

Roy was dazzled by the wondrous quiet, the bushy old mangroves sealing off the place from the honking and hammering of civilization. Beatrice's stepbrother closed his eyes and gustily inhaled the salty breeze.

A lone osprey hovered overhead, attracted by a glimmer of baitfish in the shallows. Upstream a school of baby tarpon rolled, also with lunch on their minds. Nearby a white heron posed regally on one leg, in the same tree where the boys had hung their shoes before swimming to the derelict boat.

"Two weeks ago I saw a crocodile in here. Nine-footer," remarked Beatrice's stepbrother.

"Great. Now you tell me," Roy said with a laugh.

The truth was, he felt totally safe. The creek was incredibly beautiful and wild; a hidden sanctuary, only twenty minutes away from his own backyard.

I might have found this place all by myself, Roy thought, if I hadn't spent so much time moping around being homesick for Montana.

The boy said, "It ain't the crocs ya gotta worry about. It's the mosquitoes."

"Have you brought Beatrice out here?"

"Just once. A blue crab bit her on the big toe, and that's all she wrote."

"Poor crab," said Roy.

"Yeah, it wasn't pretty."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Anything but my name," said Mullet Fingers. "I don't want one and I don't need one. Not out here."

"What I wanted to ask about," Roy said, "is you and your mom. What's the deal?"

"I dunno. We just never connected," the boy said matter-of-factly. "I quit sweatin' it a long time ago."

Roy found that hard to believe.

"What about your real dad?"

"Never knew him." The boy shrugged. "Never even saw a picture."

Roy couldn't think of what to say, so he quietly dropped the subject. Downstream a disturbance shook the water, and a dozen silvery cigar-sized fish jumped in unison, trying to escape some hungry predator.

"Cool! Here they come." Beatrice's stepbrother pointed at the frantic V-shaped wake. He got flat on his belly and instructed Roy to hold his ankles.

"What for?"

"Hurry up, man, c'mon!"

With Roy anchoring his feet, the boy scooted himself forward over the rim of the pilothouse until his wiry upper torso was suspended out over the creek.

"Don't let go!" he yelled, stretching his tan arms outward until his fingertips touched the water.

Roy's hold began to slip, so he pitched forward, exerting his full weight upon the boy's midsection. He expected both of them to go tumbling into the creek, which was all right as long as they didn't scrape any oyster bars.

"Here they come! Get ready!"

"I've gotcha." Roy managed to hang on as he felt the boy lunge. He heard a grunt, a splash, and then a triumphant "Whooo-hoooo!!!"

Grabbing the boy's belt loops, Roy pulled him safely back onto the pilothouse. The boy flipped over and sat up beaming, his hands cupped in front of him.

"Take a peek," he told Roy.

The boy was holding a bright blunt-headed fish that sparkled like liquid chrome. How he had snatched such a slippery little ghost from the water with only his bare hands, Roy didn't know. Even the osprey would have been impressed.

"So that's a mullet," Roy said.

"Yep." The boy smiled proudly. "That's how come I got the nickname."

"Exactly how'd you do that? What's the trick?"

"Practice," the boy replied. "Trust me, it beats homework."

The fish glittered blue and green as it wriggled in his palms. Holding it over the creek, the boy let go. The mullet landed with a soft plop and vanished in a swirl.

"Bye, little guy," said Beatrice's stepbrother. "Swim fast."

Later, after they paddled to shore, Roy's curiosity got the best of him. He heard himself saying: "Okay, you can tell me now. What's going to happen tonight at Mother Paula's?"

Mullet Fingers, who was shaking a snail off one of his new sneakers, flashed a mischievous glance. "There's only one way to find out," he said. "Be there."

Roy sat cross-legged on the floor, gazing up at the cowboy poster from the Livingston rodeo. He wished he was as brave as a champion bull rider, but he wasn't.

The Mother Paula's mission was simply too risky; somebody, or something, would be waiting. The attack dogs might be gone, but the company wasn't about to leave the new pancake-house location unguarded for long.

In addition to a fear of getting caught, Roy had serious qualms about trying anything illegal-and there was no dodging the fact that vandalism was a crime, however noble the cause.

Yet he couldn't stop thinking ahead to the day when the owl dens would be destroyed by bulldozers. He could picture the mother owls and father owls, helplessly flying in circles while their babies were being smothered under tons of dirt.

It made Roy sad and angry. So what if Mother Paula's had all the proper permits? Just because something was legal didn't automatically make it right.

Roy still hadn't settled the argument between his brain and his heart. Surely there had to be a way for him to help the birds-and Beatrice's stepbrother-without breaking the law. He needed to come up with a plan.

Glancing out the window, Roy was reminded that time was slipping away. The shadows had lengthened, which meant that the sun would be setting soon and that Mullet Fingers would be on the move.

Before leaving the house, Roy poked his head into the kitchen, where his mother stood over the stove.

"Where you going?" she asked.

"Bike ride."