Carl Hiaasen - Hoot

When Roy's parents came in to say good night, he told them he'd never forget their trip to the Everglades, which was the truth. His mom and his dad were still his best friends, and they could be fun to hang out with. Roy knew it wasn't easy on them, either, packing up and moving all the time. The Eberhardts were a team, and they stuck together.

"While we were gone, Officer Delinko left a message on the answering machine," Roy's father said. "Last night he arrested a suspect in the vandalism at the construction site."

Roy didn't say a word.

"Don't worry," Mr. Eberhardt added. "It wasn't the young man you told me about, the one who ran away from the hospital."

"It was the Matherson boy," Mrs. Eberhardt cut in excitedly, "the one who attacked you on the bus. And he tried to convince the police he was you!"

Roy couldn't pretend not to know. "Garrett told me all about it," he admitted.

"Really? Garrett must have an inside source," Roy's father remarked.

"The best," said Roy. "What else did the policeman's message say?"

"That's about it. I got the impression he wanted me to ask if you knew anything about what happened."

"Me?" Roy said.

"Oh, that's ridiculous," his mother interjected. "How would Roy know what a hoodlum like Dana Matherson was up to?"

Roy's mouth was as dry as chalk. As close as he felt to his parents, he wasn't prepared to tell them that he'd mooned Dana, purposely lured him toward the Mother Paula's property, and then made up a story about a stash of cigarettes inside the trailer.

"It's certainly a strange coincidence," Mr. Eberhardt was saying, "two different kids targeting the same location. Is it possible the Matherson boy hooked up with your friend, Beatrice's stepbrother-"

"No way," Roy interjected firmly. "Dana doesn't care about the owls. He doesn't care about anything but himself."

"Of course he doesn't," Roy's mother said.

As his parents were shutting the bedroom door behind them, Roy said, "Hey, Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Remember how you said the pancake people could do whatever they wanted on that land if they had all the permits and stuff?"

"That's right."

"How do I check up on something like that?" Roy asked. "You know, just to make sure it's all legal."

"I suppose you'd call the building department at City Hall."

"The building department. Okay, thanks."

After the door closed, Roy heard his parents talking softly in the hallway. He couldn't make out what they were saying, so he pulled the covers up to his neck and rolled over. Right away he began drifting off.

Before long, someone whispered his name. Roy assumed he was already dreaming.

Then he heard it again, and this time the voice seemed so real that he sat up. The only sound in the bedroom was his own breathing.

Great, he thought, now I'm imagining things.

He lay back on the pillow and blinked up at the ceiling.

"Roy?"

He went rigid under the covers.

"Roy, don't freak out."

But that's exactly what he felt like doing. The voice was coming from under his bed.

"Roy, it's me."

"Me who?"

Roy's breath came in rapid bursts and his heart pounded like a bass drum. He could feel the presence of the other person beneath him in the darkness, under the mattress.

"Me, Beatrice. Chill out, man."

"What are you doing here!"

"Shh. Not so loud."

Roy heard her slide out from underneath the bed. Quietly she stood up and moved to the window. There was just enough moon in the sky to light up her curly blond hair and cast a reflection in her glasses.

"How'd you get in our house?" Roy struggled to keep his voice low, but he was too rattled. "How long have you been hiding here?"

"All afternoon," Beatrice replied, "while you guys were gone."

"You broke in!"

"Relax, cowgirl. I didn't bust any windows or anything. The sliding door on your porch popped right off the track-they all do," Beatrice said, matter-of-factly.

Roy hopped out from under the sheets, locked the door, and switched on his desk lamp.

"Are you completely wacko?" he snapped at her. "Did somebody kick you in the head at soccer practice, or what?"

"I'm sorry about this, I really am," Beatrice said. "It's just, uh, things got kinda hairy at home. I didn't know where else to go."

"Oh." Roy was instantly sorry he'd lost his temper. "Was it Lonna?"

Beatrice nodded gloomily. "I guess she fell off her broom or somethin'."

"That really sucks."

"Yeah, her and my dad got in a huge fight. I mean huge. She threw a clock radio at his head, so he beaned her with a mango."

Roy had always thought that Beatrice Leep wasn't afraid of anything, but she didn't look so fearless now. He felt bad for her-it was hard to imagine living in a house where the grownups behaved so idiotically.

"You can stay here tonight," he offered.

"For real?"

"Long as my parents don't find out."

"Roy, you're pretty cool," Beatrice said.

He grinned. "Thanks for calling me Roy."

"Thanks for letting me crash here."

"You take the bed," he said. "I'll sleep on the floor."

"No way, Jose."

Roy didn't argue. He gave Beatrice a pillow and a blanket, and she stretched out happily on the carpet.

He turned off the light and said good night. Then he remembered something he meant to ask her. "Hey, did you see Mullet Fingers today?"

"Maybe."

"Well, he told me he had something planned for last night."

"He's always got somethin' planned."

"Yeah, but this stuff can't go on forever," Roy said. "Sooner or later, he's gonna get caught."

"I believe he's smart enough to know that."

"Then we've gotta do something."

"Like what?" Beatrice asked faintly. She was fading toward sleep. "You can't stop him, Roy. He's too darn thickheaded."

"Then I guess we've gotta join him."

"'Scuse me?"

"G'night, Beatrice."

Curly stared hard at the phone, as if staring would make it quit ringing. Finally he braced himself and picked up the receiver.

On the other end was Chuck Muckle, of course.

"Do I hear the sound of bulldozers, Mr. Branitt?"

"No, sir."

"Why not? It's Monday morning here in beautiful Memphis, Tennessee. Isn't it Monday morning in Florida, too?"

"I got some good news," Curly said, "and I got some bad news."

"The good news being that you've found employment elsewhere?"

"Please, lemme finish."

"Sure," said Chuck Muckle, "while you're cleaning out your desk."

Curly hastily spilled his version of what had happened Saturday night. The part about the missing bulldozer seats definitely took some shine off the rest of the story. Not wishing to make things worse, Curly didn't mention that his pistol had somehow ended up submerged in a portable toilet.

A fuzzy silence lingered at the Memphis end of the conversation. Curly wondered if Mother Paula's vice-president for corporate relations had hung up on him.

"Hullo?" Curly said. "You there?"

"Oh, I'm here," Chuck Muckle replied tartly. "Let me get this straight, Mr. Branitt. A young man was arrested for attempted burglary on our property-"

"Right. Assault and trespassing, too!"

"-but then on the very same evening, another person or persons unknown removed the seats from the bulldozers and backhoes and whatevers."

"Yessir. That would be the not-so-good news," Curly said.

"Did you report this theft to the police?"

"'Course not. I didn't want it to get in the newspaper."

"Maybe there's hope for you yet," said Chuck Muckle. He asked Curly if it was possible to operate the machines without driver's seats.

"Only if you're some kinda octopus."

"So I'm correct in assuming there'll be no bulldozing today."