Carl Hiaasen - Hoot

"What happened then?" Roy said.

"He ran off like a scalded dog. Meantime, Lonna and my old man get into this humongous fight-"

"The one you told me about."

"Right," said Beatrice. "Dad wants my brother to come back and live with us again, but Lonna says no way, Jose, he's a bad seed. What the heck does that mean, Tex? 'Bad seed.' Anyway, they're still not speakin' to each other, Lonna and my dad. The whole house feels like it's about to explode."

To Roy, Beatrice's situation sounded like a living nightmare. "Need a place to hide out?" he asked.

"That's okay. Dad says he feels better when I'm around." Beatrice laughed. "Lonna told him I'm 'dangerous and crazy.' She might be half right."

When they got to the bus stop, Beatrice hooked up with one of her soccer teammates and they started talking about the previous night's game, which Beatrice had won with a penalty kick. Roy held back and didn't say much, though he felt the curious stares from other kids. He was, after all, the boy who had defied Dana Matherson and survived.

He was surprised when Beatrice Leep ditched her teammates and sat next to him on the bus.

"Lemme see that newspaper again," she whispered.

As she studied the Mother Paula's advertisement, she said, "We've got two choices, Tex. We either tell him, or we don't."

"I say we do more than just tell him."

"Join him, you mean. Like you said the other night."

"It's them against him. All alone, he doesn't have a chance," Roy said.

"For sure. But we could all three of us end up in juvie hall."

"Not if we're cool about it."

Beatrice eyed him curiously. "You got a plan, Eberhardt?"

Roy took his mother's camera out of the backpack and showed it to Beatrice. "I'm listening," she said. So Roy told her.

He missed homeroom because he was summoned to vice-principal's office.

The long, lonesome hair on Miss Hennepin's upper lip was even curlier and shinier than the last time Roy had seen her. Oddly, the hair was now golden blond in color, instead of jet-black as before. Was it possible that Miss Hennepin had dyed it? Roy wondered.

"We've been informed that a young man fled from the hospital emergency room Friday night," she was saying, "a young man who was registered falsely under your identity. What can you tell me about that, Mr. Eberhardt?"

"I don't even know his real name," Roy said flatly. Mullet Fingers had been wise not to reveal it; not knowing had saved Roy from telling another lie.

"You seriously expect me to believe that?"

"Honest, Miss Hennepin."

"Is he a student here at Trace Middle?"

"No, ma'am," said Roy.

The vice-principal was visibly disappointed. Obviously she'd hoped to claim jurisdiction over the missing runaway.

"Then where does your nameless friend attend school, Mr. Eberhardt?"

Here goes, Roy thought. "I think he travels a lot, Miss Hennepin."

"Then he's home-schooled?"

"You could say that."

Miss Hennepin peered narrowly at Roy. With a gaunt forefinger she stroked the lustrous strand above her mouth. Roy shivered in disgust.

"Mr. Eberhardt, it's illegal for a boy your age not to be in school. The offense is called truancy."

"Oh, I know."

"Then you might wish to inform your fleet-footed friend of that fact," the vice-principal said acidly. "Are you aware that the school district has special police who go out searching for truants? They're very good at their jobs, I assure you."

Roy didn't think the truancy police would have an easy time tracking Mullet Fingers through the woods and mangroves, but the possibility made him anxious, anyway. What if they had bloodhounds and helicopters?

Miss Hennepin edged closer, craning her stringy neck like a buzzard. "You let him use your name at the hospital, didn't you, Mr. Eberhardt? You allowed this delinquent to borrow your identity for his own shady purposes."

"He got bit by some bad dogs. He needed a doctor."

"And you expect me to believe that's all there is to the story? Seriously?"

Roy could only shrug in surrender. "Can I go now?"

"Until we speak again on this subject, you and I," Miss Hennepin said. "I know when I smell a rat."

Yeah, thought Roy, that's because you're growing one on your lip.

At lunchtime he borrowed Garrett's bicycle and set out for the junkyard. Nobody saw him go, which was fortunate; it was strictly against the rules for kids to leave the school grounds without a note.

Beatrice's stepbrother was napping when Roy burst into the Jo-Jo's ice-cream truck. Shirtless and mosquito-bitten, the boy wriggled out of the sleeping bag and took the newspaper from Roy's hands.

Roy had expected an emotional reaction to the news of the groundbreaking ceremony, but Mullet Fingers remained surprisingly calm, almost as if he'd been expecting it. He carefully tore out the Mother Paula's advertisement and examined it as if it were a treasure map.

"Noon, huh?" he murmured quietly.

"That's only twenty-four hours from now," Roy said. "What are we going to do?"

"We who?"

"You, me, and Beatrice."

"Forget about it, man. I'm not draggin' you two into the middle of this mess."

"Wait, listen to me," Roy said urgently. "We already talked about this, me and Beatrice. We want to help you save the owls. Seriously, we're locked and loaded."

He unpacked the camera and handed it to the boy. "I'll show you how this works," Roy said. "It's pretty easy."

"What's it for?"

"If you can get a picture of one of the birds, we can stop the pancake people from bulldozing that lot."

"Aw, you're full of it," the boy said.

"Honest," Roy said. "I looked it up on the Internet. Those owls are protected-it's totally against the law to mess with the burrows unless you've got a special permit, and Mother Paula's permit file is missing from City Hall. What does that tell you?"

Mullet Fingers fingered the camera skeptically. "Pretty fancy," he said, "but it's too late for fancy, Tex. Now it's time for hardball."

"No, wait. If we give them proof, then they've got to shut down the project," Roy persisted. "All we need is one lousy picture of one little owl-"

"You better take off," the boy said. "I got stuff to do."

"But you can't fight the pancake people all by yourself. No way. I'm not leaving until you change your mind."

"I said, Get outta here!" Mullet Fingers seized Roy by one arm, spun him clockwise, and launched him out of the ice-cream truck.

Roy landed on all fours in the hot gravel. He was slightly stunned; he'd forgotten how strong the kid was.

"I already caused enough trouble for you and my sister. This is my war from now on." Beatrice's stepbrother stood defiantly in the doorway of the truck, his cheeks flushed and his eyes blazing. In his right hand was Mrs. Eberhardt's digital camera.

Roy pointed and said, "You keep it for now."

"Get real. I'll never figure out how to use one a these stupid things."

"Let me show you-"

"Nah," said the boy, shaking his head. "You go on back to school. I got work to do."

Roy stood up and brushed the gravel off his pants. He had a hot lump in his throat, but he was determined not to cry.

"You done enough already," the running boy told him, "more than I had a right to expect."

There were about a million things Roy wanted to say, but the only words he choked out were: "Good luck tomorrow."

Mullet Fingers winked and gave him a thumbs-up.

"Bye, Roy," he said.

The newspaper contained several items that would have been excellent for current events.

A missing Green Beret soldier had been rescued in the mountains of Pakistan. A doctor in Boston had invented a new drug to treat leukemia. And in Naples, Florida, a county commissioner had been arrested for taking a $5,000 bribe from the developer of a putt-putt golf course.