Carl Hiaasen - Hoot

Beatrice's stepbrother had many special talents, but nature photography obviously wasn't one of them.

In desperation Roy touched the button once more, and a third picture clicked into view. This time there was definitely something other than a human body part visible in the frame-a distant feathery form, unevenly illuminated by the camera's flash.

"Here!" Roy cried. "Look!"

Chuck Muckle snatched the camera from him and examined the photo for all of about three seconds before bursting into cruel laughter. "What's that supposed to be?"

"It's an owl!" Roy said.

And it was an owl, Roy was certain. Unfortunately, the bird must have swiveled its head just as Mullet Fingers snapped the picture.

"Looks more like a lump of mud to me," Chuck Muckle said. He raised the camera so that those in the very front of the audience could see the viewfinder. "Boy's got quite an imagination, doesn't he?" he added snidely. "That's an owl, then I'm a bald eagle."

"But it is an owl!" Roy insisted. "And that picture was taken right here on this property last night."

"Prove it," Chuck Muckle gloated.

Roy had no response. He couldn't prove a thing.

His mom's camera was passed around the fringes of the crowd, and by the time it got back to Roy he knew that most people couldn't really tell it was a bird in the photograph. Even Beatrice wasn't sure, turning the viewfinder sideways and upside down as she tried in vain to identify a telltale part of owl anatomy.

Roy was crushed-the pictures taken by her stepbrother were worthless. The authorities in charge of protecting the burrowing owls would never block construction of the pancake house based on such fuzzy evidence.

"Thank you very much for coming," Mr. Muckle told the crowd through his megaphone, "and thanks also for your patience during this rather… inconsiderate delay. We'll see all you pancake lovers next spring for a big hearty breakfast. In the meantime, this event is now officially over."

The kids from Trace Middle stirred restlessly and looked toward Beatrice and Roy, who no longer had much of a plan. Roy could feel his shoulders sagging in defeat, while Beatrice's face had become a mask of grim resignation.

Then a young voice rose up: "Wait, it ain't over! Not by a mile it ain't."

This time it wasn't Roy.

"Uh-oh," said Beatrice, lifting her eyes.

A girl in the rear of the crowd let out a shriek, and everybody wheeled at once to look. At first glance the object on the ground could have been mistaken for a kick-ball, but it was actually… a boy's head.

His matted hair was blond, his face was caramel-brown, and his eyes were wide and unblinking. A kite string led from his pursed lips to the handle of a large tin bucket a few feet away.

The bigshots came hurrying out of the crowd, with Beatrice and Roy on their heels. They all stopped to gape at the head on the ground.

"What now?" moaned the construction foreman.

Chuck Muckle thundered: "Is this somebody's idea of a sick joke?"

"Good heavens," cried the mayor, "is he dead?"

The boy wasn't the least bit dead. He smiled up at his stepsister and winked slyly at Roy. Somehow he'd fit his entire skinny body down the opening of an owl burrow, so that only his noggin stuck out.

"Yo, Mother Paula," he said.

The actress stepped forward hesitantly. Her wig looked slightly crooked and her makeup was beginning to melt in the humidity.

"What is it?" she asked uneasily.

"You bury those birds," Mullet Fingers said, "you gotta bury me, too."

"But no, I love birds! All birds!"

"Officer Delinko? Where are you!" Chuck Muckle motioned for the policeman to come forward. "Arrest this impertinent little creep right now."

"For what?"

"Trespassing, obviously."

"But your company advertised this event as open to the public," Officer Delinko pointed out. "If I arrest the boy, I'll have to arrest everybody else on the property, too."

Roy watched as a vein in Mr. Muckle's neck swelled up and began to pulse like a garden hose. "I'll be speaking to Chief Deacon about you first thing tomorrow," Mr. Muckle hissed under his breath at the patrolman. "That gives you one whole night to work on your sorry excuse for a resume."

Next he turned his withering gaze upon the forlorn foreman. "Mr. Branitt, please uproot this… this stringy weed."

"Wouldn't try that," Beatrice's stepbrother warned through clenched jaws.

"Really. And why not?" Chuck Muckle said.

The boy smiled. "Roy, do me a favor. Check out what's in the bucket."

Roy was happy to oblige.

"What do you see?" the boy asked.

"Cottonmouth moccasins," Roy replied.

"How many?"

"Nine or ten."

"They look happy, Roy?"

"Not really."

"What do you think's gonna happen if I tip that thing over?" With his tongue Mullet Fingers displayed the string that connected him to the bucket.

"Somebody could get hurt pretty bad," Roy said, playing along. He had been mildly surprised (though relieved) to see that the reptiles in the bucket were made of rubber.

Mr. Muckle stewed. "This is ridiculous-Branitt, do what I told you. Get that kid outta my sight!"

The foreman backed away. "Not me. I don't much care for snakes."

"Really? Then you're fired." Once again the vice-president turned to confront Officer Delinko. "Make yourself useful. Shoot the damn things."

"No, sir, not around all these people. Too dangerous."

The policeman approached the boy and dropped to one knee.

"How'd you get here?" he asked.

"Hopped the fence last night. Then I hid under the backhoe," the boy said. "You walked right past me about five times."

"You're the one who painted my patrol car last week?"

"No comment."

"And ran away from the hospital?"

"Double no comment," the boy said.

"And hung your green shirt on my antenna?"

"Man, you don't understand. The owls got no chance against those machines."

"I do understand. I honestly do," Officer Delinko said. "One more question: You serious about the cottonmouths?"

"Serious as a heart attack."

"Can I have a look in the bucket?"

The boy's eyes flickered. "It's your funeral," he said.

Roy whispered to Beatrice: "We've gotta do something quick. Those snakes aren't real."

"Oh, great."

As the policeman approached the tin bucket, Beatrice shouted, "Don't do it! You might get bit-"

Officer Delinko didn't flinch. He peeked over the rim for what seemed to Roy and Beatrice like an eternity.

Jig's up, Roy thought glumly. No way he won't notice they're fake.

Yet the patrolman didn't say a word as he backed away from the bucket.

"Well?" Mr. Muckle demanded. "What do we do?"

"Kid's for real. If I were you, I'd negotiate," said Officer Delinko.

"Ha! I don't negotiate with juvenile delinquents." With a snarl, Chuck Muckle snatched the gold-painted shovel from Councilman Grandy's hands and charged toward the bucket.

"Don't!" hollered the boy in the owl hole, spitting the string.

But the man from Mother Paula's was unstoppable. With a wild swing of the shovel he knocked over the bucket, and commenced flailing and hacking at the snakes in a blind, slobbering fury. He didn't stop until they were in pieces.

Little rubber pieces.

Exhausted, Chuck Muckle leaned over and squinted at the mutilated toy snakes. His expression reflected both disbelief and humiliation.

"What in the world?" he wheezed.

During the violent attack on the cottonmouths, the crowd had oooh -ed and aaah -ed. Now the only sounds to be heard were the click-click-click of the news photographer's camera and the panting of the Mother Paula's vice-president.

"Hey, them snakes're fake!" Curly piped. "They ain't even real."