Hoot

EIGHTEEN

"Same scrawny brat I seen around here last week," Curly complained to Officer Delinko, "only this time I caught the little bugger!"

Officer Delinko offered to report the incident, but Curly assured him that it wasn't necessary.

"He won't come back, I guarantee you. Not after he got a faceful of me."

It was nearly midnight at the construction site. The two men stood next to the patrolman's car, chatting casually. Both of them privately believed that the real Mother Paula's vandal was still on the loose, but they would not share their suspicions with each other.

Officer Delinko didn't tell Curly that the Matherson boy was too scared of alligators to be the vandal, because Officer Delinko didn't want the foreman to get all agitated again.

And Curly didn't tell Officer Delinko about the bulldozer seats being stolen while the Matherson kid was in custody, because Curly didn't want Officer Delinko to put the information in a police report that some nosy newspaper reporter might find.

Despite their secrets, both men were pleased not to be spending the night alone on the property. It was good to have a backup nearby.

"Hey, I meant to ask," Officer Delinko said, "what happened to those attack dogs you had watching the place?"

"You mean the psycho-mutts? Probably hightailed it all the way back to Berlin," said Curly. "Listen, I'm fixin' to turn in. Holler if you need anything."

"You bet," Officer Delinko said.

"And no naps tonight, right?"

"Don't worry."

Officer Delinko was glad it was dark, so that the foreman couldn't see him blush. He'd never forget the sickening sight of his precious Crown Victoria, its windows painted as black as tar. Officer Delinko still dreamed of catching the offender and bringing him to justice.

After Curly retired to the air-conditioned comfort of the trailer, the patrolman began walking the property, following the line of his flashlight beam from one survey stake to the next. He intended to do this all night long, if necessary, to make sure the stakes weren't tampered with. He had packed five brimming thermos bottles of coffee in his car, so there would be absolutely no chance of running out.

Guarding a vacant lot wasn't the most glamorous police work, Officer Delinko knew, but this was an extremely important assignment. The chief, the captain, the sergeant-they all were relying on him to keep the pancake-house property free of mischief. Officer Delinko understood that if he did the job well, his career at the Coconut Cove Public Safety Department would once again be on the fast track. He could easily see a gold detective's badge in his future.

Trudging through the shadows, Officer Delinko pictured himself in a tailored suit instead of a starchy uniform. He would be driving a different Crown Victoria-the charcoal gray unmarked model reserved for detectives-and wearing a shoulder holster instead of a hip belt. He was daydreaming about getting an ankle holster, too, and a lightweight pistol to go with it, when he abruptly performed an involuntary somersault across the sandy scrub.

Oh, not again, the patrolman thought.

He groped around until he located his flashlight, but at first it didn't work. He shook it a few times and finally the bulb flickered on faintly.

Sure enough, he'd stepped in another owl burrow.

Officer Delinko got to his feet and smoothed the creases of his trousers. "Good thing Curly's not awake to see this," he mumbled.

"Heh," came a small raspy voice in reply.

Officer Delinko slapped his right hand on the butt of his gun. With his left hand he aimed the flashlight toward the unseen intruder.

"Freeze!" the patrolman commanded.

"Heh. Heh. Heh."

Back and forth went the yellow beam of light, revealing nothing. The runty, asthmatic-sounding voice seemed to come out of nowhere.

Officer Delinko carefully took two steps forward and aimed the flashlight down the hole in which he'd tripped. An inquisitive pair of bright amber eyes peeked up from the blackness.

"Heh!"

The patrolman took his hand off his gun and cautiously dropped to a crouch. "Why, hello there," he said.

"Heh! Heh! Heh!"

It was a baby owl, no more than five or six inches tall. Officer Delinko had never seen anything so delicately perfect.

"Heh!" said the owl.

"Heh!" said the policeman, though his voice was too deep to do a proper imitation. "I bet you're waiting for Momma and Poppa to bring supper home, aren't you?"

The amber eyes blinked. The yellow beak opened and closed expectantly. The little round head rotated back and forth.

Officer Delinko laughed aloud. He was fascinated by the miniature bird. Dimming the flashlight, he said, "Don't worry, sport, I'm not going to hurt you."

From overhead came a frenzied flutter, followed by a harsh kssh! kssh! ksshhh! The patrolman glanced up and saw, framed against the starlit sky, two winged silhouettes-the baby owl's parents, anxiously circling their frightened fledgling.

Officer Delinko slowly began backing away from the burrow, hoping that the grown-up birds would realize it was safe to land. In the blue-gray sky he could see their dusky shapes wheeling lower and lower, and he quickened his retreat.

Even after the two owls alighted, even after he watched them disappear like feathered ghosts into the ground, Officer Delinko continued moving away, backing up step by step until…

He bumped into something so big and so cold and so hard that it almost knocked the breath out of him. He spun around and switched on the flashlight.

It was a bulldozer.

Officer Delinko had clonked directly into one of Curly's earthmoving machines. He glared up at the steel hulk, rubbing his bruised shoulder. He didn't notice that the seat was gone, and even if he had, he wouldn't have given it a worry.

The policeman was grimly preoccupied with another concern. His gaze shifted from the massive bulldozer to the bird burrow, then back again.

Until that moment, Officer David Delinko had been so busy worrying about solving the Mother Paula's case and saving his own career that he hadn't thought much about anything else.

Now he understood what was going to happen to the little owls if he did his job properly, and it weighted him with an aching and unshakeable sorrow.

Roy's father had worked late, so Roy hadn't had a chance to tell him what he'd learned about the owls on the Internet, and that one of the pancake-house files had been removed from the building department. It seemed very suspicious, and Roy wanted to hear his father's theory about what might have happened.

But Roy went speechless the moment he sat down at breakfast. There, smiling kindly at him from the back page of his father's newspaper, was Mother Paula herself!

It was a half-page advertisement under a banner of bold, patriotic-style lettering:

MOTHER PAULA'S ALL-AMERIGAN HOUSE OF PANCAKES, HOME OF THE WORLD-FAMOUS MOUTHWATERING LICORICE OATMEAL FLAPJACK, IS PROUD TO BECOME YOUR NEW NEIGHBOR IN COCONUT COVE! MOTHER PAULA WELCOMES YOU TO JOIN HER IN PERSON TOMORROW AT NOON FOR A GALA GROUNDBREAKING CEREMONY AT THE CORNER OF EAST ORIOLE AND WOODBURY, THE FUTURE LOCATION OF OUR 469th FAMILY-STYLE RESTAURANT IN THE UNITED STATES, CANADA, AND JAMAICA.

Roy dropped his spoon, launching a soggy wad of Froot Loops across the kitchen.

"What's wrong, honey?" his mother asked.

Roy felt sick to his stomach. "Nothing, Mom."

Then Mrs. Eberhardt spotted the advertisement, too. "I'm sorry, Roy. It's hard to think about those poor helpless birds, I know."

Mr. Eberhardt flipped the newspaper over to see what his wife and son were staring at. He frowned and said, "Guess they're moving along pretty quickly with that project."

Roy stood up in a dull fog. "I better go. Don't wanna miss the bus."

"Oh, there's plenty of time. Sit down and finish your breakfast," his mother said.

Roy shook his head numbly. He grabbed his backpack off the chair. "Bye, Mom. Bye, Dad."

"Roy, wait. You want to talk?"

"Not really, Dad."

His father folded the newspaper and handed it to him. "Don't you have current events today?"

"Oh yeah," said Roy. "I forgot."

Every Tuesday, Mr. Ryan's history students were supposed to bring a topic for a current events discussion. On those days Roy's father always gave him the newspaper so that he could read it on the bus and pick out a timely article.

"How about if I take you to school today?" his mother offered.

Roy could tell she felt sorry for him because of the news about the pancake house. She thought the owls were doomed, but Roy wasn't ready to give up hope.

"That's okay." He stuffed the newspaper into his backpack. "Mom, can I borrow your camera?"

"Well…"

"For a class," Roy added, wincing inwardly at the lie. "I'll be real careful, I promise."

"All right. I don't see why not."

Roy carefully packed the digital camera among his books, gave his mother a hug, waved to his father, and streaked out the door. He jogged past his regular bus stop and kept going, all the way to the one on West Oriole, Beatrice Leep's street. None of the other Trace Middle kids had arrived yet, so Roy ran to Beatrice's house and waited on the front sidewalk.

He tried to cook up a good excuse for being there, in case Lonna or Leon noticed him. It was Beatrice who finally came out the front door, and Roy ran up so fast that he nearly knocked her down.

"What happened to you yesterday? Where's your brother? Did you see the paper this morning? Did you-"

She slapped a hand over his mouth.

"Easy, cowgirl," she said. "Let's go wait for the bus. We'll talk on the way."

As Roy suspected, Beatrice had not broken a tooth falling down the steps. She'd broken it while biting a ring off one of her stepmother's toes.

The ring was made from a small topaz charm that Beatrice's mother had left behind when she moved away. Lonna had pilfered the stone from Leon Leep's sock drawer and had gotten it made into a snazzy toe ring for herself.

Beatrice had taken exception to the theft.

"If my old man wanted Lonna to have it, he woulda given it to her," she growled.

"So you gnawed it off her toe? How?" Roy was astounded.

"Wasn't easy."

Beatrice made a chimpanzee face and pointed at a sharp stump where one of her incisor teeth used to be. "Broke the tip off. They're gonna make me a fake one so it looks like brand-new," she explained. "Good thing my old man has dental insurance."

"She was awake when you did this?"

"Yeah," said Beatrice, "but she probably wishes she wasn't. Anyway, tell me what was in the paper this morning that got you all freaked out."

She groaned when Roy showed her the advertisement for the Mother Paula's groundbreaking extravaganza. "Just what the world needs-another pancake joint."

"Where's your brother?" Roy asked. "You think he's heard about this?"

Beatrice said she hadn't seen Mullet Fingers since Sunday. "That's when the you-know-what hit the fan. He was hiding in the garage, waitin' for me to get him some clean shirts, when my dad walked out for another case of Mountain Dew. The two of 'em were just standing around talkin', perfectly friendly, when Lonna shows up and pitches a major hissy."

"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.

When Roy's turn came to address Mr. Ryan's class, he didn't use any of those articles for his topic. Instead he held up the newspaper and pointed to the torn page where the Mother Paula's advertisement had been.

"Most everybody here likes pancakes," Roy began. "I know I sure do. And when I first heard that a new Mother Paula's was going to open here in Coconut Cove, I thought that was pretty cool."

Several kids nodded and smiled. One girl pretended to rub her tummy hungrily.

"Even when I found out where they're going to build it-that big empty lot at the corner of Woodbury and East Oriole-I didn't see anything wrong with the idea," Roy said. "Then one day a friend of mine took me out there and showed me something that changed my mind totally."

Now the other students stopped talking among themselves and paid attention. They'd never heard the new kid say so much.

"It was an owl," Roy went on, "about this tall."

He held up two fingers, one eight or nine inches above the other, to show them. "When my family lived out West we saw plenty of owls, but never one this small. And he wasn't a baby, either, he was full grown! He was so straight and serious, he looked like a little toy professor."

The class laughed.

"They're called 'burrowing' owls because they actually live underground," Roy continued, "in old holes made by tortoises and armadillos. Turns out that a couple of owl families hang out on that land at Woodbury and East Oriole. They made their nests in the dens and that's where they raise their babies."

Some of the kids shifted uneasily. A few began whispering in worried tones and some looked at Mr. Ryan, who sat thoughtfully at his desk, chin propped in his hands.

"Roy," he said gently, "this is an excellent subject for biology or social studies, but perhaps not for current events."

"Oh, it's definitely a current event," Roy countered. "It's happening tomorrow at noon, Mr. Ryan."

"What is?"

"They're going to start bulldozing to make way for the pancake house. It's like a big party or something," Roy said. "The lady who plays Mother Paula on TV is going to be there. The mayor, too. That's what the paper said."

A red-haired girl in the front row raised her hand. "Didn't the paper say anything about the owls?"

"No. Not a word," Roy said.

"So what's gonna happen to 'em?" called a freckle-faced boy from the back of the classroom.

"I'll tell you what's going to happen." Roy looked at Mr. Ryan. "The machines are going to bury all those burrows, and everything inside."

"No way!" the red-haired girl cried, and the class erupted in agitated conversation until Mr. Ryan asked everyone to please be quiet and let Roy finish.

"The grown-up owls might try to fly away," Roy said, "or they might just stay in the dens to protect their babies."

"But they'll die!" the freckle-faced kid shouted.

"How can the pancake people get away with this?" demanded another.

"I don't know," Roy said, "but it's not legal, and it's not right."

Here Mr. Ryan interrupted firmly. "Hold on, Roy, what do you mean it's 'not legal'? You need to be careful when you're making those kinds of serious allegations."

Excitedly Roy explained that the burrowing owls were protected by state and federal laws, and that it was illegal to harm the birds or disturb active burrows without getting special government permits.

"All right. Fine," said Mr. Ryan, "but what does the pancake company have to say about this? I'm sure they got the proper permission-"

"The file is missing," Roy cut in, "and the foreman tried to tell me there weren't any owls on the property, not a single one. Which is a lie."

The class started buzzing again.

"So tomorrow at lunch," Roy continued, "I'm going out there to… well, just because I want the Mother Paula's people to know that somebody in Coconut Cove cares about those birds."

Mr. Ryan cleared his throat. "This is a sticky situation, Roy. I know how upset and frustrated you must feel, but I've got to remind you that students aren't supposed to leave school property."

"Then I'll get a note from my parents," Roy said.

The teacher smiled. "That would be the way to do it." The class was expecting him to say more, but he didn't.

"Look," said Roy, "every day we've been reading about regular people, ordinary Americans who made history 'cause they got up and fought for something they believed in. Okay, I know we're just talking about a few puny little owls, and I know everybody is crazy about Mother Paula's pancakes, but what's happening out there is just plain wrong. So wrong."

Roy's throat was as dry as prairie dust, and his neck felt hot.

"Anyway," he muttered, "it's tomorrow at noon."

Then he sat down.

The classroom fell quiet, a long heavy silence that roared in Roy's ears like a train.