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Quickly he got out and began concealing the car with tree branches and palm fronds that he'd cut and stacked for that purpose. One-armed Nick Waters pitched in to help, but the girl named Marta apprehensively stood apart, brandishing her cell phone for Twilly to see.

"Libby Marshall is number two on my speed dial and her dad's a sheriff's detective, so don't get any crazy ideas," she warned.

Twilly smiled. "I'll try to control myself. You ready to hike?"

"Definitely," the boy said. "How far?" asked the girl.

Twenty minutes later, knee-deep in swamp water, she asked again in a much louder voice.

Twilly raised a finger to his lips and continued wading. He led them along a boggy trail through a treeless marsh until they entered dry pine flatlands. There he saw recent signs of white-tailed deer, bobcats, and raccoons, although he didn't stop to point out the various tracks and scat. Twilly had no time to play nature guide; he was in a hurry.

Balancing the pizza boxes on his free hand, the boy named Nick came up beside Twilly. In a hushed voice he said, "Are there panthers out here?"

"Didn't you hear one scream while you were on the field trip?"

"No, that was you," Nick said. "Wasn't it?"

Twilly winked and shook his head.

"No way!" The boy looked thrilled.

A few paces behind, the girl named Marta was griping-"Why can't we use the boardwalk like normal people? My brand-new Converses are totally trashed!"

A red-shouldered hawk clutching a mouse in its talons passed overhead. Once more Twilly paused to listen-the only sound from above was a woodpecker making holes in a bead tree.

When Marta caught up, she said, "This is ridiculous, where's Mrs. Starch?"

Twilly inserted two fingers in his mouth and whistled. There was no response, which was the agreed-upon signal for him to proceed.

Suddenly Marta blurted, "Nick, what if he's not really taking us to Mrs. Starch? What if he's gonna chop us to pieces and feed us to the alligators?"

"Human flesh is tough. Gators prefer fish," Twilly noted, and resumed walking.

Nick remained at his side. "She's just scared is all," he whispered.

Twilly understood. He was the first to admit that he wasn't a reliable-looking person.

"Soon everything will become clear," he said. "More or less."

"I trust you."

"Well, Nick Waters, I wouldn't go
that
far."

"My father always says to stick with my gut instincts."

"He got hurt pretty bad in Iraq, right?"

Nick looked taken aback. "How'd you know that?"

"Duane mentioned it," Twilly said. "You didn't mess up Your arm playing lacrosse, like you told me, did you?"

"No, that was a lie."

"I figured. I never saw a back-assward sling like this before." Twilly flicked the odd hump in the boy's shirt behind his right shoulder.

He said, "There's nothing wrong with my arm. I'm teaching myself to be a lefty."

"Like your old man's gotta do."

Nick nodded and grew quiet.

"Good for you," Twilly said.

He tried to recall if he'd ever cared about his own father as deeply as Nick Waters cared about his. The emotions were complicated, as were his childhood memories.

From behind them, the girl called out, "I hope you're both happy. I got blisters on my blisters!"

They were now close enough that Twilly Spree could smell the woody haze from last night's campfire.

"When's the last time you saw a wild panther?" he asked Nick.

"Never."

"Then this is your lucky day."

NINETEEN

The secret camp was in shadows, beneath a tangled canopy of trees. There were two pup tents and a fire pit. Pegged to the ground was a faded green tarp, covering a chest-high stack of supplies.

A flap opened on one of the tents, and a gangly figure bawled out. It was Mrs. Starch. She rose slowly, brushing herself off, her eyes blazing at the sight of Nick and Marta.

"What's the meaning of this?" she demanded.

"They carjacked me," Twilly said. "Sort of."

Mrs. Starch scowled. "Oh, please."

Despite the chilly reception, Nick was relieved to see his biology teacher unharmed and still as, ornery as ever. Except for the straw hat, she had on the same clothes from the field trip: baggy long-sleeved shirt, canvas pants, and wading boots. Still, Mrs. Starch looked different-older, and more tired. Her heavy makeup had worn off, and a stripe of coffee-brown roots bisected her mass of tinted blond hair, which was tied in a ragged ponytail. There was no sign of her huge dragonfly sunglasses.

"It's your turn to entertain them. I'm heading out on poop patrol," Twilly told her, and sauntered back into the woods. Nick assumed he was taking a bathroom break.

Mrs. Starch began pacing, as she did in class. It had the same nerve-wracking effect on Marta as always; she turned greenish and queasy. Nick set the pizza boxes on a tree stump.

"What do you have to say for yourselves?" Mrs. Starch said.

Marta was in no condition to speak, and Nick had not yet composed a presentation. The best he could muster was: "We were worried."

"Worried, or just plain nosy?" Mrs. Starch shot back. "It's rude enough that you broke into my home. Now this?"

Nick thought he heard a faint, muffled cry, but he couldn't tell where it came from. Still clutching her phone, Marta sat down on a log near the fire pit and took deep breaths to ward off the nausea.

The wind picked up from the north, putting a cool bite in the air. Mrs. Starch's footsteps crunched on crisp twigs and leaves as she stalked back and forth in front of them. She seemed not quite as tall as Nick remembered.

"You have no right to be here. No right," she said.

Marta raised a limp hand. "It was all Nick's idea."

"Undoubtedly," said Mrs. Starch.

"We just want to know what's going on," Nick heard himself say.

"Get more specific."

"Okay, the fire. Tell us about the fire."

"Ah," said Mrs. Starch.

"And Smoke-I mean Duane Jr." The teacher stopped pacing and planted her knuckles on her hips. "Anything else?"

"Yes," Nick said. He had so many questions.

Marta peeped: "Your house-all those stuffed animals ..."

Mrs. Starch wagged a bony forefinger in protest. "Now, that's personal. Way too personal."

Again Nick heard an odd cry-like a bird trapped in a pillowcase. "What
is
that?" he asked Mrs. Starch.

She glanced worriedly behind her. In the dappled shade, the anvil-shaped scar on her chin was so dark that it looked almost purple.

"I didn't hear anything," Marta said.

Mrs. Starch bent down until she was nose to nose with Kick, and up close her nose wasn't especially attractive. It was smudged with mud and freckled with what appeared to be tiny insect bites.

"I'm going to show you something extraordinary," she said, "but if either of you tells a living soul, if you blab a single word about this, then I swear I'll.. . I'll. . ."

"Flunk us?" said Nick.

"Kill us?" asked Marta.

"Worse!" exclaimed Mrs. Starch. "I'll lose all respect for you. All respect."

Nick blinked. It was news to him that Mrs. Starch had any respect whatsoever for them, and judging by Marta's baffled reaction, it was news to her as well.

"Nobody else besides you two must know," the teacher said forcefully. "Not your mummy or daddy, not your gabby little pals on Facebook, not your third cousin in Goose Falls, Arkansas,
nobody.
Is that clear?"

"As a bell," Marta murmured.

Mrs. Starch grabbed Nick's left shoulder. "This is life-or-death," she whispered. "Can you understand that?"

"We won't tell anyone," said Nick.

"Life-or-death," Mrs. Starch repeated. Then she dropped to all fours and scurried into her tent.

As expected, the local newspapers and TV stations identified Duane Scrod Jr. as "an unnamed juvenile" with previous arrests for arson. But even if the authorities had released the boy's full name, the impact on Dr. Dressler's steady, well-organized existence would have been no more shattering. TRUMAN STUDENT, SOUGHT FOR ARSON, FLEES COPS That was just one of the unpleasant headlines that prompted the school's board of trustees to call an emergency meeting on a Saturday. The board members were highly distressed and asked many tough questions of Dr. Dressier, who answered as best he could.

Some of the remarks were quite unfair, in the head' master's opinion, yet he didn't waste energy trying to defend himself. The mood in the room was too tense, which he could understand. It was disgraceful enough that a Truman

student had been charged with a serious crime, but the sensational media accounts of Duane Scrod Jr.'s escape and mad dash across campus-leaving the sheriff's detective panting in defeat-had pitched the board of trustees into a fever.

Although technically it wasn't his job to arrest and handcuff arsonists, Dr. Dressier expected to be punished, possibly even fired, for allowing the detective to confront the boy while classes were in session.

In the end, the board voted to reprimand the headmaster and ordered him to expel Duane Scrod Jr. from school, effective immediately. When Dr. Dressier pointed out that Duane Jr.'s grandmother donated large sums of money to Truman every year, the board members quickly huddled for another vote. This time they decided that the boy should be "suspended temporarily" until his criminal case went to court, at which point his status at the Truman School would be reviewed.

Dr. Dressier faced two undesirable chores. One was to notify Millicent Winship, Duane Jr.'s wealthy grandmother, and the other was to notify Duane Scrod Sr., his kooky father. The headmaster had flipped a coin, and now he was driving to the Scrod residence.

Turning down the road, he noticed a sheriff's deputy sitting in a squad car parked on one corner. At the other end he could see a black sedan with tinted windows-probably another officer in an unmarked car. They were waiting to grab Duane Scrod Jr. if he tried to sneak home, although Dr. Dressier thought they'd have a better chance if they concealed themselves.

The headmaster pulled in next to the graffiti-sprayed Tahoe belonging to Duane's father. As before, concert music was coming from the windows: Beethoven, this time not Bach. Reluctantly, Dr. Dressier got out of the car and trudged up the steps and rapped on the screen door.

The stereo cut off and a raspy voice yelled, "Come in! Make it quick!"

"Mr. Scrod?"

Cautiously the headmaster stepped inside. Duane Scrod Sr. was reclining in a Naugahyde lounger in front of the TV set. The picture was on, but the volume was turned down. Duane Sr.'s cap was propped crookedly on his head, and his faded shirt was unbuttoned to the waist. Perched on the threadbare arm of his chair was the enormous blue-and-gold macaw.

"I 'member you," Duane Scrod Sr. said groggily to Dr. Dressier. "So does Nadine."

"May I sit down?"

"Nope. State your business and be on your way. I already had too many visitors today." Duane Sr. didn't take his eyes off the television screen. The bird, too, seemed entranced.

"What are you watching?" Dr. Dressier asked.

"A cookin' show. From France."

That wouldn't have been the headmaster's first guess. Based on Duane Sr.'s rough appearance, Dr. Dressier would have expected to find him tuned to pro wrestling or maybe a demolition derby on a Saturday morning. But you can't judge a book by its cover, Dr. Dressier reminded himself. After all, the man was into classical music.

Duane Sr. took a slug of Mountain Dew and said, "Junior's mom lives in Paris. We were thinkin' she might turn up on this TV show, when they get to the part of the recipe where they put in the cheese. She has a shop, that's all she sells-fancy cheese! You imagine?"

Dr. Dressier didn't know what to say. He reached in his coat and took out two packets of onion crackers from the school cafeteria. "I brought these for Nadine."

In a flash the bird swooped across the room and snatched the treat from his hand, then flew back to the chair.

Duane Scrod Sr. scolded the macaw for bad manners. "What do you say to the man, Nadine?"

"Thanks a million!" the bird screaked.
"Danke schon! Merci beaucoup!"

Dr. Dressier pressed onward. "I came to talk to you about Duane Jr.," he said. "After everything that's happened, I'm afraid we have to suspend him from school."

Duane Scrod Sr. finally turned and stared directly at the headmaster. "I sure don't wanna be the one to tell his granny."

"No, sir, that's my job. Did you see the news?"

"Yeah. Least they left his name out of it."

"The situation is very serious," Dr. Dressier said.

Duane Sr. agreed. "It's a shame, too. Past few days, D.J.'s been hittin' the books pretty hard. Then all this nonsense had to break loose." He brushed a piece of cracker off his sleeve and said, "Nadine, you eat like a pig."

He and the bird returned their attention to the French cooking program. Dr. Dressier stood there, feeling out of place and unsure what to do next. As headmaster of the Truman School, he had a duty in such troubled moments to say something wise and helpful to parents, but never before had he dealt with a character like Duane Scrod Sr.

"Can I say one more thing?" Dr. Dressier asked.

"All right, but only 'cause you brought crackers."

"The best thing your son can do is turn himself in to the police, as soon as possible."

Duane Sr. scratched his cap. "You might be right, but what if you're not? What happens to Junior then?"

"Mr. Scrod, they'll catch up with him eventually," Dr. Dressier said, "and when they do, they'll come down twice as hard. If you see Duane, please tell him."

"Heck, tell him yourself. Hey, Junior?" Duane Scrod Sr. sat forward and raised his voice. "D.J., come on out here!"

Dr. Dressier heard a door creak, followed by footsteps in the hallway. Duane Scrod Jr. appeared, looking calm but serious. He wore camouflage hunting-style clothes and carried his motorcycle helmet under one arm.