Free Scat by Carl Hiaasen

had always been a hard worker and a good provider, until Whitney had run off to France. Then he'd sort of fallen apart, losing interest in the antique piano shop that he'd owned in Naples. Within a year the place had gone bankrupt, and since then Duane Scrod Sr. hadn't been able to hold a steady job. The low point had come when he'd burned down the Chevrolet dealership.
    "Those six months you were locked up," Mrs. Winship said, "I still don't understand why you didn't have Duane Jr. call me. What were you thinking, letting that boy stay out here all alone?"
    Duane Scrod Sr. looked up from his bug-chewed foot. "Maybe I was ashamed for you to know what happened," he said in a scratchy voice. "Hey, D.J. took care of himself just fine. He never went hungry, Millie-I had some money put away."
    Money that I'd sent you, thought Mrs. Winship, so you wouldn't lose your house to the bank.
    "There was plenty for groceries," Duane Scrod Sr. went on. "He did all right, like I've told you a hundred times."
    Mrs. Winship shook a finger at him. "Nothing is all right around this place. Not you, not your son- nothing. It's time to get a grip on life, Duane. Time to move on."
    Duane Scrod Sr. rose with a squeak from the old wicker chair. "Yeah," he said.
    "Oui!" chirped the blue-and-gold macaw. "Ja!"
    Mrs. Winship rolled her eyes. "Would you kindly tell your parrot to shut up?"
    "She's not a parrot."
    "How did Duane Jr. get out to where he's camping?"
    Duane Sr. said, "He drove himself."
    "Did he now?"
    "He's got his license, Millie. He turned sixteen two months ago."
    Mrs. Winship's eyes narrowed. "I'm quite aware of that. I sent a birthday card, remember?"
    Duane Sr. looked embarrassed. "I told him to call you and say thanks for the check. I guess he forgot."
    "So you bought him a car?"
    "Naw. Fixed up a motorcycle that we found in the want ads," Duane Sr. said. "D.J. has a fondness for motorcycles."
    "Oh, terrific. Next Christmas I'll get him a helmet," Mrs. Winship said, "and some funeral insurance."
    Duane Scrod Sr. frowned. "Now, why do you always have to take that snippy tone?"
    "Why? Pourquoi? Waruml" cried the macaw.
    "Listen to me, Duane," Mrs. Winship said forcefully. "If I don't hear from my grandson soon, life will get extremely unpleasant for you. I'm not paying his tuition so that he can skip class and roast weenies in the woods. That's an insult to me, and I resent being insulted."
    Duane Scrod Sr. flinched like a puppy that had just been smacked on the butt with a newspaper. He said, "I'll do my best to find Junior."
    "Good idea, because I'm not leaving town until I see him," Mrs. Winship declared. "Now give me a straight answer- do you think he's the one who set fire to the swamp?"
    "Truly? I couldn't say."
    "Why in the world would he do such a thing?" Mrs. Winship said. "Since you're the only other arsonist I know, \ thought you might have some special insight."
    Duane Sr.'s eyes flashed in anger. "I never taught that boy to set fires. He knows better."
    "Then let's hope the police are wrong." She was halfway down the steps when he called her name.
    "Hey, Millie, wait! What do you hear from Whitney?"
    The question made Millicent Winship's heart sink.
    She looked up at Duane Sr. and quietly said, "She's not coming back from Paris."
    "So the cheese business is good?"
    "I'm sorry. I really am," said Mrs. Winship. "By the way, your precious bird just pooped all over your shirt."
    Duane Scrod Sr. looked down at the mess and nodded bleakly. "What else is new," he said.
     
    On the same Monday morning that Nick had watched Smoke eat Mrs. Starch's pencil, Capt. Gregory Waters was being evacuated from Iraq to an American military installation in Germany. From there he was flown to the Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C., a hospital for soldiers.
    Nick and his mother flew up on Thursday morning and waited an hour in the lobby. Finally a doctor came out and introduced himself. They followed him along a maze of drab