The true culprit was still out there somewhere, dreaming up a new scheme. Officer Delinko had two long, nervous nights ahead of him.
The Eberhardts owned a home computer, which Roy was allowed to use for homework assignments and for playing video snowboard games.
He was good at browsing the Internet, so with no difficulty he was able to Google up plenty of information about the burrowing owl. For instance, the type found in Florida went by the Latin name of Athene cunicularia floridana and had darker feathers than the Western variety. It was a shy little bird and, like other owls, was most active after dark. Nesting usually occurred between February and July, but fledglings had been observed in dens as late as October…
Systematically, Roy scrolled down the search items one by one until he finally hit the jackpot. He printed out two single-spaced pages, zippered them into his backpack, and hopped on his bicycle.
It was a quick ride to the Coconut Cove City Hall. Roy locked up his bike and followed the signs to the building-and-zoning department.
Behind the counter stood a pale freckle-faced man with pinched-looking shoulders. When the man failed to take notice of him, Roy boldly stepped forward and requested the file for Mother Paula's All-American Pancake House.
The clerk seemed amused. "Do you have a legal description?"
"Of what?"
"The property."
"Sure. It's the corner of East Oriole and Woodbury."
The clerk said, "That's not a legal description. It's barely even a proper address."
"Sorry. It's all I've got."
"Is this for a school project?" the clerk asked.
Why not? mused Roy. "Yes," he said.
He didn't see the harm in a tiny fib if it helped save the owls.
The clerk told Roy to wait while he cross-checked the street location. He returned to the counter carrying a fat stack of files in his arms. "Now, which one of these did you want to see?" he asked with a slight smirk.
Roy stared in bewilderment. He had no idea where to begin.
"The one with all the construction permits?" he said.
The clerk pawed through the stack. Roy had a gloomy feeling that the forms and documents were written in such technical terms that he wouldn't be able to understand them, anyway. It would be like trying to read Portuguese.
"Hmm. That file's not here," the clerk said, carefully tidying the tall pile.
"What do you mean?" Roy asked.
"The folder with all the permits and inspection notices-it's been checked out, I guess."
"By who?"
"I'll have to talk to my supervisor," the clerk said, "and she's already left for the day. The office closes at four-thirty, and it's already, let's see, four-twenty-seven." For emphasis he tapped the face of his wristwatch.
"Okay, I'll be back tomorrow," Roy said.
"Maybe you should choose another topic for your project." The clerk's tone had an artificial politeness.
Roy smiled coolly. "No thanks, mister. I don't give up that easy."
From City Hall he rode his bike to a bait shop and, using a stash of leftover lunch money, bought a box of live crickets. Fifteen minutes later he was sneaking through the junkyard.
Mullet Fingers wasn't holed up in the ice-cream truck, though his rumpled sleeping bag was still there. Roy waited inside for a while, but without A/C it was unbearably hot and sticky. Before long, he was back on his bike, heading for the corner of East Oriole and Woodbury.
The gate was padlocked; there was no sign of the grumpy bald foreman. Roy walked along the outside of the fence, scouting for Beatrice's stepbrother or any clever surprises he might have left for the pancake-house people.
Roy wouldn't have noticed anything unusual had he not spooked one of the owls, which flared from its burrow and landed in the cab of the bulldozer. That's when Roy saw that the seat was missing. He immediately checked the other earthmoving machines and found the same thing.
So that's what the kid was up to the other night, Roy thought gleefully. That's why he told me to bring a wrench.
Roy walked back to the gate and opened the container of crickets and held it up to the fence. One at a time, the insects hopped out of the box, jumped through the chain-link holes, and landed on the ground. Roy was hopeful that the owls would find them once they came out of their dens for supper.
He probably should have left when he heard the first honk, but he didn't. He knelt there patiently and waited until every last little cricket had vacated the box.
By then the honking had swollen to a steady blare, and the blue pickup truck was screeching to a stop. Roy dropped the box and jumped on his bike, but it was too late. The truck had blocked his escape.
The beet-faced bald guy vaulted from the cab and hoisted the bicycle by its seat, Roy pedaling furiously in suspension. His feet were a blur, but he wasn't going anywhere.
"What's your name! What're you doing here!" the foreman hollered. "This is private property, don't you know that? You wanna go to jail, junior?"
Roy stopped pedaling and caught his breath.
"I know what you're up to!" the bald man snarled. "I know your sneaky game."
Roy said, "Please, mister, let me go. I was only feeding the owls."
The crimson drained from the foreman's cheeks.
"What owls?" he said, not so loudly. "There ain't no owls around here."
"Oh, yes, there are," Roy said. "I've seen them."
The bald guy looked extremely nervous and agitated. He put his face so close that Roy could smell cooked onions on his breath.
"Lissen to me, boy. You didn't see no damn owls, okay? What you saw was a… was a wild chicken!"
Roy stifled a laugh. "I'm so sure."
"That's right. See, we got these dwarf chickens-"
"Mister, what I saw was an owl and you know it," Roy said, "and I know why you're so scared."
The foreman let go of Roy's bicycle.
"I ain't scared," he said stonily, "and you didn't see no owls. Now get outta here and don't come back 'less you wanna go to jail, like the last kid I caught trespassin'."
Roy carefully guided his bicycle around the pickup truck, then took off at full speed.
"They was chickens!" the bald guy bellowed after him.
"Owls!" Roy proclaimed triumphantly.
Up, up, up the steep mountainside he went-that's what he was imagining, anyway. That's what gave him the strength to push so hard.
In reality Roy was rolling along East Oriole Avenue, which was as flat as a Mother Paula's pancake. He was very worried that the construction foreman would change his mind and chase after him. Any second, Roy expected to hear honking behind him, curses in the wind; the pickup truck trailing so closely that he would feel the heat off its big V-8 engine.
So Roy didn't look back and he didn't slow down. He pedaled as fast as he could, his arms taut and his legs burning.
He wouldn't stop until he reached the crest of his imaginary Montana mountain and coasted downhill into the coolness of the valley.
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.