bridge."
Duane Scrod Jr. 's story sounded convincing to Dr. Dressier, but the detective wasn't finished.
"Duane, I'm going to ask you something, and you've got to promise not to get upset. It's my job, okay?"
"No sweat."
"Did you sneak out to the Black Vine Swamp and set a fire to scare Mrs. Starch during the field trip?"
The boy was true to his word-he stayed cool. He looked Jason Marshall straight in the eye and said, "I don't do that stuff anymore."
"So the answer is no?"
"Most definitely."
"Did you do anything during the last few days that might have frightened Mrs. Starch into believing your threat was real? She hasn't been back to school since the field trip."
Duane Scrod Jr. laughed. "That lady's not scared of anything, especially a kid. I don't want no more trouble from her-that's how come I did that stupid essay she wanted. Sorry, but it was stupid."
Dr. Dressier felt obliged to ask, "What kind of essay?"
Duane Jr. rolled his eyes. "She made me write five hundred words about zits."
The headmaster winced.
"Seriously, " the boy said.
Dr. Dressier made a mental note to have a diplomatic chat with Mrs. Starch when she returned to school. Disciplining a student was one thing; humiliating him was another.
The detective had heard enough about the pimple paper. "I'm about done here, " he said. "Thanks for stopping by, Duane."
The boy rose from the couch.
"Just a second-I have one question, " Dr. Dressier said. Duane Scrod Jr. turned, a trace of impatience in his eyes.
The headmaster said, "I'm just curious, Duane. Did something in particular happen to bring about this major change in you?"
"Whaddya mean?"
Dr. Dressier smiled in a way that he hoped would appear friendly and genuine. "The way you're dressed, the way you're acting-surely you're aware of the difference."
Duane Scrod Jr. looked down at himself and scratched pensively at a radish-colored blemish on his neck. "I went campin' for a few nights. Had tons of time to think about stuff."
"What kind of stuff?" asked Jason Marshall. "The way I was headed. Mistakes I kept makin', all those wrong turns."
Even the detective seemed touched. "That's just part of growing up, " he said.
"Yeah, well, it gets old, " the boy remarked, "not carin' about a damn thing in the world. So I decided to try it the other way. "
Dr. Dressier nodded sympathetically. "Well, we like the new you, Duane."
"It's a solid move, " Jason Marshall agreed.
"I guess," said Duane Scrod Jr., and excused himself.
Dinner was a challenge.
"I should've made fried chicken, " Nick's mother said, "something you could pick up with your fingers."
"It's okay. I need to nail this."
Nick was eyeing the pork chop on his plate, trying to figure out how to cut it. He was able to work the knife pretty well with his left hand, but he couldn't keep the meat from sliding around without his other hand there to pin it down with a fork.
"Let me unwrap your right arm, " his mom implored, "just for tonight."
"No way. This is how Dad's gotta do it, right?"
Nick's mother said, "I'd cut his food if he were home. You can bet on that."
The disappointing news had come in a phone call that afternoon: Capt. Gregory Waters was fighting an infection in his wounded shoulder. The doctor had told Nick's mother that his dad was responding slowly to the antibiotics.
On a more positive note, the doctor reported that Captain Waters' early rehab sessions were outstanding. Nick was pleased, though not surprised-his father had always kept himself in top physical shape.
"How come they wouldn't let us talk to him?" Nick asked.
"Because he was sleeping. They said he did two hours with his left arm on the weight machine this afternoon."
"That sounds like Captain Studly."
"It does indeed. " Nick's mom was watching the pork chop skate back and forth across his plate while he hacked at it with the knife.
"You're gonna starve to death, Nicky. Let me do that, " she said.
"No! I'll get the hang of it. " In
Duane Scrod Jr. 's story sounded convincing to Dr. Dressier, but the detective wasn't finished.
"Duane, I'm going to ask you something, and you've got to promise not to get upset. It's my job, okay?"
"No sweat."
"Did you sneak out to the Black Vine Swamp and set a fire to scare Mrs. Starch during the field trip?"
The boy was true to his word-he stayed cool. He looked Jason Marshall straight in the eye and said, "I don't do that stuff anymore."
"So the answer is no?"
"Most definitely."
"Did you do anything during the last few days that might have frightened Mrs. Starch into believing your threat was real? She hasn't been back to school since the field trip."
Duane Scrod Jr. laughed. "That lady's not scared of anything, especially a kid. I don't want no more trouble from her-that's how come I did that stupid essay she wanted. Sorry, but it was stupid."
Dr. Dressier felt obliged to ask, "What kind of essay?"
Duane Jr. rolled his eyes. "She made me write five hundred words about zits."
The headmaster winced.
"Seriously, " the boy said.
Dr. Dressier made a mental note to have a diplomatic chat with Mrs. Starch when she returned to school. Disciplining a student was one thing; humiliating him was another.
The detective had heard enough about the pimple paper. "I'm about done here, " he said. "Thanks for stopping by, Duane."
The boy rose from the couch.
"Just a second-I have one question, " Dr. Dressier said. Duane Scrod Jr. turned, a trace of impatience in his eyes.
The headmaster said, "I'm just curious, Duane. Did something in particular happen to bring about this major change in you?"
"Whaddya mean?"
Dr. Dressier smiled in a way that he hoped would appear friendly and genuine. "The way you're dressed, the way you're acting-surely you're aware of the difference."
Duane Scrod Jr. looked down at himself and scratched pensively at a radish-colored blemish on his neck. "I went campin' for a few nights. Had tons of time to think about stuff."
"What kind of stuff?" asked Jason Marshall. "The way I was headed. Mistakes I kept makin', all those wrong turns."
Even the detective seemed touched. "That's just part of growing up, " he said.
"Yeah, well, it gets old, " the boy remarked, "not carin' about a damn thing in the world. So I decided to try it the other way. "
Dr. Dressier nodded sympathetically. "Well, we like the new you, Duane."
"It's a solid move, " Jason Marshall agreed.
"I guess," said Duane Scrod Jr., and excused himself.
Dinner was a challenge.
"I should've made fried chicken, " Nick's mother said, "something you could pick up with your fingers."
"It's okay. I need to nail this."
Nick was eyeing the pork chop on his plate, trying to figure out how to cut it. He was able to work the knife pretty well with his left hand, but he couldn't keep the meat from sliding around without his other hand there to pin it down with a fork.
"Let me unwrap your right arm, " his mom implored, "just for tonight."
"No way. This is how Dad's gotta do it, right?"
Nick's mother said, "I'd cut his food if he were home. You can bet on that."
The disappointing news had come in a phone call that afternoon: Capt. Gregory Waters was fighting an infection in his wounded shoulder. The doctor had told Nick's mother that his dad was responding slowly to the antibiotics.
On a more positive note, the doctor reported that Captain Waters' early rehab sessions were outstanding. Nick was pleased, though not surprised-his father had always kept himself in top physical shape.
"How come they wouldn't let us talk to him?" Nick asked.
"Because he was sleeping. They said he did two hours with his left arm on the weight machine this afternoon."
"That sounds like Captain Studly."
"It does indeed. " Nick's mom was watching the pork chop skate back and forth across his plate while he hacked at it with the knife.
"You're gonna starve to death, Nicky. Let me do that, " she said.
"No! I'll get the hang of it. " In
Similar Books
