"It won't. I promise."

"Next time you're definitely going to see your name in the newspaper."

"Yes, sir."

"Under a headline that says: OFFICER TERMINATED. Is that clear?"

Officer Delinko cringed inwardly. "I understand, sir," he said quietly to the captain.

He wondered if the little jerks who'd sprayed his Crown Victoria realized how much trouble they were getting him into. My whole career is in jeopardy, Officer Delinko thought angrily, all because of some smart-ass juvenile delinquents. He was more determined than ever to catch them in the act.

In the hallway outside the captain's office, the sergeant told him, "You can pick up your car at the motor pool. But remember, David, you're off road patrol. That means you're allowed to drive the unit home and back, but that's all."

"Right," said Officer Delinko. "Home and back."

He had already thought of a route that would take him directly past the corner of East Oriole and Woodbury, the future location of Mother Paula's All-American Pancake House.

Nobody said he couldn't leave his house extra early in the morning. Nobody said he couldn't take his sweet time getting to work.

Dana Matherson was absent from school again. Roy felt somewhat relieved, though not enough to relax. The longer Dana had to stay away so his nose could recover from Roy's punch, the nastier he would be when he finally returned to Trace Middle.

"You've still got time to blow town," Garrett suggested helpfully.

"I'm not running away. Whatever happens just happens."

Roy wasn't trying to act cool. He'd thought a lot about the Dana situation. Another confrontation seemed inevitable, and part of him simply wanted to get it over with. He wasn't cocky, but he had a stubborn streak of pride. He had no intention of spending the rest of the year cowering in the rest room or sneaking through the halls just to avoid some dumb bully.

"I probably shouldn't tell you this," said Garrett, "but some of the kids are taking bets."

"Great. They're betting on whether Dana's going to beat me up?"

"No, on how many times he's going to beat you up."

"Nice," Roy said.

Actually, two good things had come out of the altercation with Dana Matherson. The first was Roy successfully tailing the barefoot boy to the golf course. The second was Roy being booted off the bus for two weeks by the vice-principal.

It was nice having his mother pick him up at school. They got to chat in the car, and Roy arrived home twenty minutes earlier than usual.

The phone was ringing when they walked in the door. It was his mother's sister calling from California to chat. Roy seized the opportunity to retrieve a cardboard shoe box from his room and slip quietly out the back door of the house.

He was heading for the golf course again, with a slight detour. Instead of making a left on West Oriole, toward the bus stop, Roy rode his bicycle across the highway to East Oriole. He'd gone less than two blocks when he came upon a scrub-covered lot with a dented work trailer in one corner.

Parked beside the trailer was a blue pickup truck. Not far away sat three bulldozer-type vehicles and a row of portable toilets. Roy figured this had to be the same place where the police car got spray-painted and the alligators were hidden inside the latrines.

As soon as Roy stopped his bicycle, the door of the trailer flew open and a stocky bald man charged out. He wore stiff tan work pants and a tan shirt that had a name stitched to the breast. Roy was too far away to read it.

"What do you want?" the man snapped, his face flushed with anger. "Hey, kid, I'm talking to you!"

Roy thought: What's his problem?

The man came toward him, pointing. "What's in that box?" he yelled. "What've you and your little buddies got planned for tonight, huh?"

Roy spun his bike around and started pedaling away. The guy was acting like a total psycho.

"That's right, and don't you come back!" the bald man hollered, shaking a fist. "Next time there'll be guard dogs waiting for you. The meanest damn dogs you ever saw!"

Roy pedaled faster. He didn't turn around. The clouds were darkening, and he thought he felt a raindrop on one cheek. From the distance came a rumble of thunder.

Even after crossing the highway to West Oriole, Roy didn't slow his pace. By the time he made it to the golf course, a steady drizzle was coming down. He hopped off his bicycle and, shielding the shoe box with both arms, began to jog across the deserted greens and fairways.

Soon he reached the thicket of pepper trees where he'd encountered the boy called Mullet Fingers. Roy had mentally prepared himself to be blindfolded and tied up again-he'd even composed a short speech for the occasion. He was determined to persuade Mullet Fingers that he was someone to be trusted, that he hadn't come to interfere but rather to help, if Mullet Fingers needed it.

While working his way through the thicket, Roy grabbed a dead branch off the ground. It was heavy enough to make an impression on a cottonmouth moccasin, though he hoped that wouldn't be necessary.

When he got to the ditch, he saw no signs of the deadly sparkle-tailed snakes. The running boy's camp was gone-cleaned out. All the plastic bags had been removed, and the fire pit had been buried. Roy poked the tip of the dead branch through the loose dirt, but it yielded no clues. Glumly he checked for footprints and found not one.

Mullet Fingers had fled without a trace.

As Roy emerged into the fairway, the purple sky opened up. Rain slashed down in wind-driven sheets that stung his face, and lightning crashed ominously nearby. Roy shivered and took off running. In an electrical storm, the worst place to be was on a golf course, standing near trees.

As he ran, flinching at every thunderclap, he began to feel guilty about sneaking away from the house. His mother would be worried sick once she realized he was out in this weather. She might even get in the car and come searching for him, a prospect that troubled Roy. He didn't want his mom driving around in such dangerous conditions; the rain was so heavy that she wouldn't be able to see the road very well.

As wet and weary as he was, Roy forced himself to run faster. Squinting through the downpour, he kept thinking: It can't be much farther.

He was looking for the water fountain where he'd left his bicycle. Finally, as another wild burst of lightning illuminated the fairway, he spotted it twenty yards ahead of him.

But his bicycle wasn't there.

At first Roy thought it was the wrong fountain. He thought he must have lost his direction in the storm. Then he recognized a nearby utility shed and a wooden kiosk with a soda machine.

This was the place, all right. Roy stood in the rain and stared miserably at the spot where he'd left his bike. Usually he was careful about locking it, but today he'd been in too much of a hurry.

Now it was missing. Stolen, undoubtedly.

To get away from the rain, Roy dashed into the wooden kiosk. The soggy cardboard box was coming apart in his hands. It would be a very long walk home, and Roy knew he couldn't get there before nightfall. His parents would be going bananas.

For ten minutes Roy stood in the kiosk, dripping on the floor, waiting for the downpour to slacken. The lightning and thunder seemed to be rolling eastward but the rain just wouldn't quit. Finally Roy stepped outside, lowered his head, and started trudging in the direction of his neighborhood. Every step made a splash. Raindrops streaked down his forehead and clung to his eyelashes. He wished he'd worn a cap.

When he got to the sidewalk he tried to run but it was like sloshing through the shallows of an endless lake. Roy had noticed this about Florida: It was so low and flat that puddles took forever to drain. He plodded onward and soon he reached the bus stop where he'd first spotted the running boy. Roy didn't pause to look around. It was growing darker by the minute.