"You going home, too?" Roy asked.

"I wish. I've got to grade papers." Roy didn't know Mr. Ryan very well, but he walked with him all the way to the faculty lounge. Roy made small talk and tried to act casual while constantly checking behind him, to see if Dana was lurking.

Mr. Ryan had played football in college and since then he hadn't gotten any smaller, so Roy felt fairly safe. It was almost as good as walking with his dad.

"You taking the bus home?" Mr. Ryan asked.

"Sure," Roy said.

"But isn't the pickup on the other side of school?"

"Oh, I'm just getting some exercise."

When they reached the door of the faculty lounge, Mr. Ryan said, "Don't forget the quiz on Monday."

"Right. War of 1812," said Roy. "I'm ready."

"Yeah? Who won the Battle of Lake Erie?"

"Commodore Perry."

"Which one, Matthew or Oliver?"

Roy took a guess. "Matthew?"

Mr. Ryan winked. "Study a little more," he said, "but have a good weekend."

Then Roy was alone in the hall. It was amazing how rapidly schools emptied after the final bell, as if someone pulled the plug under a giant whirlpool. Roy listened closely for footsteps-sneaking footsteps-but heard only the tick-tick-tick of the clock mounted above the door to the science lab.

Roy observed that he had exactly four minutes to reach the bus pickup zone. He wasn't worried, though, because he'd already mapped a shortcut through the gym. His plan was to be among the very last to board his bus. That way he could grab one of the empty seats up front and jump off quickly at his stop. Dana and his cronies customarily occupied the back rows and seldom bothered the kids sitting up near the driver.

Not that Mr. Kesey would ever notice, Roy thought.

He jogged to the end of the hallway and turned right, heading for the double doors that marked the back entrance of the gymnasium. He almost made it, too.

"Let's be crystal-clear about this, Mr. Branitt. You didn't report it to the police?"

"No, sir," Curly said emphatically into the telephone.

"So there shouldn't be any paperwork, correct? No possible way for this latest travesty to end up in the press."

"Not that I can figure, Mr. Muckle."

For Curly it had been another long, discouraging day. The sun had finally broken through the clouds, but after that it was all downhill. The construction site remained uncleared, the earthmoving equipment sitting idle.

Curly had stalled as long as possible before phoning Mother Paula's corporate headquarters.

"Is this your idea of a sick joke?" Chuck Muckle had snarled.

"It ain't no joke."

"Tell me again, Mr. Branitt. Every miserable detail."

So Curly had repeated everything, beginning from when he'd arrived at the site early that morning. The first sign of trouble had been Kalo waving a tattered red umbrella and chasing his four attack dogs along the inside perimeter of the fence. He was shrieking hysterically in German.

Not wishing to be mauled by the dogs (or gored by the umbrella), Curly had remained outside the gate, watching in puzzlement. A Coconut Cove police cruiser had pulled up to investigate-Officer Delinko, the same cop who'd dozed off while "guarding" the construction site. It was because of him that the spray-painting fiasco had made the newspaper and gotten Curly into hot water with the Mother Paula's company.

"I was on my way to the station when I saw the commotion," Officer Delinko had said, raising his voice over the barking of the Rottweilers. "What's wrong with those dogs?"

"Nuthin'," Curly had told him. "It's just a training exercise."

The cop had bought it and driven away, much to Curly's relief. Once the Rottweilers were secured on leashes, Kalo had hustled them into the camper truck and locked the tailgate. Furiously he'd turned toward Curly and jabbed the umbrella in midair. "You! You try und kill my dogs!"

The foreman had raised his palms. "What're you talkin' about?"

Kalo had thrown open the gate and stomped up to Curly, who was wondering if he should pick up a rock for self-defense. Kalo was drenched with sweat, the veins in his neck bulging.

"Snakes!" He had spit out the word.

"What snakes?"

"Yah! You know vhat snakes! Za place iss crawling wis zem. Poison vuns!" Here Kalo had wiggled one of his pinky fingers. "Poison snakes wis shiny tails."

"No offense, but you're nutty as a fruitcake." Curly never once had seen a snake on the Mother Paula's site, and he would have remembered if he had. Snakes gave him the willies.

"Nuts, you say?" Kalo had seized him under one arm and led him to the portable trailer that served as Curly's office. There, coiled comfortably on the second step, was a thick mottled specimen that Curly recognized as a cottonmouth water moccasin, common in southern Florida.

Kalo was right: It was seriously poisonous. And its tail was sparkly.

Curly had found himself backing up. "I think you're gettin' carried away," he'd said to Kalo.

"Yah? You zink?"

The dog trainer then had hauled him toward the fence to point out another moccasin, then another, and still another-nine in all. Curly had been flabbergasted.

"Vhat you zink now? Zink Kalo iss nutsy fruitbar?"

"I can't explain it," Curly had admitted shakily. "Maybe all this rain brought 'em outta the swamp."

"Yah, shore."

"Listen, I-"

"No, you lissen. Each of dogs iss vorth three thousand U.S. dollars. Zat iss twelve thousand bucks barking here in za truck. Vhat happens, dog gets bit by snake? Dog dies, yah?"

"I didn't know about no snakes, I swear-"

"Iss miracle za dogs zey all okay. Pookie Face, za snake came after him zis close!" Kalo had indicated a distance of about a yard. "I take umbrella und push him away."

It was just about then that Kalo had accidentally stepped in an owl burrow and twisted his ankle. Rejecting Curly's offer of assistance, the dog trainer had hopped on one leg back to the camper truck.

"I go now. Don't effer call me again," he had fumed.

"Look, I said I was sorry. How much do I owe you?"

"Two bills I send. Vun for za dogs, vun for my leg."

"Aw, come on."

"Okay, maybe not. Maybe I talk to lawyer instead." Kalo's pale eyes had been gleaming. "Maybe I cannot any longer train dogs, my leg hurt so much. Maybe I go on, vhat you say, disability!"

"For Pete's sake."

"Mother Paula iss very big company. Has lots of money, yah?"

After Kalo had roared away, Curly carefully made his way to the trailer. The cottonmouth was no longer sunning on the steps, but Curly didn't take any chances. He set up a stepladder and hoisted himself through a window.

Fortunately, he'd saved the phone number of the reptile wrangler who had successfully removed the alligators from the toilets. The guy was tied up on an iguana call, but his secretary promised he'd come to the construction site as soon as possible.

Curly had holed up in the trailer for almost three hours, until the reptile wrangler pulled up to the gate. Armed only with a pillowcase and a modified five-iron, the guy had methodically scoured the pancake-house property in search of sparkle-tailed water moccasins.

Incredibly, he'd found none.

"That ain't possible!" Curly had exclaimed. "They were all over the place this mornin'."

The reptile wrangler had shrugged. "Snakes can be unpredictable. Who knows where they went."

"That's not what I want to hear."

"You sure they were moccasins? I never saw one with a shiny tail."

"Thanks for all your help," Curly had said snidely, and slammed the trailer door.

Now it was he who was on the receiving end of peevish sarcasm. "Maybe you can train the snakes to guard the property," Chuck Muckle was saying, "since the dogs didn't work out."