Double Whammy (36 page)

“I'll bet.”

Lanie asked if she could get dressed. Decker said yes, but he wouldn't let her out of his sight. Lanie didn't object. Casually she stripped off her nightgown and stood naked in front of the mirror, brushing out her hair while Decker watched impassively. Finally she put on jeans and a University of Miami sweatshirt.

Decker said, “You know a man named Thomas Curl?”

“Sure, that's the guy who brought Ellen,” Lanie answered. “He works for Dennis.”

By the way she said it, Decker could tell she really didn't know. Even Lanie wasn't that good.

“Thomas Curl killed Bobby,” he said.

“Stop it,” Lanie said, “right now.” But it was obvious by her expression that she was putting it all together.

In the other room Jim Tile carried Ellen to the shower. He propped her under a cold drizzle for ten minutes until she spluttered and bent over to vomit. Then he toweled her off and put her back in bed. Once her stomach settled, she sat up and sipped some coffee.

Jim Tile closed the door and said, “You want to talk?”

“Where am I?” Ellen asked thickly.

“Florida.”

“I must've got sick—did I miss it?”

“Miss what?” Jim Tile asked.

“Dickie's funeral.”

“Yes, it's over.”

“Oh.” Ellen's eyes filled up.

Jim Tile said, “Dickie was a friend of yours?”

“Yes, officer, he was.”

“How long did you know him?”

“Not long,” answered Ellen O'Leary, “just a few days. But he cared for me.”

“When's the last time you saw him?”

Ellen said, “Right before it happened.”

“The murder?”

“Yes, officer. I was up in the hotel with him, celebrating after the bass tournament, when Thomas Curl came to the door and said he needed to see Dickie right away.”

“Then what happened, Ellen?”

“They went off together and Dickie didn't come back. I fell asleep—we'd had an awful lot of champagne. The next morning I heard on the radio what happened.”

Jim Tile refilled her coffee cup. “What did you do then?” he asked.

“I was so upset, I called Reverend Weeb,” she said, “and I asked him to say a prayer for Dickie's soul. And Reverend Weeb said only if I came over and knelt down with him.”

“I bet you weren't in the mood for
that.”

“Right,” Ellen said. She didn't understand how the black trooper could know about Reverend Weeb's strange ways, but she was grateful for the compassion.

Jim Tile opened the bedroom door and asked Decker and Lanie to come in.

“Ellen,” he said, “tell Miss Gault who came and got Dickie Lockhart the night he was killed.”

“‘Thomas Curl,” said Ellen O'Leary.

Lanie looked stricken. “Are you sure?”

“I've known him since high school.”

“God,” Lanie said dejectedly.

Ellen tucked an extra pillow under her head. “I'm feeling lots better,” she said.

“Well, I feel like hell,” said Lanie.

The phone rang. Jim Tile told her to answer it, and motioned Decker to pick up the kitchen extension.

The caller was Dennis Gault.

“Hi,” Lanie said, with the trooper standing very close behind her.

“How's it going, sis?” Gault asked.

“Fine,” Lanie said. “Ellen's still sleeping.”

“Excellent.”

“Dennis, I'd like to go out, catch some sun, do some shopping. How much longer with the babysitting?”

“Look, Elaine, I don't know. The cops still haven't caught Decker.”

“Oh, great.” Perfect sarcasm. Decker listened admiringly—she really could have been a star of stage and screen.

“What if they don't catch him?” she said.

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“Dennis, I want Tom to come get this girl.”

“Soon,” Gault promised. “I sent him down to Miami on some business. He'll pick up Ellen when he gets back. Relax, wouldya, sweet thing?”

“Miami,” Lanie repeated.

“Yeah,” her brother said, “we're getting ready for the big tournament.”

“Oh boy,” said Lanie, thinking: I hope you drown, you murdering bastard.

The fire died slowly, and as it did Al Garcίa poked and speared the embers in a feeble attempt to revive the flames. Soon a gray curling mist cloaked the lake and settled over the detective's shoulders like a damp shroud. Small creatures scuttled unseen through the woods, and each crackling twig reminded Garcίa that he was desperately removed from his element, the city. Even from the lake there were noises—what, he couldn't imagine—splashes and gurgles of all dimensions. Garcίa wondered about bears; what kind, how big. The weight of the Colt Python under his arm was a small comfort, but he knew the gun was not designed to kill bears. Garcίa was no outdoorsman, his main exposure to the wilderness being old reruns of
The American Spornman.
Two things he remembered most vividly about the TV show were ferocious bears the size of Pontiacs, and convivial campfire scenes where all the men slugged down beers and feasted on fresh venison. Garcίa seemed to recall that there were always at least ten heavily armed guys around Curt Gowdy at the camp, plus a camera crew. And here he was, practically all alone with a dead fire.

Halfheartedly Garcίa collected some kindling and tossed it into the embers. He put his cigarette lighter to the pile, but the wood sparked and in a moment went cold. The detective unscrewed the top of his disposable lighter and dumped the fluid on the sticks. Then he leaned over and touched a match to the fire, which promptly blew up in his face.

After Garcίa picked himself off the ground, he sat down lugubriously by the smoldering campfire. Gingerly he explored his face and found only minimal damage—his eyebrows were scorched and curlicued, and his mustache gave off an acrid smell. Garcίa jumped at the low rumble of laughter—it was Skink, hulking in the doorway of the shack.

“Honest to God,” the big man said. In three minutes the fire was ablaze again. Skink made coffee, which Garcίa accepted gratefully. There was something odd about the governor's appearance, and it took the detective several moments to figure it out.

“Your eye,” he said to Skink.

“What of it?”

A new eye stared from the socket where the heavy gauze had been packed. The new eye was strikingly big, with a startling yellow iris and a pupil as large as a half-dollar. Garcia couldn't help but notice that the new eye was not a perfect fit for the hole in Skink's face.

“Where did you get it?” Garcίa asked.

“Does it look okay?”

“Fine,” the detective said. “Very nice.”

Skink clomped into the shack and came back with a stuffed barn owl, an erect, imperious-looking bird. “I tie this on the roof to keep the crows and grackles away,” he said. Admiring the taxidermied owl at arm's length, Skink said, “If looks could kill.”

Garcίa asked, “Will it still scare the birds? With one eye, I mean.”

“Hell, yes,” Skink said. “Even more so. Just look at that vicious fucker.”

The owl's frozen gaze was still fierce, Garcia had to admit. And Skink himself looked exceptional; while his new eye did not move in concert with its mate, it still commanded attention.

“I'll give it a try,” Skink said, and put on his sunglasses.

After they finished the coffee, Skink got the Coleman lantern and led Garcίa down to the water. He told him to get in the rowboat. Garcίa shared the bow with an old tin bucket, a nylon castnet folded inside. Skink rowed briskly across the lake, singing an old rock song that Garcia vaguely recognized:
No one knows what it's like to be the bad man, to be the sad man. . . .
More like the madman, Garcίa said to himself.

He was impressed by Skink's energy, after the savage beating he'd taken. The wooden boat cut the water in strong bolts, Skink pulling at the oars with a fervor that bordered on jubilation. Truly he was a different man than the bloodied heap wheezing in the back seat of Garcίa's car. If the pain still bothered him, Skink didn't show it. He was plainly overjoyed to be home, and on the water.

After twenty minutes Skink guided the rowboat into a cove on the northern shore, but he didn't break his pace. With his good eye he checked over his shoulder and kept a course for the mouth of a small creek that emptied into the lake between two prehistoric live oaks. To Garcίa the creek seemed too narrow even for the little skiff, yet it swallowed them easily. For fifty yards it snaked through mossy bottomland, beneath lightning-splintered cypress and eerie tangled beards of Spanish moss. Garcίa was awestruck by the primordial beauty of the swamp but said nothing, afraid to disturb the silence. Skink had long stopped singing.

Eventually the creek opened to a blackwater pond rimmed by lily pads and mined with rotting stumps.

Skink removed his sunglasses and tucked them into the pocket of his weathersuit. He turned from the oars and motioned for the castnet. Awkwardly Garcίa handed it to him; the lead weights were heavy and unwieldly. Standing wide-legged, Skink clenched the string in his teeth and hurled the net in a smooth low arc; it opened perfectly and settled to the water like a gossamer umbrella. When he dragged the net back into the boat, it was spangled with fish, flashing in the mesh like pieces of a shattered mirror. Skink filled the tin bucket with water and emptied the fish into it. Then he refolded the net and sat down, facing Al Garcίa.

“Golden shiners,” he announced. Skink plucked one out of the bucket and swallowed it alive.

Garcίa stared at him. “What do they taste like?” he asked.

“Like shiners.” Skink took another fish from the bucket and thwacked it lightly against the gunwale, killing it instantly. “Watch here,” he said to Garcίa.

Leaning over the side of the skiff, Skink slapped the palm of his hand on the water, causing a loud concussion. He repeated this action several times until suddenly he pulled his hand from the pond and said, “Whooo, baby!” He dropped the dead shiner and beneath it the black water erupted—a massive fish, as bronze and broad as a cannon, engulfed the little fish where it floated.

“Cristo!”
gasped Al Garcίa.

Skink stared at the now-silken surface and grinned proudly. “Yeah, she's a big old momma.” He tossed another shiner, with the same volcanic result.

“That's a bass?” Garcίa asked.

“Hawg,” Skink said. “The fucking monster-beastie of all time. Guess her weight, Sergeant.”

“I've got no idea.” In the fickle light of the lantern Garcίa looked hard for the fish but saw nothing; the water was impenetrable, the color of crude oil.

“Name's Queenie,” Skink said, “and she weighs twenty-nine pounds, easy.”

Skink tossed three more shiners, and the bass devoured them, soaking the men in her frenzy.

“So this is your pet,” Garcίa said.

“Hell, no,” Skink said, “she's my partner.” He handed the bucket to Al Garcίa. “You try,” he said, “but watch your pinkies.”

Garcίa crippled a shiner and tossed it into the pond. Nothing happened, not a ripple.

“Spank the water,” Skink instructed.

Garcίa tried, timidly, making more bubbles than noise.

“Louder, dammit!” Skink said. “That's it. Quick, now, drop a shiner.”

No sooner had the tiny fish landed—still wriggling, this one—than the monster-beastie slurped it down. The noise was obscene.

“She likes you,” Skink said. “Do it again.”

Garcίa tossed another baitfish and watched it disappear. “You learn this shit from Marlin Perkins?” he said.

Skink ignored him. “Give me the bucket,” he said. He fed the big fish the rest of the dying shiners, save one. Skink held it between his thumb and forefinger, tickling the water. He used the fish as a silvery wand, tracing figure-eights by the side of the rowboat. From its unseen lair deep in the pond, the big fish rose slowly until its black dorsal punctured the velvet surface. As the fish hung motionless, Garcίa for the first time could see its true size, and appreciate the awesome capacity of its underslung jaw. The bass glided slowly toward Skink's teasing shiner; frenzy had been replaced by a delicate deliberation. Skink's fingers released the baitfish, which disappeared instantly into the white maw—yet the fish did not swim away, nor did Skink withdraw his hand. Amazingly, he took the bass by its lower lip, hoisted it from the pond, and laid it carefully across his lap. There now, momma,” Skink said. Dripping in the boat, the fish flared its gills and snapped at air, but did not struggle. It was, Garcίa thought, a magnificent gaping brute—nearly thirty pounds of iridescent muscle.

“Sergeant,” Skink said, “say hi to Queenie.”

Garcίa did not wish to seem rude, but he didn't feel like talking to a fish.

“Come on,” Skink prodded.

“Hey, Queenie,” said the detective, without conviction. He was very glad his lieutenant couldn't see him.

Skink kept a thumb curled in the bass's lower lip, and slipped the other hand under its bloated pale belly. He lifted the bass and propped it long-wise on his shoulder, like a barrel. Skink's face was side-byside with that of the monster bass, and Al Garcia found himself staring at (from left to right) the eyes of a fish, a man, and a stuffed owl.

As if cuddling a puppy, Skink pressed his cheek against Queenie's scaly gillplates. “Meet the new boss,” he whispered to the fish, “same as the old boss.”