Double Whammy

In the passenger seat Lanie tucked her long legs beneath her bottom and turned sideways to watch him drive. Skink didn't like being watched, but he said nothing. It had been a long time since he had shared a moment with a beautiful woman; that was one price of hermitage. He remembered how good judgment went out the window in such times, so he warned himself to be careful, there was work to do. His head was killing him, too; the pain had returned as soon as he'd gotten off the lake. A specialist was out of the question. There was no time.

Lanie popped a Whitney Houston tape in the cassette player and started keeping time with her bare feet. Without looking away from the road, Skink reached over and jerked the tape out of the dash. Then he threw it out the window.

"Got any Creedence?" he said.

In the seat Lanie whirled and, through the rear window, watched Whitney Houston bounce and shatter and unspool on the highway. "You're crazy," she snapped at Skink. "You're buying me a new tape, buster."

Skink wasn't paying attention. He had spotted something far ahead in the road; a motionless brown lump. He started braking the sports car, pumping slowly so it wouldn't leave rubber or spin out. When it finally came to a stop on the shoulder, he flicked on the emergency flashers and got out. He made sure to take the keys.

The thing in the road was a dead armadillo. After a brief examination Skink carried it by its scaly tail back to the Corvette.

Lanie was aghast. Skink tossed the carcass in the back and started the car.

"Ever had one?"

Lanie shook her head violently.

"Makes one hell of a gumbo," he said. "Use the shell as a tureen, if you do it right. Holds about two gallons."

Lanie leaned back to see where the armadillo had landed, how much of a mess had been made on the upholstery.

"It's fresh, don't worry," Skink said. He wheeled the Corvette around and headed back.

"Okay, who are you? Really."

Skink said, "You've seen who I am."

"Before this," Lanie said. "You must have been ... somebody.I mean, you didn't grow up on roadkills."

"Unfortunately, no."

Lanie said, "I like you. Your hands especially. The day we first met I noticed them, when you were tying me with that plastic rope."

"Fishing line," Skink said, "not rope. I'm glad there's no hard feelings."

"You can't blame me for being curious."

"Sure I can. It's none of your damn business who I am."

"Shit," Lanie said, "you're impossible."

Skink hit the brakes hard and downshifted. The sports car fishtailed severely and spun off the Gilchrist and came to rest in a field of crackling dry pastureland.

"My Vette is now parked in cowshit," Lanie observed, more perturbed than frightened.

Skink took his hands off the steering wheel.

"Want to know who I am? I'm the guy who had a chance to save this place, only I blew it."

"Save what?"

Skink made a circular gesture. "Everything. Everything that counts for anything. I'm the guy that could have saved it, but instead I ran. So there's your answer."

"Clue me in, please."

"Don't worry, it's ancient history."

Lanie said, "Were you famous or something?"

Skink just laughed. He couldn't help it.

"What's so funny?" she asked. He had a terrific smile, no doubt about it.

"No more damn questions."

"Just one," Lanie said, moving in. "How about a kiss?"

It didn't stop at just one, and it didn't stop with just kissing. Skink was impressed by both her energy and agility—unless you had circus experience, it wasn't easy getting naked in the bucket seat of a Corvette. Skink himself tore the inseam of his orange weathersuit in the struggle. Lanie had better luck with her jeans and panties; somehow she even got her long bare legs wrapped around him. Skink admired her tan, and said so. She hit a button and the seat slid down to a full recline.

Once she was on top Lanie allowed her breasts to brush back and forth against Skink's cheeks. She looked down and saw that he seemed to be enjoying himself. His huge boots were braced against the dashboard.

"What do you like?" she asked.

"Worldly things."

"You got it," Lanie said. "We're going to do it and then we're going to lie here together and talk, all right?"

"Sure."

She pressed down hard and began to rock her hips. "Get to know each other a little better."

"Fine idea," Skink said.

Then she leaned down, snuck her tongue in his ear, and said, "Leave the sunglasses on, okay?"

Even for Lanie Gault, the owl eye would have been a glaring distraction.

Later that afternoon, after Lanie was gone and Jim Tile had stashed Ellen O'Leary at his apartment, Skink took the truck to town. He came back towing a dented old boat trailer with a sagging rusty axle. In the flatbed of the pickup truck was a six-horsepower Mercury outboard that had seen brighter days. There was also a plastic forty-gallon garbage bucket, eight feet of aquarium tubing, and four dozen D-size batteries, which Skink had purchased at Harney Hardware.

He was fiddling with his trash-bucket contraption when Decker came up and said, "Why'd you let her go?"

"No reason to keep her."