Double Whammy

"Something's wrong," he said.

Garcia winced. "Don't tell me we're out of gas."

Jim Tile hoisted the heavy aluminum fuel tank and unscrewed the lid. He peered inside, then put his nose to the hole.

"Plenty of gas," he said dismally, "only somebody's pissed in it."

The night had taken a toll on both of them.

Catherine felt gritty and cramped from being curled in the trunk of the car. Her knees were scuffed and her hair smelled like tire rubber from using the spare as a pillow. She had cried herself to sleep, and now, in the white glare of morning, the sight of Thomas Curl's pistol made her want to cry again. Thinking of Decker helped to hold back the tears.

Curl himself had deteriorated more than Catherine had thought possible, short of coma or death. He could no longer move his right arm at all; the muscle was as black and dead as the dog head that hung from it. Gunk seeped from Curl's eyes and nose, and overnight his tongue had bloomed swollen from his mouth, like some exotic scarlet fruit. On the boat he practically ignored Catherine, but murmured constantly to the rictal dog while stroking its petrified muzzle. By now Catherine was used to everything, even the smell.

Thomas Curl had been drinking ferociously since before dawn, and she surmised that this alone had kept the pain of infection from consuming him. He drove the boat slowly, steering with his knees and squinting against the sun. They passed several fishermen on the canal, but apparently none could see the pistol poking Catherine's left breast. If they noticed the pit bull's head, they didn't let on.

"I'm a rich man, Lucas," Thomas Curl said to the dog. "I got enough money for ten of these speedboats."

Catherine said, "Tom, we're almost there." She felt the muzzle of the gun dig harder.

"Lucas, boy, we're almost there," Thomas Curl said.

With this announcement he threw himself against the throttle and the Starcraft shot forward, plowing aimlessly through a stand of thick sawgrass. Catherine let out a cry as the serrated stalks raked her cheeks, drawing blood. The boat broke out of the matted grass, leapt the water, and climbed a mudbank. The prop stuck hard, and there they sat.

"This is the place," Thomas Curl declared.

"Not quite," Catherine said.

"He'll find us, don't you worry," Curl said. "He's got a nose for your little pussy, I bet."

"Cute," Catherine said. "You ought to work for Hallmark, writing valentines."

She used the hem of her skirt to dab the cuts on her face. Half-staggering, Curl got himself out of the boat. The pistol was still in his good hand.

"Don't bother with the leash," he said to Catherine.

"Right," she said. There was no leash, of course. She climbed out of the beached Starcraft and instantly cursed Thomas Curl for not letting her wear any shoes.

While she stooped to pick the nettles from her feet, Curl cocked his head and cupped an ear with his gun hand. "What is it?" he said excitedly.

"What is what?" Catherine asked, but he wasn't speaking to her.

"What is it, boy?"

Somewhere in the deep rotting bog of Thomas Curl's brain, his dog was barking. Curl dropped to a crouch and lowered his voice.

"Lucas hears something comin'," he said.

Catherine heard it too. Her heart raced when she spotted R. J. Decker, hands in his pockets, walking along the bank of the canal.

She waved and tried to shout, but nothing came out. Decker waved back and grinned, the way he always did when he hadn't seen her for a while. Grinned like nothing was wrong, like no gangrenous madman was jabbing a loaded pistol into Catherine's nipple while shouting at a severed dog head on his arm: "Heel, boy, heel!"

"Easy, Tom," said R. J. Decker.

"Shut up, fuckhead."

"Did we get up on the wrong side of the bed?"

"I said shut up, and don't come no closer." Decker stood ten feet away. Jeans, flannel shirt, tennis shoes. A camera hung from a thin strap around his neck.

"You remember the deal," he said to Curl. "A straight-up trade: Me for her."

"What kind of deal you offer Lemus?"

Decker said, "I didn't shoot your brother, but I will say he had it coming."

"So do you, fuckhead."

"I know, Tom."

R. J. Decker could see that something was monstrously wrong with Thomas Curl, that he was a sick man. He could also see that something ghastly had happened to Curl's right arm, and that this might be a cause of his distress.

Decker said, "That a dog, Tom?"

"The hell does it look like?"

"It's definitely a dog," Catherine said. "A pit bull, I believe."

"I used to know a dog like that," Decker said affably. "Lived in my trailer park. Poindexter was its name."

Thomas Curl said, "This one is Lucas."

"Does he do any tricks?"

"Yeah, he chews the balls off fuckheads like you."

"I see."

Catherine said, "You're hurting me, Tom."

"Take the gun out of there." Decker spoke calmly. "Let her go now, that was the deal."