Double Whammy

Skink and Decker stayed low until the other car had passed. Then Skink climbed out with his fishing rod. "Come on," he said to Decker, "we'll hoof it from here. It's best that nobody sees Jim with the two of us."

Decker got out of the car. The sky in the east was turning a metallic pink.

"Explain it to him," Jim Tile said to Skink, and drove away.

Decker started trudging down the highway. He felt a hundred years old. He wished he were back in Miami, that's how rotten he felt. He was trying to remember if Ott Pickney had any kids, or an ex-wife somewhere. It was entirely possible there was nobody, just the orchids.

"I'm sorry about your friend," Skink said, "but you've got to understand."

"I'm listening."

"The body will be gone by noon, if it's not already. They'll be back for it. They saw Jim Tile out by the slough, and that was that."

Decker said, "We should've stayed there. Jim could have called for help on the radio."

Skink marched ahead of Decker and turned around, walking backward so he could face him directly. "The sheriffs office scans all police frequencies. They would've picked up the call and sent a couple marked cars. Next thing you know, the locals grab jurisdiction and they're questioning you and me, and they're calling Tallahassee about poor Jim Tile—how there's all these irregularities in his report, how uppity and uncooperative he is. Whatever bullshit they can make up, they will. You know how many black troopers there are in this whole state? Not enough for a goddamn basketball team. Jim's a good man and I'm not gonna let him get hung by a bunch of hicks. Not over a fish, for Christ's sake."

Decker had never heard Skink say so much in one breath. He asked, "So what's the plan?"

Skink stopped backward-walking. "Right now the plan is to get offthe road."

Decker spun around and saw a pickup truck coming slowly down the highway. Rays from the new sun reflected off the windshield, making it impossible to see who was driving, or how many there were up front.

Skink tugged Decker's arm and said, "Let's stroll through the woods, shall we?"

They left the pavement and walked briskly into a stand of tall pine. They heard the truck speed up. When it was even with them, it stopped. A door slammed, then another.

Skink and Decker were twenty-five yards from the highway when the first shots rang out. Decker hit the ground and pulled Skink with him. A bullet peeled the bark off a tree near their feet.

Decker said, "I'm sure glad you're wearing that orange raincoat, captain. Bet they can only see us a mile or two away."

"Semiautomatic?" Skink asked through clenched teeth.

Decker nodded. "Sounds like a Ruger Mini-14." Very popular with the Porsche-and-powder set in Miami, but not the sort of bang-bang you expected upstate.

The rifle went off again, so rapidly that it was impossible to tell the fresh rounds from the echoes. The slugs slapped at the leaves in a lethal hailstorm. From where they huddled Decker and Skink couldn't see the truck on the highway, but they could hear men's voices between the volleys.

"Will they come for us?" Decker whispered.

"I expect." Skink's cheek was pressed against a carpet of pine needles. A fire ant struggled in the tangle of his mustache; Skink made no move to brush it away. He was listening to the ground.

"There's only two of them," he announced.

"Only?" One with a Ruger was plenty.

Skink's right hand fished under his rainsuit and came out with the pistol.

Decker heard twigs crackle at the edge of the pine.

"Let's run for it," he said. They wouldn't have a prayer in a shoot-out.

"You run," Skink said.

And draw fire, Decker thought. What a grand idea. At least in Beirut you had a chance because of the doorways; doorways made excellent cover. You simply ran a zigzag from one to another. Right now there wasn't a doorway in sight. Even the trees were too skinny to offer protection.

Decker heard footsteps breaking the scrub a few yards behind him. Skink motioned for him to go.

He bunched up on his knees, dug his toes into the moist dirt, and pushed off like a sprinter. He ran erratically, weaving through the pine trunks and hurdling small palmetto bushes. A man shouted and then the gunfire started again. Decker flinched as bullets whined off the tree trunks—low, high, always a few feet behind him. Whoever was shooting was running too, and his aim was lousy.

Decker didn't know the terrain so he picked his openings as they appeared. He spotted promising cover across a bald clearing and he pumped for it, holding his head low. He almost made it, too, when something struck him in the eyes and he crumpled in pain.

A rifle slug had caught a pine branch and whipped it flush across Decker's face. He lay panting on the ground, his fists pressed to his eyes. Maybe they would think he'd been hit. Maybe they would go looking for Skink.

Abruptly the shooting was over.