Double Whammy

"Ah." Moody Blues. The man was a child of the Sixties.

"He's not much of a crooner," Lanie grumbled.

"As long as he didn't hurt you."

She shot him a look.

"I mean, besides tying you up," Decker said.

"He didn't try to pork me, no," Lanie said, "and he didn't stick electrodes into my eyeballs, if that's what you mean. But he's still totally nuts."

"I'm aware of that."

"I could call the cops, you know."

"What for? He's long gone."

Not so long, Lanie thought, maybe fifteen minutes. "Mind if I take a shower?"

"Go ahead." Decker slumped back on the bed and closed his eyes. Soon he heard water running in the bathroom. He wished it were rain.

Lanie came out, still dripping. Already the purple ligature bars were fading.

"Well, here we are," she said, a bit too brightly. "Another night, another motel. Decker, we're in a rut."

"So to speak."

"Remember the last time?"

"Sure."

"Well, don't get too damn excited," she said, scowling. She wrapped herself in the towel.

Decker had always been a sucker for fresh-out-of-the-shower women. With considerable effort he pushed ahead with purposeful conversation. "Dennis told you I was here."

"He mentioned it, yeah."

"What else did he mention?"

"Just about Dickie and the tournament, that's all," Lanie said. She sat on the bed and crossed her legs. "What's with you? I came all this way and you act like I've got a disease."

"Rough day," Decker said.

She reached over and took his hand. "Don't worry about your weird friend, he'll find his way back to Harney."

Decker said, "He forgot his plane ticket." Not to mention the insistent New Orleans bail bondsman; the airline disturbance was a federal rap.

"He'll be fine," Lanie said. "Put him on a highway and he'll eat his way home."

Decker perked up. "So you know about Skink?"

"He's a legend," Lanie said. She started unbuttoning Decker's shirt. "One rumor is he's a mass murderer from Oregon. Another says he's ex-CIA, helped kill Trujillo. One story goes he's hiding from the Warren Commission."

"Those are first-rate," Decker said, but he had nothing more plausible to offer in the way of Skink theories. A bomber for the Weather Underground. Owsley's secret chemist. Lead singer for the Grass Roots. Take your pick.

"Come under the covers," Lanie said, and before Decker knew it the towel was on the floor and she was sliding between the muslin sheets. "Come on, you tell me about your rough day."

This, thought Decker, from a woman who'd just been strung up nude by a madman. Good old irrepressible Lanie Gault.

Later she got hungry. Decker said there was a good burger joint down the street, but Lanie nagged him into driving all the way to New Orleans. She tossed her overnight bag in the back seat and announced that she'd get her own room in the Quarter because she didn't want to stay at the Quality Court, in case Skink returned. Decker didn't blame her one bit.

They went to the Acme for raw oysters and beer. Lanie kept making suggestive oyster remarks while Decker smiled politely, wishing like hell he were back in Miami, alone in his trailer. He had enjoyed rolling around in bed with her—at least he'd thought so at the time—but was having difficulty recalling any of the prurient details.

Shortly after midnight he excused himself, went to a pay phone on Iberville, and called Jim Tile in Florida. Decker told him what had happened with Skink, Lanie, and the bass tournament.

"Man," the trooper said. "He tied her up?"

"And took off."

"Come on home," Tile said.

"What about Skink?"

"He'll be all right. He gets these moods."

Decker told Tile about Skink's histrionics on the airplane. "He has arraignment tomorrow," Decker said. "In the federal building on Poydras. If he calls, Jim, please remind him."

Tile said, "Don't hold your breath."

Lanie had ordered another dozen on the half-shell while Decker was on the phone.

"I'm stuffed," he said, but ate one anyway.

"Dennis says you're getting close to Lockhart."

She'd been trying all night to find out what happened with the tournament. Decker hadn't said much.

Lanie said, "I heard on the radio that Dickie won."

"That's right." Radio? What kind of radio station covers a fish tournament? Decker wondered.

"Did he cheat again?" Lanie asked.

"I don't know. Probably." Decker paused. "I'll send your brother a full report."

"He'll be pissed."

Tough shit, Decker wanted to say. But instead: "We're not giving up."

"You and Bigfoot?"

"He's got a particular talent."

"Not with women," Lanie said.

Decker dropped her off at the Bienville House. His feelings were not the least bit wounded when she didn't invite him to stay the night.

He took his time driving back to Hammond. It was past two in the morning, but I-10 was loaded with big trucks and semis, city-bound. Their headlights made Decker's eyes water.