Double Whammy

"Where am I?" Ellen asked thickly.

"Florida."

"I musfve 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 Garcia 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 Garcia 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. Garcia 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. Garcia was no outdoorsman, his main exposure to the wilderness being old reruns of The American Sportsman.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. Garcia 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 Garcia 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 Garcia 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. Garcia 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 Garcia 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?"