“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?”
A new eye stared from the socket where the heavy gauze had been packed. The new eye was strikingly big, with a starting yellow iris and a pupil as large as a half-dollar. Garcia couldn’t help but notice that’the new eye was not a perfect fit for the hole in Skink’s face.
“Where did you get it?” Garcia asked.
“Does it look okay?”
“Fine,” the detective said. “Very nice.”
Skink clomped into the shack and came back with a stuffed barn owl, an erect, imperious-looking bird. “I tie this on the roof to keep the crows and grackles away,” he said. Admiring the taxidermied owl at arm’s length, Skink said, “If looks could kill.”
Garcia asked, “Will it still scare the birds? With one eye, I mean.”
“Hell, yes,” Skink said. “Even more so. Just look at that vicious flicker.”
The owl’s frozen gaze was still fierce, Garcia had to admit. And Skink himself looked exceptional; while his new eye did not move in concert with its mate, it still commanded attention.
“I’ll give it a try,” Skink said, and put on his sunglasses.
After they finished the coffee, Skink got the Coleman lantern and led Garcia down to the water. He told him to get in the rowboat. Garcia shared the bow with an old tin bucket, a nylon castnet folded inside. Skink rowed briskly across the lake, singing an old rock song that Garcia vaguely recognized: No one knows what it’s like to be the bad man, to be the sad man… More like the madman, Garcia said to himself.