Catherine was transfixed by how long it took for Curl’s headless body to fold up and collapse on the reddening mud; minutes, it seemed. But then, in the pungent gray haze of the killing, every scene seemed to happen in slow motion: R. J. tossing the gun into the water; R. J. dragging the corpse to the boat; R. J. sliding the boat down the bank; R. J. lifting her easily in his arms, carrying her away to someplace safe.
They took turns rowing. Every time they squeaked past another bass boat, they got the same mocking look.
“I don’t give a shit,” Al Garcia said to Jim Tile. “You notice, they don’t seem to be catching fish.”
This was true; Garcia and Jim Tile did not know why, nor did they give it much thought as they rowed. Their concern was for one fish only, and they still had a long way to go. As for the other contestants, they might have been interested to know that Charlie Weeb’s hydrologist had warned this would happen, that the imported bass might not feed in the bad water. Even had the pros known the full truth, it was unlikely they would have given up and packed their rods—not with so much at stake. Deep in every angler’s soul is a secret confidence in his own special prowess that impels him to keep fishing in the face of common sense, basic science, financial ruin, and even natural disasters. In the maddening campaign at Lunker Lakes, whole tackleboxes were emptied and no secret weapon was left unsheathed. The putrid waters were plumbed by lures of every imaginable size and color, retrieved through every navigable depth at every possible speed. By midday it became obvious that even the most sophisticated angling technology in the world would not induce these fish to eat.
As they tediously rowed the skiff through the network of long canals, Jim Tile and Al Garcia detected angst on the faces of other competitors.
“They don’t look like they’re having much fun,” Garcia said.
“They don’t know what fun is,” said Jim Tile, taking his turn at the oars. “This here’s fun.”
With each pull the truth was sinking in: even if they reached the brushpile and did what Skink told them, they’d probably never get back to the dock by sunset. Not rowing.
But they had to try.
“Step on it, chicoj” Al Garcia said. “Oxford’s gaining on us.”
At that moment, on the westernmost end of Lunker Lake Number Seven, Dennis Gault was refolding the waterproof map that his helicopter pilot had marked for him. Lanie was up in the pedestal seat, reading from a stack of Cosmos she’d brought along to kill time. Her nose shone with Hawaiian tanning butter.
Dennis Gault breathed on his sunglasses and wiped each lens with a tissue. He tested them against the sun before putting them on. Scanning his arsenal, he selected a plug-casting outfit with a brand-new Double Whammy tied to the end of the line. He tested the sharpness of the hook against his thumbnail, and grinned in self-satisfaction when the barb stuck fast. Then he squirted the lure three times with Happy Gland Bass Bolero.
Finally Gault was ready. He reared back and fired the spinnerbait to the exact spot where the sunken brushpile should have been.
“Come on, mother,” he said. “Suck on this.”
“Explain to me,” the Reverend Charles Weeb said from the barber chair, “exactly how that shit got on the air.”
“The promo spot?” Deacon Johnson asked.
“Yes, Izzy. With all the police cars.”
“It was a live remote, Charles, just like you wanted. We interrupt our regular programming to take you to the Dickie Lockhart Memorial Bass Blasters blah, blah, blah. Tune in later for the exciting finish.'”
“Sixteen frigging cop cars, Izzy—it looked like a dope raid, not a fishing tournament.”
“It wasn’t like we invited them.”
“Oh no,” Charlie Weeb said, “you went one better. You beamed them into eleven million households.”
Deacon Johnson said, “We’d already paid for the satellite time, Charles. I think you’re overreacting.”
Weeb squirmed impatiently while the barber worked on his bushy blond eyebrows. He thought: Maybe Izzys right, maybe the cop cars weren’t so bad. Might even get viewers curious, jack up the ratings.