The fury was there now, only Dennis Gault couldn’t see it.
When he pulled on the line, the bass obligingly swam toward the boat. “Get the net,” he shouted at his sister. “Give me the goddamn net.”
Then, with a kick of its tail, the fish sounded.
“Reverse!” Dennis Gault cried.
Lame jerked on the throttle as hard as she could, and the big outboard cavitated loudly as it backed up. It was then, with the boat directly overhead, that the fish exhibited what little guile nature had invested in her pebble-sized brain. She changed direction.
“No-no-no-no!” Dennis Gault was shrieking.
The boat was heading one way, the bass was going the other. Gault braced his knees against the gunwale. He clutched the butt of the rod with both hands.
The line came tight.
The rod doubled until the tip pricked the water. “Stop!” Dennis Gault grunted. “Stop, you sorry-dumb-dirty-fat-mother—”
The great fish did not stop.
With the drag cranked down, Dennis Gault could give her no line. All he could do was hang on.
“Let go!” Lanie pleaded.
“No fucking way,” said Dennis. “This fish is mine.”
Lanie watched helplessly as her brother pitched over the transom. The last she saw of him were the soles of his Top-Siders.
The splash was followed by a dreadful low whine, but it was not Dennis’ scream. His scream had died when he hit the propeller, which was turning (according to the dash-mounted tachometer) at precisely four thousand revolutions per minute. The propeller happened to be a brand-new turbo model SST, so the three cupped stainless blades were as sharp as sabers. Dennis Gault might as well have fallen facefirst into a two-hundred-horsepower garbage disposal. Grinding was the sound that his sister had heard.
Lanie cut off the engine and stood up to see what had happened.
“Dennis?” Timorously she peered into the cloudy water, darkening from tea to rust.
A rag-size swatch of sky-blue fabric floated up; a piece of Dennis Gault’s official Bass Blasters jumpsuit. When Lanie saw it, she knew there was no point in diving in after her brother. She held on to the side of the boat with both hands, leaned over, and daintily tossed her croissants.
A hundred yards away, at the point where Charlie Weeb’s canal met the dike, the great fish crashed to the surface, shook its head, and threw the hook.
They sat on the hood of the car, parked among the bass trucks. They had a good view of the stage, the weigh-in station, the ramp, and the dock. The sun was starting to slip behind a low bank of copper clouds, and some of the boats were heading in.
“You all right?” Catherine asked. She had showered and brushed out her hair and changed clothes. Decker had stopped at a shopping mall and bought her some slacks and a kelly-green blouse; she’d been touched that he still remembered her size.
“I’m fine,” Decker said. His mental lens had preserved Thomas Curl in three frames, none of them pretty.
Catherine said, “James’ll never believe all this.”
Decker looked at her in an odd way. Immediately she felt rotten about mentioning her husband.
Decker said, “See the excitement you’re missing, not being married to me?”
“I don’t remember it quite like this.”
“I do,” Decker said, “just like this.” He smiled and gave her hand a little squeeze. Catherine felt relieved; he’d be all right. She slid off the car and went to scout the food at the buffet, which was set up near the stage.
From out of somewhere Skink materialized and stole Catherine’s place on the hood.
“Nice threads,” Decker said.
“First suit I’ve worn in years.”
“The hat’s a treat too.”
Skink shrugged. “You missed the show.”
“What happened?”
“Preacher tried to heal me.”
Decker laughed a little as Skink told the story.
“That explains where the crowd went,” he said.
“Scattered like hamsters,” Skink said. “Worst part is, I lost the damn eye. Just kept rolling.”
“We’ll get you a new one.”
“Not an owl this time, either. I’d prefer a boar—one of those big nasty bastards.”
Up to this moment, Decker had been watching the boats race in. Now he turned to Skink and in a quiet voice said, “I’m in some trouble, captain.”