Skink clicked his tongue against his teeth.
“I killed that man,” Decker said.
“Figured as much.”
“There was no other way.”
Skink asked what happened to the body, and Decker told him. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You did good.”
“Don’t worry about it?”
“You heard me.”
Decker sighed. He felt detached and fuzzy, as if he were having an out-of-body experience. He felt as if he were in a tall tree looking down on himself and this hoary character in a straw hat, a bad suit, and sunglasses. From this vantage Skink would have made a fine photographic portrait; like one of those debauched-looking acid dealers at Woodstock. Or maybe Altamont. One of those guys who looked too old and too hard for the crowd.
Decker decided to tell Skink why he’d come back to Lunker Lakes. He was bound to ask, anyway.
“When I found Catherine,” Decker said, “I got to thinking about Dennis Gault.”
“He’s the case in New Orleans, the whole thing,” Skink repeated. “It’s a joke, so forget about it. You’re clear.”
Decker said, “I wasn’t thinking about New Orleans, captain. I was thinking about Bobby Clinch and Ott Pickney and Dickie Lockhart. In relation to Gault, I mean.”
“And Catherine.”
“Yes. Catherine too.”
“True,” Skink said, “Mr. Gault is not a very nice man.”
Decker took a short breath and said, “I was seriously thinking about killing him.”
“Now that you got the hang of it, right?”
Decker was stung by Skink’s sarcasm. And a sterling example you are, he thought. “I don’t know what I’ll do when I see him. Could be I won’t be able to stop myself.”
“Don’t give me that cuckoo’s-nest routine,” Skink said. “Do you really want to do it? Or do you want yourself to want to? Think about it. Tom Curl was a different story—your girl was involved. That was rescue; this is revenge. Even a one-eyed basket case like me can see you don’t have the stomach for it, and I’m glad.”
Decker turned away.
“But the best reason not to kill the bastard,” Skink added, “is that it’s simply not necessary.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“I don’t think you understand.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Decker hopped off the hood. He spotted Catherine on her way back with a couple of chili dogs. “I think it’s best if we take off before the festivities,” he said wearily.
Skink shook his head. “It’s best if you stay,” he said. “Besides, I need a favor.”
“Naturally.”
“You know how to work one of these damn TV cameras?”
Later, when The Wall Street Journal and others would reconstruct the collapse of the Outdoor Christian Network, some of Charlie Weeb’s colleagues and competitors would say he was a fool not to pull the plug on the Lunker Lakes show the instant Skink French-kissed the Minicam. However, such a judgment failed to take into account the pressure from Weeb’s corporate sponsors, who had paid extraordinary sums to finance the bass tournament and definitely expected to see it (and their fishing products) on national television. To these businessmen, the attempted faith-healing was merely a gross and irritating preamble to the main event. The weigh-in itself was attended by no less than the entire board of directors of the Happy Gland fish-scent company, who had flown down from Elijay, Georgia, with the expectation that Eddie Spurling, their new spokesman, would win the Lockhart Memorial hands down. Charlie Weeb had assured them of this in the most positive terms.
So, even after Skink’s performance, little thought was given to aborting the program. In fact, there was no time between the church show and the tournament for Weeb to contemplate the scope of the catastrophe, broadcast-wise. He knew it was bad; very bad. Before his eyes the sea of faithful Christian faces had dissipated; the first ten rows in front of the stage now were empty, with some of the chairs overturned by hasty departures. A few people milled around the boat docks while others hovered at the free buffet. Most apparently had retreated to the charter buses, where they huddled in their seats and recited appropriate Bible tracts. They couldn’t wait to get out of Lunker Lakes.