“Three guys,” Skink said.
“In a dark green pickup,” Tile said. “I’m pretty sure it was a Ford, but it wasn’t local. I didn’t catch the tag.”
“Did the men see you?” Decker asked.
“The one on the passenger side, no doubt about it.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“Let him finish, Miami,” Skink said.
“So I go down to where the truck was parked,” Tile said, “right on the edge of the slough. I mean, from the tire tracks you could see they’d backed right up to the water. I figure they’re poaching gators or maybe jacklighting a deer that came down to drink. Makes sense, except the ground is completely dry and clean. No blood, no skin, no shells, no nothing.”
“Except this,” Skink said. He reached into his rainsuit and took out a notebook. He handed it to R. J. Decker. It was a news reporter’s notebook, the standard pocket-size spiral. On the front, written in blue ink, were the words: “pickney/clinch obit.” Decker could tell from the thinness of the notebook that some of the pages had been torn out. Those that remained were blank.
“It was under some palmetto,” Jim Tile said, “maybe thirty feet from where the truck was parked.”
“You didn’t find anything else?” Decker asked.
“No, sir.”
“Did you report this?”
“Report what?” Tile said. “A truck parked in the bushes? Show me the law against that.”
“But you found this notebook and it belongs to a missing person.”
Skink shook his head. ‘The basketball team says he’s missing but nobody’s filed a report yet. The sheriff may or may not get around to it.”
“What are you saying?” Decker asked.
“The sheriffs name is Barley Lockhart,” Skink said, “as in Dickie. As in uncle. And, for what it’s worth, he has a twelve-pound bass hanging behind his desk. Jim, tell Mr. Decker about your outstanding relationship with the Harney County sheriffs department.”
“No relationship,” Jim Tile said. ‘Tar as they’re concerned, I don’t exist. Wrong color. Wrong uniform.”
Skink said, “Jim and I go way back. We depend on each other, especially when there’s trouble. That’s why Jim brought me the Armadillo’s notebook.”
“But how do you know he’s dead?” Decker said.
Skink stood up and turned off the Coleman. Out on the porch he picked up one of his spinning rods. “You wanna drive?” he said to Jim Tile.
“Sure,” said the trooper, “give Mr. Decker a ride in a real po-leece car.”
“I’ve had the privilege,” Decker said.
“Who was the guy in the truck, the one who recognized you?” Decker asked.
He was sitting in the back of the patrol car, behind the steel grate. Jim Tile was at the wheel; he glanced over at Skink, a crinkled orange mass on the passenger’s side, and Skink nodded that it was all right.
“Man named Ozzie Rundell,” Jim Tile said.
“Halfwit,” Skink grumbled.
“Has he got a brother?” R. J. Decker had heard of Culver Rundell. Ott had mentioned him at Bobby Clinch’s funeral. He’d said he was surprised not to see Culver at the service.
“Yeah, Culver,” Jim Tile said. “He runs a bait shop on Lake Jesup.”
Decker thought it was probably the same one he’d stopped at a few days earlier. Culver could have been the man behind the counter.
“He’s smarter than Ozzie,” Skink remarked, “but mildew is smarter than Ozzie.”
They were on a two-lane blacktop, no center line, no road signs. Decker didn’t recognize the highway. Jim Tile was driving fast, one hand on the wheel. Through the grate Decker could see the speedometer prick ninety. He was glad there was no fog.
“How’d you meet the captain?” he asked Jim Tile.
“Used to work for him,” the trooper said.
“In Tallahassee,” Skink added. “Long time ago.”
“What kind of work?” Decker asked.
“Scut work,” Skink said.
Decker was too tired to pursue it. He stretched out in the back seat and started to doze. He kept thinking about Ott Pickney and wondering what he was about to see. Skink and Jim Tile were silent up front. After about fifteen minutes Decker felt the patrol car brake and pull off the pavement. Now it bounced along with the sound of sticks and leaves scratching at the undercarriage.