“Oh God,” groaned R. J. Decker.
Ott Pickney floated up dead on the end of a fish stringer. Like a lunker bass, he had been securely fastened through both lips.
They were driving back toward Harney on the Gilchrist Highway.
“We can’t just leave him there,” R. J. Decker said.
“No choice,” Skink said from the back seat of the patrol car.
“What do you mean? We’ve got a murder here. Last time I checked, that’s still against the law, even in a shitbucket town like this.”
Jim Tile said, “You don’t understand.”
Skink leaned forward and mushed his face against the grating. “How do we explain being out in the slough? A spade cop and a certifiable lunatic like me.” And an ex-con, Decker thought. From under the flowered shower cap Skink winked at him. “It’s Jim I’m really worried about, Miami. They’d love a shot at State Trooper Jim Tile, am I right?”
Decker said, “Screw the locals, then. Go to the state attorney general and get a grand jury. We’ve got two dead men, first Clinch and now Ott Pickney. We can’t let it lie.”
“We won’t,” said Jim Tile.
Terrific, Decker thought, the three musketeers.
“What are you so afraid of?” he asked the trooper. “You think they’d really try to frame us?”
“Worse,” said Jim Tile. “They’ll ignore us. Clinch was already ruled an accident.”
“But Ott’s floating out there on a fish stringer,” Decker said. “I think somebody might legitimately raise the question of foul play.”
Jim Tile pulled the car off the pavement and stopped. They were a mile and a half outside the town limits. A pair of headlights approached from the other direction.
“Duck down,” Jim Tile said.
Skink and Decker stayed low until the other car had passed. Then Skink climbed out with his fishing rod. “Come on,” he said to Decker, “we’ll hoof it from here. It’s best that nobody sees Jim with the two of us.”
Decker got out of the car. The sky in the east was turning a metallic pink.
“Explain it to him,” Jim Tile said to Skink, and drove away.
Decker started trudging down the highway. He felt a hundred years old. He wished he were back in Miami, that’s how rotten he felt. He was trying to remember if Ott Pickney had any kids, or an ex-wife somewhere. It was entirely possible there was nobody, just the orchids.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” Skink said, “but you’ve got to understand.”
“I’m listening.”
“The body will be gone by noon, if it’s not already. They’ll be back for it. They saw Jim Tile out by the slough, and that was that.”
Decker said, “We should’ve stayed there. Jim could have called for help on the radio.”
Skink marched ahead of Decker and turned around, walking backward so he could face him directly. “The sheriffs office scans all police frequencies. They would’ve picked up the call and sent a couple marked cars. Next thing you know, the locals grab jurisdiction and they’re questioning you and me, and they’re calling Tallahassee about poor Jim Tile—how there’s all these irregularities in his report, how uppity and uncooperative he is. Whatever bullshit they can make up, they will. You know how many black troopers there are in this whole state? Not enough for a goddamn basketball team. Jim’s a good man and I’m not gonna let him get hung by a bunch of hicks. Not over a fish, for Christ’s sake.”
Decker had never heard Skink say so much in one breath. He asked, “So what’s the plan?”
Skink stopped backward-walking. “Right now the plan is to get off the road.”
Decker spun around and saw a pickup truck coming slowly down the highway. Rays from the new sun reflected off the windshield, making it impossible to see who was driving, or how many there were up front.
Skink tugged Decker’s arm and said, “Let’s stroll through the woods, shall we?”
They left the pavement and walked briskly into a stand of tall pine. They heard the truck speed up. When it was even with them, it stopped. A door slammed, then another.
Skink and Decker were twenty-five yards from the highway when the first shots rang out. Decker hit the ground and pulled Skink with him. A bullet peeled the bark off a tree near their feet.