“What gun?” Skink said, raising his hands. “What gun you talking about, officer?” He flashed his anchorman smile. “Don’t worry about me, Miami. If you’ve got the urge to worry, worry about setting up some good fish pictures.”
Skink cooked the squirrels on sticks over the outdoor fire. Decker drank a cold beer and felt the night close down over Lake Jesup. They ate in silence; Decker was hungrier than he’d thought. Afterward they each popped open another beer and watched the embers burn down.
“Jim Tile is with us the whole way,” Skink said.
“Is it safe?” Decker asked. “For him, I mean.”
“Not for him, not for us. But Jim Tile is a careful man. So am I. And you—you’re catching on.” Skink balanced the beer can on one knee. “There’s an Eastern nonstop to New Orleans,” he said, “leaves about noon from Orlando.”
Decker glanced over at him. “What do you think?”
Skink said, “Probably smart if we drive separate.”
Decker nodded. They’ll never let him on the plane, he thought, not dressed like that. “Then I guess I’ll see you at the airport.”
Skink dumped a tin of water on the last of the coals. “Where you headed tonight?” he asked.
“There’s somebody I need to see,” Decker said, “though I’m not sure where she’s staying. Actually, I’m not even sure she’s still in town. It’s Dennis Gault’s sister.”
Skink snorted. “She’s still in town.” He peeled off his rainsuit. “She’s at the Days Inn, least that’s where the little gumdrop Vette is parked.”
“Thanks, I can find it. What about the deputies up on the Trail?”
“Long gone,” Skink said. “Shift ended a half-hour ago.”
He walked Decker to the car.
“Be careful with that lady,” Skink said. “If you get the urge to tell her your life story, I understand. Just leave out the part about today.”
“I’m too damn tired,” Decker sighed.
“That’s what they all say.”
She was still at the Days Inn. Room 135. When she answered the door she wore a nightshirt. One of those expensive silky tops; it barely came down far enough to cover her pale yellow panties. R. J. Decker noticed the color of her panties when she reached up to get a robe from a hook on the back of the closet door. Decker did a pitiful job of trying not to stare.
Lanie said, “What’s in the bag?”
“A change of clothes.”
“You going somewhere?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“Up north a ways.”
Lanie sat in the middle of the bed and Decker took a chair. An old James Bond movie was on television.
“Sean Connery was the best,” Lanie remarked. “I’ve seen this darn thing about twenty times.”
“Why are you still in town?” Decker asked.
“I’m going tomorrow, too.”
“You didn’t answer the question. Why are you still here? Why didn’t you go home after Bobby’s funeral?”
Lanie said, “I went out to the cemetery today. And yesterday. I haven’t felt like leaving yet, that’s all. We each deal with grief in our own way—isn’t that what you said?”
Very sharp, Decker thought. He just loved it when they filed stuff away. “Know what I think?” he said. “I think the Gault family needs to be tested. Scientifically, I mean. I think maybe there’s a genetic deficiency that prevents you people from telling the truth. I think the Mayo Clinic might be very interested.”
She rolled her eyes, a little ditty right out of high school. It was supposed to be cool but it came off as nervous.
“I won’t stay long,” Decker said, “but we need to talk.”
“I don’t feel like talking,” Lanie said, “but you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I’m not tired.”
She crossed her legs up under the robe and glanced over at him. Something in the stale motel room smelled fresh and wonderful, and it definitely wasn’t Parfum de Days Inn. It was Lanie; she was one of those women who just naturally smelled like a spring day. Or maybe it just seemed that way because she looked so good. Whatever the phenomenon, Decker had the sense to realize he was in trouble, that by walking into her room and letting her hop into bed he had lost all leverage, all hope of getting any answers. He knew he was wasting his time, but he didn’t feel like leaving.