Grinning handsomely, Fast Eddie Spurling slipped the fat fish into the gigantic aquarium and clasped his hands over his head. Reflexively, and without purpose, Decker snapped a few pictures.
The cheaters in the green boat arrived ten minutes before the deadline. They wore no smiles for the fans. Only four bass hung on their stringer, including the two wan specimens that Skink had marked the previous night in the fish trap. Decker got off four frames before the cheaters slung their catch onto the scale and trudged off in a sulk. “Eight-fourteen,” the weighmaster droned through a megaphone. Tenth place, Decker noted; it wasn’t Lockhart, but it still felt good.
Dickie’s boat was the last one to reach the dock. The crowd rustled and shifted; some of the other anglers craned their necks and muttered nervously, but a few pretended not to notice the champ’s arrival. Ed Spurling popped a Budweiser and turned his back on the scene. He was talking to a bigshot from the Stren line company.
Dickie Lockhart pulled off his goggles, smoothed his jumpsuit, and ran a comb through his unnaturally shiny hair. All this, before bounding out of the boat. “Hey,” he said when a fan called out his name. “How you? Hey there! Nice to see ya,” as he threaded through the spectators. A crew from Fish Fever filmed the victory march.
Dickie’s driver, a local boy, remained on his knees in the back of the bass boat, trying to grab the fish out of the livewell. He seemed to be taking a long time. Eventually even Ed Spurling turned to watch.
There were five bass in all, very nice ones. Decker figured the smallest to be four pounds; the biggest was simply grotesque. It had the color of burnt moss and the shape of an old stump. The eyes bulged. The mouth was as wide as a milkpail.
Dickie Lockhart’s helper carried the stringer of fish through the murmuring throng to the weighmaster, who dumped them in a plastic laundry basket. The hawg went on the scale first: twelve pounds, seven ounces. When the weight flashed on the official Rolex digital readout, a few in the crowd whistled and clapped.
Ten grand, Decker thought, just like that. He snapped a picture of Dickie cleaning his sunglasses with a bandanna.
The entire stringer went next. “Thirty-oh-nine,” the weighmaster bellowed. “We’ve got us a winner!”
Decker noticed that the applause was neither unanimous nor ebullient, save for the beer-drooling Rundells, Dickie’s most loyal worshipers.
“Polygraph!” a basser from Reserve shouted angrily.
“Put him on the box,” yelled another, one of Ed Spurling’s people.
Dickie Lockhart ignored them. He grabbed each end of the stringer and lifted the bass for the benefit of the photographers. True-life pictures, he knew, were the essence of product-endorsement advertisements in outdoor magazines. Each of Dickie’s many sponsors desired a special shot of their star and the prizewinning catch, and Lockhart effusively obliged. By the time he had finished posing and deposited the big fish into the tank, the bass were so dead that they sank like stones. The scorer chalked “30-9” next to Dickie’s name on the big board.
R. J. Decker’s camera ran out of film, but he didn’t bother to reload. It was all a waste of time.
The weighmaster handed Lockhart two checks and three sets of keys.
“Just what I need,” the TV star joked, “another damn boat.”
R. J. Decker couldn’t wait to get out, and he pushed the rental car, an anemic four-cylinder compact, as fast as it would go. On Route 51 a gleaming Jeep Wagoneer passed him doing ninety, minimum. The driver looked like Ed Spurling. The passenger had startling straw-blond hair and wore a salmon jogging suit. They both seemed preoccupied.
At the motel the skinny young desk clerk flagged Decker into the lobby.
“I gave the key to your lady friend,” he said with a wink. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Of course not,” Decker said. Catherine—she’d come after all. He almost ran to the room.
The moment he opened the door Decker realized that Skink could no longer be counted among the sane; he had vaulted the gap from eccentric to sociopath.