Lanie Gault was tied up on the floor.
Not just tied up but tightly wrapped—wound like a mummy from shoulders to ankles in eighty-pound monofilament fishing line.
She was alive, at least. Her eyes were wide open, but upside-down it was hard to read the emotions. Decker noticed that she was naked except for bikini panties and gray Reebok sneakers. Her mouth was sealed; Skink had run a strip of hurricane tape several times around Lanie’s head, gumming her curly brown hair. Decker decided to save the tape for last.
“Don’t move,” he said. As if she’d be going out for cigarettes.
Decker dug a pocket knife from his camera bag. He knelt next to Lanie and began sawing through the heavy strands. Skink had wrapped her about four hundred times, spun her like a top, evidently; cutting her free took nearly thirty minutes. He took extra care with the tape over her mouth.
“Christ,” she gasped, examining the purple grooves in her flesh. Decker helped her to the bed and handed her a blouse from her overnight bag.
“You know,” Lanie said, cool as ever, “that your friend is totally unglued.”
“What did he do to you?”
“You just saw it.”
“Nothing else?”
“This isn’t enough?” Lanie said. “He strung me up like a Christmas turkey. The weird thing was, he never said a word.”
Decker was almost afraid to ask: “Why’d he take your clothes off?”
Lanie shook her head. “He didn’t, that was me. Thought I’d surprise you when you got back. I was down almost to the bare essentials when Bigfoot barged in.”
“We’re sharing the room,” Decker said lamely.
“Cute.”
“He sleeps on the floor.”
“Lucky for you.”
Decker said, “He didn’t act angry?”
“Not really. Annoyed, I guess. He tied me up, grabbed his gear, and took off. Look at me, Decker, look what he did! I got stripes on my tits, stripes all over.”
“They’ll go away,” Decker said, “once the circulation comes back.”
“That line cut into the back of my legs,” Lanie said, examining herself in the mirror.
“I’m sorry,” Decker said. He was impressed that Lanie was taking it so well. “He didn’t say where he was going?”
“I told you, he didn’t say a damn thing, just sang this song over and over.”
Decker was past the point of being surprised. “A song,” he repeated. “Skink was singing?”
“Yeah. ‘Knights in White Satin.’ ”
“Ah.” Moody Blues. The man was a child of the Sixties.
“He’s not much of a crooner,” Lanie grumbled.
“As long as he didn’t hurt you.”
She shot him a look.
“I mean, besides tying you up,” Decker said.
“He didn’t try to pork me, no,” Lanie said, “and he didn’t stick electrodes into my eyeballs, if that’s what you mean. But he’s still totally nuts.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“I could call the cops, you know.”
“What for? He’s long gone.”
Not so long, Lanie thought, maybe fifteen minutes. “Mind if I take a shower?”
“Go ahead.” Decker slumped back on the bed and closed his eyes. Soon he heard water running in the bathroom. He wished it were rain.
Lanie came out, still dripping. Already the purple ligature bars were fading.
“Well, here we are,” she said, a bit too brightly. “Another night, another motel. Decker, we’re in a rut.”
“So to speak.”
“Remember the last time?”
“Sure.”
“Well, don’t get too damn excited,” she said, scowling. She wrapped herself in the towel.
Decker had always been a sucker for fresh-out-of-the-shower women. With considerable effort he pushed ahead with purposeful conversation. “Dennis told you I was here.”
“He mentioned it, yeah.”
“What else did he mention?”
“Just about Dickie and the tournament, that’s all,” Lanie said. She sat on the bed and crossed her legs. “What’s with you? I came all this way and you act like I’ve got a disease.”
“Rough day,” Decker said.
She reached over and took his hand. “Don’t worry about your weird friend, he’ll find his way back to Harney.”
Decker said, “He forgot his plane ticket.” Not to mention the insistent New Orleans bail bondsman; the airline disturbance was a federal rap.
“He’ll be fine,” Lanie said. “Put him on a highway and he’ll eat his way home.”