Then he pulled the flowered shower cap down tight on his hair, excused himself with a mumble, walked outside, and waited on the beach. The first incoming jet was an Eastern 727 from La Guardia; the second was a United DC-10 from Chicago via St. Louis; the third was a Bahamas Air shuttle carrying day gamblers back from Freeport. None of the airliners went down or even smoked, though Skink was sure he dinged the bellies a couple of times. The noise of the gunfire was virtually smothered by the roar of the jets and the heavy-metal wail of Bon Jovi from some teenybopper’s boom box. In all Skink got off eleven rounds from the nine-millimeter Browning before he spied the lifeguard’s Jeep speeding toward him down the beach. The Jeep was at least three-quarters of a mile away, giving Skink plenty of time to jog back to the hotel, duck into a john in the lobby, and work on his appearance.
When he got back to the room, the shower cap and sunglasses were in his pocket, the orange rainsuit was folded under one arm, and his long braid of hair was tucked down the back of his shirt. R. J. Decker asked what happened and Skink told him.
“Excellent,” Decker said. “Let’s see, by my estimate that means we’re now wanted by the Metro-Dade police, the highway patrol, the marine patrol, and now the FAA and FBI. Am I leaving anybody out?”
Skink settled listlessly on the floor.
Catherine said, “R.J., you’ve got to get him out of the city.”
Decker said, “My father, rest his soul, would be so proud to know that he raised a fugitive. Not every FBI man can make that claim.”
“I’m sorry,” Skink sighed.
It was the most pathetic thing Decker had ever heard him say—and in one way the scariest. Skink acted like he was on the brink of losing it. Decker leaned over and said, “Captain, why were you shooting at airplanes?”
“Look who they’re bringing,” Skink said. “They’re bringing the suckers to Lunker Lakes. The Reverend Weeb’s lucky lemmings.” He seemed out of breath. He motioned for Catherine to hand him the OCN prospectus. With a brown crusty finger he went down the names of directors.
“These guys,” he said hoarsely. “I know a few.”
“From where?” Catherine asked.
“It’s not important. Twenty-nine thousand units in the Everglades is what’s important. Christian city, my ass. It’s the crime of the damn century. These guys are like cockroaches, you can’t fucking get rid of ’em.”
Decker said, “It’s too late, captain. Dredging started a year ago.”
“Jesus,” Skink said, biting his lip. He put on his sunglasses and bowed his head. He didn’t look up for some time. Decker/glanced over at Catherine. She was right: they had to get Skink back to the woods.
From the hallway came sounds of men talking but trying not to be heard. Then a knock on the door to the next room; another knock across the hall.
“Hotel security,” a male voice said.
R. J. Decker motioned Skink toward the bathroom. He nodded and crab-walked across the floor, shutting the door behind him. Quickly Decker peeled off his shirt and drew the shades. “Take off your shoes,” he whispered to Catherine, “and lie down here on the bed.” She figured out the plan immediately. She was down to bra and panties and under the covers before Decker even got a good peek.
A man knocked three times on the door.
“Whoze it?” Decker hollered. “Go ‘way.”
“Hotel security, please open up.”
“We’re sleeping!”
Another voice: “Police!”
Decker stomped to the door as noisily as possible. He cracked it just enough to give the men a narrow view of Catherine in the bed.
“What’s the problem?” Decker demanded.
A blue-suited young man with a walkie-talkie stood next to a disinterested uniformed cop. The security man said, “Sir, there was an incident out on the beach. A man with a gun—nobody was hurt.”
“That’s damn good to hear,” Decker said impatiently.
The cop said, “You haven’t seen anyone unusual up on this floor?”
“For the last couple hours I haven’t seen nuthin’,” Decker said, “except stars.” He nodded over his shoulder, toward Catherine. The security man looked a little embarrassed.