“Import got him,” Skink said, feeling her stare. “Up on 905 about two hours ago. Little guy’s still warm.”
Winder cleared a spot for Nina to sit down. “How do you know it was a foreign car?” he asked. He truly was curious.
“Low bumper broke his neck, that’s how I know. Usually it’s the tires that do the trick. That’s because the rental companies prefer mid-sized American models. Fords and Chevy’s. We get a ton of rentals up and down this stretch.”
He stripped the skin off the animal and laid it to one side. To Nina he said: “They call me Skink.”
She took a small breath. “I’m Nina. Joe said you were the governor of Florida.”
“Long time ago.” Skink frowned at Winder. “No need to bring it up.”
The man’s voice was a deep, gentle rumble. Nina wondered why the guys who phoned the sex line never sounded like that. She shivered and said: “Joe told me you just vanished. Got up and walked away from the job. It was in all the papers.”
“I’m sure. Did he also tell you that I knew his daddy?”
“Ancient history,” Winder cut in. “Nina, I wanted you to meet this guy because he saved my life the other night.”
Skink sliced the hindquarters off the dead raccoon and placed them side by side in a large fry pan. He said to Nina: “Don’t believe a word of it, darling. The only reason he wanted you to meet me was so you’d understand.”
“Understand what?”
“What’s about to happen.”
Nina looked uncomfortable. With one hand she began twisting the ends of her hair into tiny braids.
“Don’t be nervous,” Joe Winder said, touching her knee.
“Well, what’s he talking about?”
Skink finished with the raccoon carcass and slopped the innards into a grocery bag, which he buried. After he got the fire going, he wiped his palms on the seat of his new canvas trousers, the ones he’d taken off Spearmint Breath. He watched, satisfied as the gray meat began to sizzle and darken in the fry pan.
“I don’t suppose you’re hungry,” Skink said.
“We’ve got other plans.” Nina was cordial but firm.
Skink foraged through a rubble of old crates and lobster traps, mumbled, stomped into the woods. He came back carrying a dirty blue Igloo cooler. He took out three beers, opened one and gave the other two to Nina and Joe Winder.
Before taking a drink, Nina wiped the top of the can on the sleeve of Winder’s shirt. She touched a hand to her neck and said, “So what’s with the collar?”
“Telemetry.” Skink pointed a finger at the sky. “Every week or so, a plane comes around.”
“They think he’s a panther,” Joe Winder explained. “See, it’s a radio collar. He took it off a dead panther.”
Skink quickly added: “But I’m not the one who killed it. It was a liquor truck out of Marathon. Didn’t even stop.”
Nina wasn’t plugging in. After a pause she said, “Joe, don’t forget about our movie.”
Winder nodded. Sometimes he felt they were oceans apart. “The panther’s all but extinct,” he said. “Maybe two dozen left alive. The Game and Fish Department uses radio collars to keep track of where they are.”
Skink drained his beer. “Two nights later, here comes the liquor truck again. Only this time he blows a tire on some barbed wire.”
“In the middle of the road?” Nina said.
“Don’t ask me how it got there. Anyway, I had a good long talk with the boy.”
Winder said, “Jesus, don’t tell me.”
“Cat’s blood was still on the headlights. Fur, too.” Skink spat into the fire. “Cracker bastard didn’t seem to care.”
“You didn’t…”
“No, nothing permanent. Nothing his insurance wouldn’t cover.”
In her smoothest voice Nina asked, “Did you eat the panther, too?”
“No, ma’am,” said Skink. “I did not.”
The big cat was buried a half-mile up the trail, under brilliant bougainvilleas that Skink himself had planted. Joe Winder thought about showing Nina the place, but she didn’t act interested. Darkness was settling in, and the mosquitoes had arrived by the billions. Nina slapped furiously at her bare arms and legs, while Joe Winder shook his head to keep the little bloodsuckers out of his ears.