Skink said, “I got some goop if you want it. Great stuff.” He held his arms out in the firelight. The left one was engulfed by black mosquitoes; the right one was untouched.
“It’s called EDTIAR,” Skink said. “Extended Duration Topical Insect/Arthropod Repellent. I’m a field tester for the U.S. Marines; they pay me and everything.” Studiously he began counting the bites on his left arm.
Nina, on the shrill edge of misery, whacked a big fat arthropod on Joe Winder’s cheek. “We’ve got to get going,” she said.
“They’re nasty tonight,” Skink said sympathetically. “I just took seventeen hits in thirty seconds.”
Winder himself was getting devoured. He stood up, flailing his own torso. The bugs were humming in his eyes, his mouth, his nostrils.
“Joe, what’s the point of all this?” Nina asked.
“I’m waiting for him to tell me who killed Will Koocher.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
Skink said, “We’re in dangerous territory now.”
“I don’t care,” Winder said. “Tell me what happened. It had something to do with the mango voles, I’m sure.”
“Yes,” said Skink.
Nina announced that she was leaving. “I’m getting eaten alive, and we’re going to miss the movie.”
“Screw the movie,” said Joe Winder, perhaps too curtly.
For Nina was suddenly gone—down the trail, through the woods. Snapping twigs and muffled imprecations divulged her path.
“Call me Mr. Charm,” Winder said.
Skink chuckled. “You’d better go. This can wait.”
“I want to know more.”
“It’s the voles, like you said.” He reached into his secondhand trousers and took out a bottle so small it couldn’t have held more than four ounces. He pressed it into the palm of Joe Winder’s right hand.
“Ah, the magic bug goop!”
“No,” Skink said. “Now take off, before Snow White gets lost in the big bad forest.”
Blindly Winder jogged down the trail after his girlfriend. He held one arm across his face to block the branches from slashing him, and weaved through the low viny trees like a halfback slipping tacklers.
Nina had given up her solo expedition forty yards from Skink’s campsite, and that’s where Winder found her, leaning against the slick red trunk of a gumbo-limbo.
“Get us out of here,” she said, brushing a squadron of plump mosquitoes from her forehead.
Out of breath, Winder gave her a hug. She didn’t exactly melt in his arms. “You were doing fine,” he said. “You stayed right on the trail.”
They were in the car, halfway to Homestead, when she spoke again: “Why can’t you leave it alone? The guy’s nothing but trouble.”
“He’s not crazy, Nina.”
“Oh right.”
“A man was murdered. I can’t let it slide.”
She picked a buttonwood leaf from her sleeve, rolled down the window and flicked the leaf away. She said, “If he’s not crazy, then how come he lives the way he does? How come he wears that electric collar?”
“He says it keeps him on his toes.” Joe Winder plugged a Zevon tape in the stereo. “Look, I’m not saying he’s normal. I’m just saying he’s not crazy.”
“Like you would know,” Nina said.
FIFTEEN
On Sunday, July 22, Charles Chelsea got up at eight-thirty, showered, shaved, dressed (navy slacks, Cordovan loafers, blue oxford shirt, burgundy necktie), trimmed his nose hairs, splashed on about three gallons of Aramis and drove off to work in his red Mazda Miata, for which he had paid thirty-five hundred dollars over dealer invoice.
Chelsea had two important appointments at the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. One of them would be routine, and one promised to be unpleasant. He had not slept well, but he didn’t feel exceptionally tired. In fact, he felt surprisingly confident, composed, tough; if only he could remain that way until his meeting with Joe Winder.
A crew from Channel 7 was waiting outside the main gate. The reporter was an attractive young Latin woman wearing oversized sunglasses. Chelsea greeted her warmly and told her she was right on time. They all got in a van, which was driven by a man wearing a costume of bright neoprene plumes. The man introduced himself as Baldy the Eagle, and said he was happy to be their host. He began a long spiel about the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills until Charles Chelsea flashed his ID badge, at which point the bird man shrugged and shut up. Chelsea slapped his arm when he tried to bum a Marlboro off the Channel 7 cameraman.