Where the rage of the vultures, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime?”
Quietly, Twilly said, “But I’m already there, captain.”
“I know you are, son.” Slowly he lowered his head, the braids of his beard trailing down like strands of silver moss. The two bird beaks touched hooks as they dangled at his chest.
“Lord Byron?” Twilly asked.
Skink nodded, looking pleased. “The Bride of Abydos.”
With a thumb Twilly tested his bandaged wound. The pain was bearable, even though the dope was wearing off. He said, “I suppose you heard about this big-game trip.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know where it is.”
Here was Skink’s chance to end it. He could not.
“I do know where,” he said, and repeated what Lisa June Peterson had told him.
“So, what do you think?” Twilly asked.
“I think a canned hunt is as low as it gets.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Ah. You mean as the potential scene of an ambush?”
“Well, I keep thinking about Toad Island,” Twilly said, “and how to stop that damn bridge.”
Skink’s blazing eye was fixed on the highway, the cars and trucks streaking past. “Look at these fuckers,” he said softly, as if to himself. “Where could they all be going?”
Twilly slid off the hood of the station wagon. “I’ll tell you where I’m going, Governor, I’m going to Ocala. And on the way I intend to stop at a friendly firearms retailer and purchase a high-powered rifle. Want one?”
“The recoil will do wonders for your shoulder.”
“Yeah, it’ll hurt like a sonofabitch, I imagine.” Twilly plucked the car keys from Skink’s fingers. “You don’t want to come, I can drop you in Lake City.”
“That’s how you treat a folk hero? Lake City?”
“It’s hot out here. Let’s get back on the road.”
Skink said, “Did I miss something? Is there a plan?”
“Not just yet.” Twilly Spree licked his lips and whistled for the dog.
28
Durgess warmed his hands on a cup of coffee while Asa Lando gassed up the big forklift. It was three hours until sunrise.
“You sure about this?” Durgess asked.
“He ain’t moved since yesterday noon.”
“You mean he ain’t woke up.”
“No, Durge. He ain’t moved.”
“But he’s still breathin’, right?”
Asa Lando said, “For sure. They said he even took a dump.”
“Glory be.”
“Point is, it’s perfectly safe. Jeffy isn’t going anywheres.”
Durgess poured his coffee in the dirt and entered the building marked Quarantine One. Asa Lando drove the forklift around from the rear. The rhinoceros was on its chest and knees, a position the veterinarian had described as “sternal recumbency.” The vet had also estimated the animal’s age at thirty-plus and used the word dottering, which Asa Lando took to mean “at death’s door.” Time was of the essence.
Durgess opened the stall and Asa Lando rolled in atop the forklift. They couldn’t tell if the rhino was awake or asleep, but Durgess kept a rifle ready. El Jefe exhibited no awareness of the advancing machine. Durgess thought he saw one of the ears twitch as Asa Lando cautiously slid the steel tines beneath the rhino’s massive underbelly. Slowly the fork began to rise, and a tired gassy sigh escaped the animal’s bristly nostrils. Hoisted off the matted straw, the great armored head sagged and the stringy tail swatted listlessly at a swarm of horseflies. The stumpy legs hung motionless, like four scuffed gray drums.
“Easy now,” Durgess called, as Asa Lando backed out the forklift and headed for the flatbed truck. Durgess was astounded: Suspended eight feet in the air, the rhinoceros was as docile as a dime-store turtle. A tranquilizer dart would have put the damn thing into a coma.
In preparation for the fragile cargo, Asa Lando had padded the truck bed with two layers of king-sized mattresses. Upon being deposited there, the pachyderm blinked twice (which Durgess optimistically interpreted as a sign of curiosity). Asa tossed up an armful of fresh-cut branches and said, “Here go, Mr. El Jeffy. Breakfast time!”
Durgess himself had selected the location for the kill: an ancient moss-covered live oak that stood alone at the blue-green cleft of two vast grassy slopes, about a mile from the Wilderness Veldt lodge. A hundred years ago the land had produced citrus and cotton, but back-to-back winter freezes had prompted a switch to more durable crops—watermelon, cabbage and crookneck squash. It was the sons and grandsons of those early vegetable growers who eventually abandoned the farm fields and sold out to the Wilderness Veldt Plantation Corporation, which turned out to be co-owned by a Tokyo-based shellfish cartel and a Miami Beach swimsuit designer named Minton Tweeze.