The last two members of the motley safari stayed many paces behind and shouldered shorter rifles—semiautomatics, Skink somberly informed Twilly. The men wore jeans, running shoes and navy blue windbreakers with the letters fdle visible on the back.
“Governor Dick’s bodyguards,” Skink said, “with Mini-14s, if I’m not mistaken.”
Twilly didn’t like the odds. The sun was rising behind the knoll, which meant he and the captain would get some cover from the glare. But still…
Skink nudged him. “Make the call, son. I’m not getting any younger.”
Like a disjointed centipede, the hunting party advanced tentatively along the cleft at the base of the grassy slopes. Drawing closer to their prey, the two men out front altered their walk to a furtive stoop, pausing every few steps to rest on their haunches and strategize. The one doing all the pointing would be the guide, Twilly figured, while Robert Clapley would be the one bedecked like an Eddie Bauer model.
Viewed ,from a distant perch, the stalk unfolded as comic mime of a true wild hunt. Whenever the lead duo halted and the men trailing behind would do the same. The bare grass offered the trackers neither protection nor concealment, but none was necessary. The killer rhinoceros continued chewing, unperturbed.
“If you had to take out one of them,” Twilly said to Skink, “who would it be—Governor Dickless?”
“Waste of ammo. They got assembly lines that crank out assholes like him. He wouldn’t even be missed.”
“Stoat, then?”
“Maybe, but purely for the entertainment. Tallahassee has more lobbyists than termites,” Skink said.
“That leaves only Mr. Clapley.” Twilly closed one eye and framed the developer square in the crosshairs. Clapley’s face appeared intent with predatory concentration. Twilly carefully rested a forefinger on the Remington’s trigger.
Skink said: “It’s his project. His goddamned bridge. His hired goon who tried to kill you.”
Twilly exhaled slowly, to relax his shooting arm. The hunting guide and Clapley had approached to within forty yards of the rhinoceros.
“On the other hand,” Skink was saying, “it might be more productive just to snatch the bastard and haul him down to the Glades for three or four months. Just you and me, reeducating his ass on the Shark River.”
Twilly turned his head. “Captain?”
“Could be fun. Like a high-school field trip for young Bob Clapley, or holiday camp!” Skink mused. “We’ll send him home a new man—after the banks have called in his construction loans, of course… ”
“Captain!”
“It’s your call, son.”
“I know it’s my call. Where’s the damn dog?”
“The dog?” Skink sprung up and looked around anxiously. “Oh Jesus.”
So many enthralling smells!
McGuinn reveled in the country morning: Sunrise, on the crest of a green hill, where seemingly everything—leaves, rocks, blades of grass, the dew itself—was laced with strange intoxicating scents. Large animals, McGuinn concluded from their potent musks; jumbos. What could they be? And what sort of place was this?
Although most of the smells that reached the hill were too faint to merit more than a cursory sniff or a territorial spritz of pee, one scent in particular hung fresh and warm, cutting pungently through the light fog. McGuinn was itching to bolt loose and track it.
The scent was not that of a domestic cat or another dog. Definitely not duck or seagull. Negative also for deer, rabbit, raccoon, skunk, muskrat, mouse, toad, turtle or snake. This earthy new animal odor was unlike any the dog had previously encountered. It made his hair bristle and his nose quiver, and it was so heavy in the air that it must have been exuded by a creature of massive proportion. McGuinn yearned to chase down this primordial behemoth and thrash it mercilessly… or at least pester it for a while, until he found something better to do.
In the distance a vehicle stopped and emptied out a new bunch of humans, and soon McGuinn detected other aromas—gasoline exhaust, sunblock, aftershave, coffee, cigar smoke and gun oil. But it was the smell of the mystery beast that beckoned irresistibly. The dog glanced around and saw that nobody was paying attention to him. The young man, Desie’s friend, was preoccupied with pointing a gun down the hill. Similarly distracted was his travel companion, the hairy-faced man who was perfumed indelibly with burnt wood and dead opossum, and on whose wrist was limply fastened the cursed leash.