Viceroy’s bare mahogany head glistened in the rain; the stadium lights twinkled in the ebony panes of his sunglasses. He scowled imperiously at Burt and raised his right fist in a salute that was at least traditional, if not trite.
“Down!” the Indian shouted. The airboat was hurtling straight for one of the goalposts—Tommy would have to make an amazing turn. “Viceroy, get down!”
Kara Lynn saw a rosy flash at the muzzle of Burt’s pistol, but heard no shot.
When she turned, Viceroy Wilson was gone.
With a grimace Tommy Tigertail spun the airboat in a perilous fishtailing arc. It slid sideways against the padded goalpost and bounced off. The Marching Cornhusker majorettes dropped their batons and broke rank, leaving Tommy a clear path to escape. With Kara Lynn crouched fearfully in the bow, the airboat skimmed out of the stadium through the east gate. A getaway tractor-trailer rig had been parked on Seventh Street but the Indian knew he wouldn’t need it; the swales were ankle-deep in rainwater and the airboat glided on mirrors all the way to the Miami River.
Viceroy Wilson lay dead in the east end zone. From the Goodyear blimp it appeared that he was splayed directly over the F in “Fighting Irish,” which had been painted in tall gold letters across the turf.
A babbling congress of cops, orange blazers, drunken fans, and battered Shriners had surrounded the Super Bowl hero. Brian Keyes was there, too, kneeling down and speaking urgently into Viceroy Wilson’s ear, but Viceroy Wilson was answering no questions. He lay face up, his lips curled in a poster-perfect radical snarl. His right hand was so obdurately clenched into a fist that two veteran morticians would later be unable to pry it open. Centered between the three and the one of the kelly-green football jersey was a single bullet hole, which was the object of much squeamish finger pointing.
“I’m telling ya,” the Notre Dame coach was saying, “he’s not one of ours.”
Outside the Orange Bowl, on Fourteenth Avenue, the King of Siam flagged a taxi.
33
Keyes made it from the stadium to Jenna’s house in twenty minutes.
“Hey, there,” she said, opening the screen door. She was wearing a baggy sweatshirt with nothing underneath.
Keyes went into the living room. The coffin was padlocked.
“Open it,” he said.
“But I don’t have a key,” Jenna said. “What’s the matter—he’s alive, isn’t he?”
“Surprise, surprise.”
“I told you!” she exclaimed.
“Put on some goddamn clothes.”
She nodded and went to the bedroom.
“Do you have a hammer?” Keyes called.
“In the garage.”
He found a sledge and carried it back to the living room. Jenna cleared the vase and magazines off the macabre coffee table. She was wearing tan hiking shorts and a navy long-sleeved pullover. She had also put on a bra and some running shoes.
“Look out,” Keyes said. He pounded the padlock three times before the hasp snapped.
Inside the cheap coffin, Skip Wiley’s detritus included yellowed newspaper clippings, old notebooks, mildewed paperbacks, library files purloined from the Sun’s morgue. Keyes sifted through everything in search of a single fresh clue. The best he could do was a sales receipt from a Fort Lauderdale marine dealer.
“Skip bought a boat last week,” Keyes said. “Twenty-one-foot Mako. Eighteen-five, cash. Any idea why?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“When’s the last time he was here?”
“I’m not sure,” Jenna replied.
Keyes grabbed her by the arms and shook hard. He frightened her, which was what he wanted. He wanted her off balance.
Jenna didn’t know how to react, she’d never seen Brian this way. His eyes were dry and contemptuous, and his voice was that of an intruder.
“When was Skip here?” he repeated.
“A week ago, I think. No, last Friday.”
“What did he do?”
“He spent half the day reading the paper,” Jenna said. “That much I remember.”
“Really?”
“Okay, let me think.” She took a deep theatrical breath and put her hands in her pockets. “Okay, he was clipping some stuff from the newspaper—that, I remember. And he was playing his music. Steppenwolf, real loud … I made him turn it down. Then we grilled some bursters with mushrooms, and the Indian man came over and they left. That’s what I remember.”