“He didn’t say a word about the Nights of December?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t ask?”
“No,” Jenna said. “I knew better. He was really wired, Brian. He was in no mood for questions.”
“You’re useless, you know that?”
“Brian!”
“Where’s the garbage?”
“Out on the curb.” Jenna started sniffling; it sounded possibly authentic.
Keyes walked to the street and hauled the ten-gallon bag back into the house. He used a car key to gash it open.
“What’re you doing now?” Jenna asked.
“Looking for Wheaties boxtops. Didn’t you hear?—there’s a big sweepstakes.”
He kicked through guava rinds, putrid cottage cheese, eggshells, tea bags, melon husks, coffee grounds, yogurt cartons, chicken bones and root-beer cans. The newspapers were at the very bottom, soggy and rancid-smelling. Keyes used the toe of his shoe to search for the front page from Friday, December 28. When he found it, he motioned Jenna over. She made a face as she tiptoed through the rank mush.
“This is the one he was clipping?” Keyes asked.
“Right.”
Keyes got on his knees and went through the newspaper, page by sodden page. Jenna backed away and sat on the floor. Pouting would be a waste of energy; Brian scarcely even noticed she was in the room.
He found Skip Wiley’s scissor holes in the real-estate section. A long article had been clipped from the bottom of the first page, and a large display advertisement had been cut out of Page F-17.
Keyes held up the shredded newsprint for Jenna to see; she shrugged and shook her head. “Stay here,” he said. “I need to use your phone.”
Three minutes later he was back. He took her by the hand and said, “Let’s go, we’re running out of time.” Keyes had called a librarian at the Sun. Now he knew what Wiley had clipped out. He knew everything.
“What about this mess?” Jenna complained.
“This is nothing,” Keyes said, yanking her out the front door. “This is a picnic.”
They arrived at the Virginia Key marina within minutes of one another, Skip Wiley by car, the Indian by airboat. The Indian’s round straw hat had blown off during the ride and his wet black hair was windswept behind his ears. Wiley had changed to a flannel shirt, painter’s trousers, and a blue Atlanta Braves baseball cap.
The Mako outboard had been gassed up and tied to a piling. The marina was dark and, once Tommy stopped the airboat, silent. He carefully lifted Kara Lynn into the outboard; she was limp as a rag and her eyes were closed. Her blond hair hung in a stringy mop across half of her face.
“I gave her something to drink,” the Indian said, hopping out. “She’ll sleep for a time.”
“Perfect,” Wiley said. “Look, Tom, I’m damn sorry about Viceroy.”
“It was my fault.”
“Like hell. All he had to do was duck down, but the big black jackass decides to pull a Huey Newton. He really disappointed me, him and his Black Power bullshit—it wasn’t the time or place for it, but the sonofabitch couldn’t resist. A regular moonchild of the sixties.”
Tommy Tigertail’s eyes dulled with grief. “I’ll miss him,” he said.
“Me too, pal.”
“I found these in the airboat.” Tommy held up Viceroy Wilson’s cherished sunglasses.
“Here,” Wiley said. He fitted the glitzy Carreras onto the Indian’s downcast face. “Hey, right out of GQ!”
“Where’s that?” Tommy asked. With the glasses he looked like a Tijuana hit-man.
A pair of pelicans waddled up the dock to see if the two men were generous anglers. The Indian smiled at the goofy-looking birds and said. “Sorry, guys, no fish.”
A red pickup truck with oversized tires pulled into the lot. The driver turned the headlights off and sat with the engine running.
Wiley worriedly glanced over his shoulder.
“It’s all right,” Tommy said. “That’s my ride.”
“Where you off to?”
“I’ve got a skiff waiting at Flamingo, down in the back country. There’s an old chickee up the Shark River, nobody knows about it. The last few weeks I’ve had it stocked with supplies—plenty to last me forever.” Tommy Tigertail had stored enough for two men. Now there would be only one.