"Don't blame you. Man's got to have a reason for lying to a cop. I'll see what I can dig up."
They rode the last ten miles in silence; Jim Tile, wishing that Skink would just come out and tell him about it, but knowing there were good reasons not to. The second man was dead, the trooper was sure. Maybe the details weren't all that important.
As he pulled up to the terminal, Jim Tile said, "This Decker, you must think he's all right."
"Seems solid enough."
"Just remember he's got other priorities. He's not working for you."
"Maybe he is," Skink said, "and he just doesn't know it."
"Yet," said Jim Tile.
R. J. Decker was pacing in front of the Eastern Airlines counter when Skink lumbered in, looking like a biker who'd misplaced all his amphetamines. Still, Decker had to admit, the overall appearance was a slight improvement.
"I took a bath," Skink said, "aren't you proud?"
"Thank you."
"I hate airplanes."
"Come on, they're boarding our flight."
At the gate Skink got into an argument with a flight attendant who wouldn't let him carry on his scuba gear.
"It won't fit under the seat," she explained.
"I'll show you where it fits," Skink growled.
"Just check the tanks into baggage," Decker said.
"They'll bust 'em," Skink protested.
"Then I'll buy you new ones."
"Our handlers are very careful," the flight attendant said brightly.
"Troglodytes!" said Skink, and stalked onto the airplane.
"Your friend's a little grumpy this morning," the flight attendant said as she took Decker's ticket coupon.
"He's just a nervous flier. He'll settle down."
"I hope so. You might mention to him that we have an armed sky marshal on board."
Oh, absolutely, Decker thought, what a fine idea.
He found Skink hunkered down in the last row of the tail section.
"I traded seats with a couple Catholic missionaries," Skink explained. "This is the safest place to be if the plane goes down, the last row. Where's your camera gear?"
"In a trunk, don't worry."
"You remembered the tripod?"
"Yes, captain."
Skink was a jangled mess. He fumed and squirmed and fidgeted. He scratched nervously at the hair on his cheeks. Decker had never seen him this way.
"You don't like to fly?"
"Spent half my life on planes. Planes don't scare me. I hate the goddamn things but they don't scare me, if that's what you're getting at." He dug into a pocket of his black denim jacket and brought out the black sunglasses and the flowered shower cap.
"Please don't put those on," Decker said. "Not right now."
"You with the fucking FAA or what?" Skink pulled the rainhat tight over his hair. "Who cares," he said.
The man looks miserable, Decker thought, a true sociopath. It wasn't the airplane, either, it was the people; Skink plainly couldn't stand to be out in public. Under the rainhat he seemed to calm. Behind the charcoal lenses of the sunglasses, Decker sensed, Skink's green eyes had closed.
"Pay no attention to me," he said quietly.
"Take a nap," Decker said. The jet engines, which seemed anchored directly over their heads, drowned Decker's words; the plane started rolling down the runway. Skink said nothing until they were airborne.
Then he shifted in his seat and said: "Bad news, Miami. The Rundell brothers are on this bird. Picking their noses up in first class, if you can believe it. Makes me sick."
Decker hadn't noticed them when he boarded; he'd been preoccupied with Skink. "Did they see you?"
"What do you think?" Skink replied mordantly.
"So much for stealth."
Skink chuckled. "Culver damn near wet his pants."
"He'll be on the phone to Lockhart the minute we're on the ground."
"Can't have that," Skink said. He stared out the window until the flight attendants started moving down the aisle with the lunch trays. Skink lowered the tabletop at his seat and braced his logger's arms on it.
"Ozzie and Culver, they don't know your face."
"I don't think so," Decker said, "but I can't be sure. I believe I stopped in their bait shop once."
"Damn." Skink smoothed the plastic cap against his skull and fingered his long braid of hair. Decker could tell he was cooking up a scheme. "Where does this plane go from New Orleans?" Skink asked.
"Tulsa."
"Good," Skink said. "That's where you're going. As soon as you get there, hop another flight and come back. You got plenty of cash?"
"Yeah, and plastic."
"It's cash you'll need," Skink said. "Most bail bondsmen don't take MasterCard."
Whatever the plan, Decker didn't like it already. "Is it you or me who's going to need bail?"
"Aw, relax," Skink said.
But now it was impossible.
When the stewardess brought the food, Skink glowered from under his cap and snapped: "What in the name of Christ is this slop?"
"Beef Wellington, muffins, a fresh garden salad, and carrot cake."
"How about some goddamn opossum?" Skink said.
The flight attendant's blue buttonlike eyes flickered slightly. "I don't think so, sir, but we may have a chicken Kiev left over from the Atlanta flight."
"How about squirrel?" Skink said. "Squirrel Kiev would be lovely."
"I'm sorry, but that's not on the menu," the stewardess said, the lilt and patience draining from her voice. "Would you care for a beverage this morning?"
"Just possum hormones," Skink said, "and if I don't get some, I'm going to tear this goddamn airplane apart." Then he casually ripped the tray table off its hinges and handed it to the flight attendant, who backpedaled in terror up the aisle.
She was calling for her supervisor when Skink rose from his seat and shouted, "You promised opossum! I called ahead and you promised to reserve a possum lunch. Kosher, too!"
R. J. Decker felt paralyzed. Skink's plan was now evident, and irreversible.
"Fresh opossumor we all die together!" he proclaimed. By now pandemonium was sweeping the tail section; women and children scurried toward the front of the aircraft while the male passengers conferred about the best course of action. Skink's size, apparel, and maniacal demeanor did not invite heroic confrontation at thirty thousand feet.
To Decker it seemed like every passenger in the airplane had turned around to stare at the lunatic in the flowered shower cap.
The aisle cleared as a man with a badge on his shirt came out of first class and hurried toward the trouble.
"Remember, you don't know me!" Skink whispered to Decker.
"No kidding."
The sky marshal, a short stocky man with a bushy mustache, asked R. J. Decker if he would mind moving up a few rows for the remainder of the flight.
"Gladly," Decker said.
The sky marshal carried no gun, just a short billy club and a pair of handcuffs. He sat down in Decker's seat.
"Are you the man with the opossum?" Skink asked.
"Behave yourself," the sky marshal said sternly, "and I won't have to use these." He jangled the handcuffs ominously.
"Please," Skink said, "I'm a heavily medicated man."
The sky marshal nodded. "Everything is fine now. We're only a half-hour from New Orleans."
Soon the plane was calm again and lunch service was resumed. When Decker turned around he saw Skink and the sky marshal chatting amiably.
After landing in New Orleans, the pilot asked all passengers to remain seated for a few minutes. As soon as the cabin door opened, three city policemen and two federal agents in dark suits boarded the plane and led Skink away in handcuffs and leg irons. On the way out he made a point of kissing one of the flight attendants on the earlobe and warning the pilot to watch out for windshear over Little Rock.
The Rundell brothers watched in fascination.
"Where they taking him?" Ozzie wondered.
"The nuthouse, I hope," said Culver. "Let's get going."
R. J. Decker stayed on the plane to Tulsa. Except for one drunken tourist wearing a Disney World tank top and Pluto ears, it was a peaceful flight.
On the night of January 15, Dickie Lockhart got dog-sucking drunk on Bourbon Street and was booted out of a topless joint for tossing rubber nightcrawlers on the dancers. The worms were a freebie from a national tackle company whose sales reps had come to town for the big bass tournament. The sales reps had given Dickie Lockhart four bags of assorted lures and hooks, plus a thousand dollars cash as incentive to win the tournament using the company's equipment. Dickie blew the entire grand in the French Quarter, buying rock cocaine and rainbow-colored cocktails for exquisitely painted women, most of whom turned out to be flaming he-she's out trolling for cock. In disgust Dickie Lockhart had retreated to the strip joints, where at least the boobs were genuine. The trouble happened when he ran out of five-dollar bills for tips; finding only the slippery rubber nightcrawlers in his pockets, he began flicking them up at the nude performers. In his drunken state he was vastly entertained by the way the gooey worms clung to the dancers' thighs and nipples, and would occasionally tangle in their pubic hair. The nightcrawlers looked (and felt) so authentic that the strippers began shrieking and clawing at their own flesh; one frail acrobat even collapsed and rolled about the stage as if she were on fire. Dickie thought the whole scene was hysterical; obviously these girls had never been fishing. He was mildly baffled when the bouncers heaved him out of the joint (hadn't they seen him on TV?), but took some satisfaction when other patrons booed the rough manner in which he was expelled.