Skink grunted. "Long as it takes. They'll be here soon."
"How can you be sure?"
"The fish," Skink said. He meant the two bass he had left in the fish trap, the ones he had marked with the pliers. "The longer you leave 'em, the worse they look. Bang their heads against the wire, get all fucked up. They'd stand out bad at the weigh-in. The trick is to get 'em fresh."
"Makes sense," Decker said.
"Well, these boys aren't stupid."
On this point Decker and Skink disagreed.
After fifteen minutes they heard the sound of another boat. Skink slid to his knees and Decker took his position at the tripod camera. A boat with a glittering green metal-flake hull drifted into the Nikon's frame; the man up front held a fishing rod and used a foot pedal to control a small electric motor. The motor made a purring sound; it was designed to maneuver the boat silently, so as not to frighten the bass. The angler seated in the stern was casting a purple rubber worm and working the lure as a snake, the way Skink had showed Decker that night on Lake Jesup.
Unfortunately, neither of the men in the green boat happened to be Dickie Lockhart searching for his traps; they were just ordinary fishermen. After a while they glided away, still working the shoreline intently, seldom speaking to one another. Decker didn't know if the men were contestants in the big tournament, but thought they probably must be, judging by the grim set to their jawlines.
An hour passed and no other boats went by. Skink leaned back, propping his shoulders against the plastic cowling of the outboard motor. He looked thoroughly relaxed, much happier than he had seemed in the motel room. A blue heron joined them in the shade of the highway. Head cocked, it waded the shallows in slow motion, finally spearing a small bluegill. Skink laughed out loud and clapped his hands appreciatively. "Now, that's fishing!" he exclaimed, but the noise startled the gangly bird, which squawked and flapped away, dropping the bluegill. No bigger than a silver dollar, the wounded fish swam in addled circles, flashing in the brown water. Skink leaned over and snatched it with one sure swipe.
"Please," Decker protested.
Skink shrugged. "Gonna die anyway,"
"I promise, we'll get a big lunch at Middendorf's—"
But it was too late. Skink gulped the fish raw.
"Christ." Decker looked away. He hoped like hell they wouldn't see any snakes.
"Protein," Skink said, muffling a burp.
"I'll stick to Raisin Bran."
Stiffly Decker stood up to stretch his legs. He was beginning to think Dickie Lockhart wouldn't show up. What if he'd gotten spooked by finding the other traps empty? What if he'd decided to play it safe and fish honestly? Skink had assured him that no such change of plans was possible, too much was at stake. Not just first-place prize money but crucial points in the national bass standings—and don't forget the prestige. Damn egos, Skink had said, these boys make Reggie Jackson seem humble by comparison.
"Any sign of the Rundell brothers this morning?" Skink asked.
"Not that I saw," Decker said.
"You can bet your ass they'll show up at the weigh-in. We'll have to be careful. You look worried, Miami."
"Just restless."
Skink sat forward. "You been thinking about the dead guy back in Harney, am I right?"
"Dead guys, plural."
"See why Bobby Clinch got killed in the Coon Bog," Skink said. "He was looking for fish cages, same as we were last night. Only Bobby wasn't too careful. The Bog is probably where Dickie hides some big mother hawgs."
Decker said, "It's not just Clinch that bothers me, it's the other two."
Skink propped his chin in his hands. He was doing his best to appear sympathetic. "Look at it like this: the creep I killed probably killed your pal the Armadillo."
"Is that how you look at it?"
"I don'tlook at it," Skink said, "period."
"He shot at us first," Decker said, almost talking to himself.
"Right."
"But we should have gone to the cops."
"Don't be a jackass. You want your fucking name in the papers? Not me," Skink said. "I got no appetite for fame."
Decker had been dying to ask. "What exactly did you do," he said to Skink, "before this?"
"Before this?" Skink plucked off his shades. "I made mistakes."
"Something about you does look familiar," Decker said. "Something about the mouth."
"Used to leave it open a lot," Skink said.
"I think it's the teeth," Decker was saying.
Skink's forest-green eyes sparkled. "Ah, the teeth." He grinned, quite naturally.
But R. J. Decker couldn't make the connection. The brief governorship of Clinton Tyree had occurred before Decker's newspaper days and before he paid much attention to statewide politics. Besides, the face now smiling at him from beneath the flowered bathcap was so snarled and seamed that the governor's closest friends might have had trouble recognizing him.
"What's the story?" Decker asked earnestly. "Are you wanted somewhere?"
"Not wanted," Skink said. "Lost."
But before Decker could press for more, Skink raised a fishy brown finger to his lips. Another boat was coming.
Coming fast, and from the opposite direction. Skink motioned to Decker and they shrank to the deck of the narrow johnboat. The sound of the other outboard stopped abruptly, and Decker heard men's voices behind them. The voices seemed very close, but he was afraid to get up and look.
"You have a talk with that fuckin' guy tonight!" said one man.
"I said I would, didn't I?" Another voice.
"Find out if he was followed or what."
"He woulda said somethin'."
"Mebbe. Mebbe he's just bean a smardass. Ever thoughta that?"
"I'll talk to him. Christ, was it the third piling or the fourth?"
"The fourth," said the first voice. "See, there's the line."
The fishermen had spotted the submerged trap. Decker carefully lifted himself from the bottom of the johnboat and inched toward the camera in the bow. Skink nodded and motioned that it was safe to move. The poachers' voices bounced back and forth off the concrete under 1-55.
" 'Least the fuckers didn't find this one."
"Pull it up quick."
Decker studied the two men through the camera. They had their backs toward him. Under the caps one looked blondish and one had thick black hair, like Dickie Lockhart's. Both seemed like large men, though it was difficult to tell how much of the bulk was winter clothing. The bass boat itself was silver and blue, with an unreadable name in fancy script along the side. Decker kept the camera trained on the fishermen. His forefinger squeezed the shutter button while his thumb levered the rewind. He had snapped six frames and still the men had not turned around.
It was maddening. Decker could see that they had the fish cage out of the water. 'They won't turn around," he whispered to Skink. "I haven't got the picture yet."
From the back of the boat Skink acknowledged with a grunt. He flipped his sunglasses down. "Get ready," he said.
Then he screamed, a piercing feral cry that made Decker shiver. The unhuman quavering echo jolted both fishermen and caused them to drop the wire cage with a commotion. Clutching their precious captive bass, they wheeled to face a screeching bobcat, or maybe even a panther, but instead saw only the empty mocking glades. Swiftly, Decker fired away. His camera captured every detail of bewilderment in the two men's faces, including the bolt of fear in their eyes.
Two men who definitely were not Dickie Lockhart.
"So what now?"
"Eat," Skink said through a mouthful of fried catfish. They sat at a corner table in Middendorf's. No one seemed to notice their camouflage suits.
Decker said, "Wait till Gault hears we tailed the wrong guys."
Skink had momentarily turned his attention to a bowl of drippy coleslaw. "Maybe not," he said. "Maybe they work for Lockhart."