"Just what I need," the TV star joked, "another damn boat."
R. J. Decker couldn't wait to get out, and he pushed the rental car, an anemic four-cylinder compact, as fast as it would go. On Route 51 a gleaming Jeep Wagoneer passed him doing ninety, minimum. The driver looked like Ed Spurling. The passenger had startling straw-blond hair and wore a salmon jogging suit. They both seemed preoccupied.
At the motel the skinny young desk clerk flagged Decker into the lobby.
"I gave the key to your lady friend," he said with a wink. "Didn't think you'd mind."
"Of course not," Decker said. Catherine—she'd come after all. He almost ran to the room.
The moment he opened the door Decker realized that Skink could no longer be counted among the sane; he had vaulted the gap from eccentric to sociopath.
Lanie Gault was tied up on the floor.
Not just tied up but tightly wrapped—wound like a mummy from shoulders to ankles in eighty-pound monofilament fishing line.
She was alive, at least. Her eyes were wide open, but upside-down it was hard to read the emotions. Decker noticed that she was naked except for bikini panties and gray Reebok sneakers. Her mouth was sealed; Skink had run a strip of hurricane tape several times around Lanie's head, gumming her curly brown hair. Decker decided to save the tape for last.
"Don't move," he said. As if she'd be going out for cigarettes.
Decker dug a pocket knife from his camera bag. He knelt next to Lanie and began sawing through the heavy strands. Skink had wrapped her about four hundred times, spun her like a top, evidently; cutting her free took nearly thirty minutes. He took extra care with the tape over her mouth.
"Christ," she gasped, examining the purple grooves in her flesh. Decker helped her to the bed and handed her a blouse from her overnight bag.
"You know," Lanie said, cool as ever, "that your friend is totally unglued."
"What did he do to you?"
"You just saw it."
"Nothing else?"
"This isn't enough?" Lanie said. "He strung me up like a Christmas turkey. The weird thing was, he never said a word."
Decker was almost afraid to ask: "Why'd he take your clothes off?"
Lanie shook her head. "He didn't, that was me. Thought I'd surprise you when you got back. I was down almost to the bare essentials when Bigfoot barged in."
"We're sharing the room," Decker said lamely.
"Cute."
"He sleeps on the floor."
"Lucky for you."
Decker said, "He didn't act angry?"
"Not really. Annoyed, I guess. He tied me up, grabbed his gear, and took off.Look at me, Decker, look what he did! I got stripes on my tits, stripes all over."
"They'll go away," Decker said, "once the circulation comes back."
"That line cut into the back of my legs," Lanie said, examining herself in the mirror.
"I'm sorry," Decker said. He was impressed that Lanie was taking it so well. "He didn't say where he was going?"
"I told you, he didn't say a damn thing, just sang this song over and over."
Decker was past the point of being surprised. "A song," he repeated. "Skink was singing?"
"Yeah. 'Knights in White Satin.' "
"Ah." Moody Blues. The man was a child of the Sixties.
"He's not much of a crooner," Lanie grumbled.
"As long as he didn't hurt you."
She shot him a look.
"I mean, besides tying you up," Decker said.
"He didn't try to pork me, no," Lanie said, "and he didn't stick electrodes into my eyeballs, if that's what you mean. But he's still totally nuts."
"I'm aware of that."
"I could call the cops, you know."
"What for? He's long gone."
Not so long, Lanie thought, maybe fifteen minutes. "Mind if I take a shower?"
"Go ahead." Decker slumped back on the bed and closed his eyes. Soon he heard water running in the bathroom. He wished it were rain.
Lanie came out, still dripping. Already the purple ligature bars were fading.
"Well, here we are," she said, a bit too brightly. "Another night, another motel. Decker, we're in a rut."
"So to speak."
"Remember the last time?"
"Sure."
"Well, don't get too damn excited," she said, scowling. She wrapped herself in the towel.
Decker had always been a sucker for fresh-out-of-the-shower women. With considerable effort he pushed ahead with purposeful conversation. "Dennis told you I was here."
"He mentioned it, yeah."
"What else did he mention?"
"Just about Dickie and the tournament, that's all," Lanie said. She sat on the bed and crossed her legs. "What's with you? I came all this way and you act like I've got a disease."
"Rough day," Decker said.
She reached over and took his hand. "Don't worry about your weird friend, he'll find his way back to Harney."
Decker said, "He forgot his plane ticket." Not to mention the insistent New Orleans bail bondsman; the airline disturbance was a federal rap.
"He'll be fine," Lanie said. "Put him on a highway and he'll eat his way home."
Decker perked up. "So you know about Skink?"
"He's a legend," Lanie said. She started unbuttoning Decker's shirt. "One rumor is he's a mass murderer from Oregon. Another says he's ex-CIA, helped kill Trujillo. One story goes he's hiding from the Warren Commission."
"Those are first-rate," Decker said, but he had nothing more plausible to offer in the way of Skink theories. A bomber for the Weather Underground. Owsley's secret chemist. Lead singer for the Grass Roots. Take your pick.
"Come under the covers," Lanie said, and before Decker knew it the towel was on the floor and she was sliding between the muslin sheets. "Come on, you tell me about your rough day."
This, thought Decker, from a woman who'd just been strung up nude by a madman. Good old irrepressible Lanie Gault.
Later she got hungry. Decker said there was a good burger joint down the street, but Lanie nagged him into driving all the way to New Orleans. She tossed her overnight bag in the back seat and announced that she'd get her own room in the Quarter because she didn't want to stay at the Quality Court, in case Skink returned. Decker didn't blame her one bit.
They went to the Acme for raw oysters and beer. Lanie kept making suggestive oyster remarks while Decker smiled politely, wishing like hell he were back in Miami, alone in his trailer. He had enjoyed rolling around in bed with her—at least he'd thought so at the time—but was having difficulty recalling any of the prurient details.
Shortly after midnight he excused himself, went to a pay phone on Iberville, and called Jim Tile in Florida. Decker told him what had happened with Skink, Lanie, and the bass tournament.
"Man," the trooper said. "He tied her up?"
"And took off."
"Come on home," Tile said.
"What about Skink?"
"He'll be all right. He gets these moods."
Decker told Tile about Skink's histrionics on the airplane. "He has arraignment tomorrow," Decker said. "In the federal building on Poydras. If he calls, Jim, please remind him."
Tile said, "Don't hold your breath."
Lanie had ordered another dozen on the half-shell while Decker was on the phone.
"I'm stuffed," he said, but ate one anyway.
"Dennis says you're getting close to Lockhart."
She'd been trying all night to find out what happened with the tournament. Decker hadn't said much.
Lanie said, "I heard on the radio that Dickie won."
"That's right." Radio? What kind of radio station covers a fish tournament? Decker wondered.
"Did he cheat again?" Lanie asked.
"I don't know. Probably." Decker paused. "I'll send your brother a full report."