"We need to talk," the detective said mildly. "See you in about thirty."
Garcia was sitting on something, that much was certain. Decker shaved and put on a fresh shirt. He could easily guess what must have happened. A Louisiana cop probably had found those three dirtbags that Decker had clobbered along the interstate. They would have sworn that this scoundrel from Miami had flagged them down and robbed them, of course. A tracer on the Hertz car would have yielded Decker's name and address, and from then on it was only a matter of professional courtesy. Al Garcia was probably bringing a bench warrant from St. Charles Parish.
Decker was not especially eager to return, or be returned, to Louisiana. He figured he could beat the phony assault rap from the highway robbers, but what if the Lockhart case broke open in the meantime? Decker didn't want to be around if Skink got arrested.
Skink was the big problem. If Decker hadn't enlisted the mad hermit into the case, Dickie Lockhart would still be alive. On the other hand, it was probably Lockhart who had arranged the murders of Robert Clinch and then Ott Pickney. Decker didn't know exactly what to do next; it was a goddamn mess. He had come to like Skink and he hated the thought of him going to the gas chamber over a greedy sleazoid such as Lockhart, but murder was murder. As he straightened up the trailer—a week's worth of moldy laundry, mainly—Decker toyed with the idea of telling Garcia the whole story; it was so profoundly weird that even a Miami cop might be sympathetic. But Decker decided to hold off, for the moment. There appeared to be a good chance that Skink might never be found, or even identified as a suspect. Decker also understood that Skink might see absolutely nothing wrong in what he did, and would merely appear one day to take full credit for the deed. This was always a possibility when dealing with the chronically unraveled.
The news from Louisiana was relatively sparse. In the two days Decker had been back in Florida, the local newspapers had run only a couple of four-paragraph wire stories about Dickie Lockhart's murder at the bass tournament—robbery believed to be the motive; no prints, no suspects; services to be held in Harney County. The stories probably would have gotten better play had it not been for the biannual mass murder in Oklahoma; this time it was twelve motorists shot by a disgruntled toll-booth operator who was fed up with people not having exact change.
After trying Catherine, Decker had made three attempts to reach Dennis Gault. Various disinterested secretaries had reported that the sugarcane baron was on long distance, in a conference, or out of town. Decker had not left his name or a message. What he had wanted to tell Gault was that the case was over (obviously) and that he was pocketing twenty grand of the advance for time and expenses. Gault would bitch and argue, but not too much. Not if he had any brains.
Al Garcia showed up right on time. Decker heard the car door slam and waited for a knock. Then he heard another car pull up the gravel drive, and another. He looked out the window and couldn't believe it: Al's unmarked Chrysler, plus two green-and-whites—a whole damn posse for a lousy agg assault. Then a terrible thought occurred to him: What if it were something more serious? What if one of those Louisiana dirtbags had actually died? That would explain the committee.
The cops were out of their squad cars, having a huddle in front of Decker's trailer. Garcia's cigarette bobbed up and down as he talked to the uniformed officers.
"Shit," Decker said. The neighbors would be absolutely thrilled; this was good for a year's worth of gossip. Where were the pit bulls when you needed them?
Decker figured the best way to handle the scene was to stroll outside and say hello, as if nothing were out of the ordinary. He was two steps from opening the door when something the approximate consistency of granite crashed down on the base of his neck, and he fell headlong through a dizzy galaxy of white noise and blinding pinwheels.
When he awoke, Decker felt like somebody had screwed his skull on crookedly. He opened his eyes and the world was red.
"Don't fucking move."
A man had him from behind, around the neck. It was a military hold, unbreakable. One good squeeze and Decker would pass out again. A large gritty hand was clapped over his mouth. The man's chin dug into Decker's right shoulder, and his breath whistled warmly in Decker's ear.
Even when Decker's head cleared, the red didn't go away. The intruder had dragged him into the darkroom, turned on the photo light, and locked the door. From somewhere, remotely, Decker heard Al Garcia calling his name. It sounded like the detective was outside the trailer, shouting in through a window. Probably didn't have a search warrant, Decker thought; that was just like Garcia, everything by the bloody book. Decker hoped that Al would take a chance and pop the lock on the front door. If that happened, Decker was ready to make some serious noise.
Decker's abductor must have sensed something, because he brutally tightened his hold. Instantly Decker felt bug-eyed and queasy. His arms began to tingle and he let out an involuntary groan.
"Ssshhh," the man said.
Forced to suck air through his nose, Decker couldn't help but notice that the man smelled. Not a stink, exactly, but a powerful musk, not altogether unpleasant. Decker tuned out Garcia's muffled shouts, closed his eyes, and concentrated. The smell was deep swamp and animal, sweet pine tinged with carrion. Mixed in were fainter traces of black bog mud and dried sweat and old smoke. Not tobacco smoke, either, but the woodsy fume of campfires. Suddenly Decker felt foolish. He abandoned all thought of a struggle and relaxed in the intruder's bearlike grip.
The voice in his ear whispered, "Nice going, Miami."
R. J. Decker was right. Al Garcia didn't have a search warrant. What he had, stuffed in an inside pocket of his J. C. Penney suit jacket, was a bench warrant for Decker's arrest, which had been Federal Expressed that morning all the way from New Orleans. The warrant was as literate and comprehensible as could be expected, but it did not give Al Garcia the right to bust down the door to Decker's trailer.
"Why the hell not?" asked one of the uniformed cops.
"No PC," Garcia snapped. PC was probable cause.
"He's hiding in the can, I bet."
"Not Decker," Garcia said.
"I don't want to wait around," the other cop said.
"Oh, you got big plans, Billy?" Garcia said. "Late to the fucking opera maybe?"
The cop turned away.
Garcia grumbled. "I don't want to wait either," he said. He was tired of hollering through Decker's window and he was also pissed off. He had driven all the way out here as a favor, and regretted it. He hated trailer parks; trailer parks were the reason God invented tornadoes. Garcia could have sent only the green-and-whites, but Decker was a friend and this was serious business. Garcia wanted to hear his side of it, because what the Louisiana people had told him so far was simply not believable.
"You want me to disable his vehicle?" asked the uniformed cop named Billy.
"What are you talking about?"
"Flatten the tires, so he can't get away."
Garcia shook his head. "No, that won't be necessary." The standards at the police academy had gone to hell, that much was obvious. Anybody with an eighteen-inch neck could get a badge these days.
"He said he'd be here, right?" the other cop asked.
"Yeah," Garcia mumbled, "that's what he said."
So where was he? Why hadn't he taken his own car? Garcia was more miffed than curious.
The cop named Billy said, "Suppose the jalousies on the back door suddenly fell out? Suppose we could crawl right in?"
"Suppose you go sit under that palm tree and play with yourself," Garcia said.
Christ, what a day. It began when the Hialeah grave robbers struck again, swiping seven human skulls in a predawn raid on a city cemetery. At first Garcia had refused to answer the call on the grounds that it wasn't really a murder, since the victims of the crime were already dead. One of them in particular had been dead since before Al Garcia was born, so he didn't think it was practical, or fair, that he should have to reinvestigate. Everybody in the office had agreed that technically it wasn't a homicide; more likely petty larceny. What could a crumbly old skull be worth on the street? they had asked. Fifteen, twenty bucks, tops. Unfortunately, it developed that one of the rudely mutilated cadavers belonged to the uncle of a Miami city commissioner, so the case had hastily been elevated to a priority status and all detectives were admonished to keep their sick senses of humor to themselves.