“First let’s go look for Genie. What if she’s in trouble?”
“We’re all in trouble, Boyd. For heaven’s sake, don’t you read the papers-”
They were interrupted by a single gunshot, the brittle echo soaring away on the wind. A scream followed.
Honey jumped up. “That’s not poachers. It’s the Indian, I bet.”
And away she ran, Shreave hollering after her: “Don’t leave me here! Don’t you fucking leave me all alone!”
In his agitation he toppled sideways, the rope rubbing into the loose folds of his neck. It hurt, yet he seemed able to breathe without difficulty.
Until a voice at the edge of the shadows hissed, “Don’t be scared, asswipe. You ain’t alone.”
Sammy Tigertail ordered his latest voluntary hostage to sit with Gillian and the white man who might or might not be a death spirit. The Indian kept for himself one jug of water and two power bars, and he strictly rationed to the others what remained in the stolen duffel bag. He hadn’t meant to take all the kayakers’ food, but there had been no time to sort the contents.
Alone he receded to the far end of the clearing and hunkered down with the Gibson. He was struggling to pick out the opening notes of “Tunnel of Love” when his spectral nemesis, Wilson, lurched out of the woods. It was the first time that the deceased tourist had appeared while Sammy Tigertail was wide awake, and it caught the young Seminole off guard. He’d been hoping that he had seen the last of the carping corpse.
Wilson looked worse than ever. His sodden clothing was rotting to rags, and the scavengers had made a grisly patchwork of his flesh.
“I asked you to move my body somewhere warm,” he said reproachfully.
“Beat it,” said the Indian.
“That goddamn river is colder than a witch’s titty. And look here what the crabs and snappers did-” Wilson displayed the most gruesome of his recent mutilations. “It’s lonely out there, man.”
“I can’t help you.” Sammy Tigertail had never felt so low. He was failing as a hermit, and failing as the great-great-great-grandson of a Seminole chief. His mission to isolate himself from the corrupt white world had backfired completely; he was now besieged by white people, dead and alive. He’d even kissed one.
“Nice ax.” Wilson nodded admiringly toward the guitar.
“Don’t touch.”
“Can you play ‘Folsom Prison Blues’?”
“Never heard of it.” Sammy Tigertail thought a jolt of pain might expunge the nagging apparition, so he scratched his own forehead with the broken oyster shell that he’d been using for a pick.
The dead tourist did not disappear. “That was really stupid. Now you’re bleeding,” he said. “Actually, I’m jealous.”
“Hey, don’t blame me ’cause your heart gave out. Maybe you should’ve laid off the booze and french fries.” Sammy Tigertail felt a tickle of warmth roll down his nose.
Wilson said, “What about Garth Brooks? You know his stuff, right? I’ll sing one, so you can figure out the chords.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” said the Indian.
Wilson waved him off and began crooning mercilessly about a girl in Louisiana. The lyrics made Sammy Tigertail remember the way he’d felt after his first night with Cindy, before learning of her problems with homemade methamphetamines, check kiting and serial infidelity. He expected he would be no less smitten by Gillian once he slept with her, and no less shattered when her true dysfunctional self emerged. Each new verse of the country song deepened the Indian’s melancholy.
When the white man finished, he said, “Well-can you play it?”
Sammy Tigertail noticed that blood from his self-inflicted laceration was dripping onto the neck of the Gibson. He hurriedly wiped off the frets and braced the instrument upright between his knees. Then he reached for his rifle.
Wilson chuckled. “Don’t waste your bullets, bro.”
With one arm the Seminole aimed the barrel at Wilson’s algae-bearded face. “Worth a try,” he grumbled, and squeezed the trigger.
Wilson didn’t flinch, but on the other side of the clearing one of the women hostages shrieked. Sammy Tigertail felt sick.
“Now you done it,” said the dead tourist, dissolving to fog.
For Dealey, dawn couldn’t come soon enough. After the Seminole had shown up with Boyd Shreave’s girlfriend, Gillian promptly had ratted out the private investigator.
Eugenie Fonda confronted him as if he were a common restroom peeper: “This is for real? Boyd’s wife is paying you to spy on me and him?”
“And take dirty movies,” Gillian interjected helpfully.
“Pitiful.”
Dealey said, “It’s my job. No lectures, please.”
They were sitting in a semicircle sharing dried pineapple chunks and passing a jug of water. Sammy Tigertail sat off by himself, morosely picking at his guitar. There was a consensus that he ought to be left unbothered.
“That’s some scummy job you’ve got,” Eugenie said to Dealey.
“The truth can be scummy merchandise, Miss Fonda. Which, by the way, is a totally bogus name. Your real one is Hill.”
Eugenie nipped her lower lip. “I suppose I should be impressed.”
“Believe me,” Dealey said, “I wish I hadn’t touched this goddamn case-I’ve never run up against so many card-carryin’ fruit-balls in all my life.”
Gillian said, “Tell her how much the guy’s old lady was gonna pay for the money shot! Go on, Lester, she won’t believe it.”
“My name’s not Lester.”
“The what shot?” Eugenie asked.
“Mrs. Shreave happens to be a kink,” Dealey said. “I got all the stills and video she’d ever need, but she wanted more.”
“Needed for what-a divorce? Oh please,” Eugenie said.
Dealey raised his hands. “Why do you think wives hire me?”
Gillian couldn’t restrain herself. “Twenty-five thousand bucks! That’s what she was gonna pay for a triple-X shot of you and your boyfriend. That’s why Lester came all this way.”
“Twenty-five grand?” Eugenie had to laugh.
Dealey said, “For what it’s worth, nobody’s seen the other tapes or pictures except me and my client.”
Which was untrue. However, Dealey felt no need to enlighten Eugenie about the on-line popularity of her stellar blow job at the delicatessen. After all, he’d scrupulously doctored the photograph to obscure her face.
He was surprised to hear her say, “Show me what you got, Lester. I’m curious.”
Gillian piped up eagerly, “Me too. Let’s see.”
“Sorry. It’s all in a lockbox back in Fort Worth.” The investigator thought: What is it with these women?
Gillian colorfully shared the tale of her sorority sister turning up on a Girls Gone Wild video, then she asked Dealey, “What’s the all-time freakiest thing you ever got on tape?”
“That’s easy,” he said. “Threesome in River Oaks-the two guys wore Road Runner masks and the woman was Wile E. Coyote.”
Gillian clapped. “Tell me you didn’t make copies of that one!”
Eugenie steered the conversation back to Lily Shreave’s twenty-five-thousand-dollar offer. “Now, what exactly did she want you to get?”
“The impossible,” Dealey said.
“Nothing’s impossible.”
“She’s got a thing for close-ups. Let’s leave it at that.”
Eugenie smiled cheerlessly. “If I’d known Boyd and I were on camera, I would’ve kicked it up a notch or two.”
“You did just fine,” Dealey said.
Gillian confessed that she’d seen only one porn film, at a fraternity-house party. “The Fellatio Alger Story. It was so boring I fell asleep.”
“Boring wouldn’t be bad after the last two days I’ve had. Boring would be a treat,” the private investigator said.
Eugenie was pacing. “How the hell do we get out of here?”
“Talk to him.” Gillian jerked a thumb across the clearing toward Sammy Tigertail, who appeared to have lapsed into a trance while playing his guitar.
Dealey helped himself to another chunk of pineapple. “Well, I’m gettin’ rescued tomorrow,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re both welcome to hitch a ride-in fact, I’d strongly recommend it.”