The airboat bounded up alongside Viceroy Wilson and coasted to a stop. Wilson heaved Kara Lynn Shivers onto the deck as if she were a sandbag. By now the stadium crowd had figured out that this was not part of the show and started to scream witlessly. The Orange Bowl chairman was on his feet, yelling for the cops, while Sparky Harper's Chamber of Commerce successor frantically tried to sabotage the cables on one of NEC's portable Minicams. Meanwhile some of the real Notre Dame football players ambled onto the field to watch the commotion; Tommy Tigertail feared that they might soon get chivalrous notions.
"Hurry," he said to Viceroy Wilson.
Wilson had one foot in the airboat when Burt's Harley buzzed him like a fat chrome bee. Viceroy looked down to discover that his right leg—his bad leg—was stuck fast in a Shriner death hug. With his other leg Wilson kicked and bucked like a buted-up racehorse. The motorcycle fell from under Viceroy's attacker but somehow Burt kept his balance and his grip, and wound up on his feet. Wilson thought: This guy would have made a helluva nose tackle.
"Let the girl go!" Burt commanded.
"Get in," Tommy Tigertail said to Wilson.
"I can't shake loose!"
The pain in Viceroy's knee—famously mangled, prematurely arthritic, now barely held together with pins and screws—was insufferable, worse than anything he remembered from the old days.
"Hurry!" said the Indian. He jiggled the stick and the airboat jerked into gear. They were on a drier patch of the field so the boat moved forward in balky fits. Tommy was aching to throttle up to top speed; through the cutting rain he had spotted a phalanx of helmeted police advancing from the north sidelines. In the bow Kara Lynn sat up, shivering in the deluge.
"Let her go!" Burt bellowed, tugging and twisting Wilson's leg until number thirty-one clung to the hull by only the tips of his fingers. A deep-bone pain began to rake Viceroy's mind and seep his resolve. He suddenly felt old and tired, and realized he'd spent all his stamina on that glorious run.
The Indian decided it was time to go—the police were trotting now, yellow-fanged K-9 dogs at their heels. Tommy hopped off the driver's platform, grabbed Viceroy Wilson by the wrists, and yanked with all his strength. Burt lost his grip and fell backward, the purple fez tumbling off. Wilson landed in the boat with a grunt.
Kara Lynn tried to scrabble out, but the airboat was already moving too fast. She huddled with her legs to her chest, hands pressed to her ears; the thundering yowl of the engine was a new source of pain.
She saw the sturdy Shriner running alongside the airboat, his sequined vest flapping. He kept shouting for Tommy to stop.
He had a small brown pistol in one hand.
Viceroy Wilson rose to the prow, breadloaf arms swaying at his sides, keeping steady but favoring his right leg. He tore off the Notre Dame helmet and hurled it vainly at the dogged Shriner.
Viceroy's bare mahogany head glistened in the rain; the stadium lights twinkled in the ebony panes of his sunglasses. He scowled imperiously at Burt and raised his right fist in a salute that was at least traditional, if not trite.
"Down!" the Indian shouted. The airboat was hurtling straight for one of the goalposts—Tommy would have to make an amazing turn. "Viceroy, get down!"
Kara Lynn saw a rosy flash at the muzzle of Burt's pistol, but heard no shot.
When she turned, Viceroy Wilson was gone.
With a grimace Tommy Tigertail spun the airboat in a perilous fishtailing arc. It slid sideways against the padded goalpost and bounced off. The Marching Cornhusker majorettes dropped their batons and broke rank, leaving Tommy a clear path to escape. With Kara Lynn crouched fearfully in the bow, the airboat skimmed out of the stadium through the east gate. A getaway tractor-trailer rig had been parked on Seventh Street but the Indian knew he wouldn't need it; the swales were ankle-deep in rainwater and the airboat glided on mirrors all the way to the Miami River.
Viceroy Wilson lay dead in the east end zone. From the Goodyear blimp it appeared that he was splayed directly over the F in "Fighting Irish," which had been painted in tall gold letters across the turf.
A babbling congress of cops, orange blazers, drunken fans, and battered Shriners had surrounded the Super Bowl hero. Brian Keyes was there, too, kneeling down and speaking urgently into Viceroy Wilson's ear, but Viceroy Wilson was answering no questions. He lay face up, his lips curled in a poster-perfect radical snarl. His right hand was so obdurately clenched into a fist that two veteran morticians would later be unable to pry it open. Centered between the three and the one of the kelly-green football jersey was a single bullet hole, which was the object of much squeamish finger pointing.
"I'm telling ya," the Notre Dame coach was saying, "he's notone of ours."
Outside the Orange Bowl, on Fourteenth Avenue, the King of Siam flagged a taxi.
Keyes made it from the stadium to Jenna's house in twenty minutes.
"Hey, there," she said, opening the screen door. She was wearing a baggy sweatshirt with nothing underneath.
Keyes went into the living room. The coffin was padlocked.
"Open it," he said.
"But I don't have a key," Jenna said. "What's the matter—he's alive, isn't he?"
"Surprise, surprise."
"I told you!" she exclaimed.
"Put on some goddamn clothes."
She nodded and went to the bedroom.
"Do you have a hammer?" Keyes called.
"In the garage."
He found a sledge and carried it back to the living room. Jenna cleared the vase and magazines off the macabre coffee table. She was wearing tan hiking shorts and a navy long-sleeved pullover. She had also put on a bra and some running shoes.
"Look out," Keyes said. He pounded the padlock three times before the hasp snapped.
Inside the cheap coffin, Skip Wiley's detritus included yellowed newspaper clippings, old notebooks, mildewed paperbacks, library files purloined from the Sun'smorgue. Keyes sifted through everything in search of a single fresh clue. The best he could do was a sales receipt from a Fort Lauderdale marine dealer.
"Skip bought a boat last week," Keyes said. "Twenty-one-foot Mako. Eighteen-five, cash. Any idea why?"
"Nuh-uh."
"When's the last time he was here?"
"I'm not sure," Jenna replied.
Keyes grabbed her by the arms and shook hard. He frightened her, which was what he wanted. He wanted her off balance.
Jenna didn't know how to react, she'd never seen Brian this way. His eyes were dry and contemptuous, and his voice was that of an intruder.
"When was Skip here?" he repeated.
"A week ago, I think. No, last Friday."
"What did he do?"
"He spent half the day reading the paper," Jenna said. "That much I remember."
"Really?"
"Okay, let me think." She took a deep theatrical breath and put her hands in her pockets. "Okay, he was clipping some stuff from the newspaper—that, I remember. And he was playing his music. Steppenwolf, real loud ... I made him turn it down. Then we grilled some bursters with mushrooms, and the Indian man came over and they left. That's what I remember."
"He didn't say a word about the Nights of December?"
"No."
"And you didn't ask?"
"No," Jenna said. "I knew better. He was really wired, Brian. He was in no mood for questions."
"You're useless, you know that?"
"Brian!"
"Where's the garbage?"
"Out on the curb." Jenna started sniffling; it sounded possibly authentic.
Keyes walked to the street and hauled the ten-gallon bag back into the house. He used a car key to gash it open.
"What're you doing now?" Jenna asked.
"Looking for Wheaties boxtops. Didn't you hear?—there's a big sweepstakes."
He kicked through guava rinds, putrid cottage cheese, eggshells, tea bags, melon husks, coffee grounds, yogurt cartons, chicken bones and root-beer cans. The newspapers were at the very bottom, soggy and rancid-smelling. Keyes used the toe of his shoe to search for the front page from Friday, December 28. When he found it, he motioned Jenna over. She made a face as she tiptoed through the rank mush.