ch.doublewhammy-第34部分

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e；　he　knew　Decker　was　inside　the　house。
　Which　any　nitwit　could　have　figured　out　from　the　rental　car　out　front。　Decker　wondered　if　maybe　deep　down　he　wanted　to　go　back　to　jail…what　else　could　explain　such　carelessness？　Skink　took　care　of　survival　in　the　boonies；　but　the　city　was　Decker's　responsibility　and　he　kept　making　dumb　mistakes。
　〃Your　boat；〃　Skink　said　again　to　Catherine；　〃it's　tied　up　out　back。〃
　She　whispered；　〃I　don't　know　where　the　keys　are。〃
　〃I　don't　need　the　keys；〃　Skink　said；　no　longer　making　an　effort　to　talk　quietly。　〃We'll　leave　'er　up　at　Haulover；　but　don't　go　looking　right　away。〃
　The　doorbell　rang；　followed　by　three　sharp　knocks。
　James　sat　up　in　bed　and　reached　for　a　lamp　on　the　nightstand。　Blearily　he　eyed　Decker　and　Skink。　〃What's　going　on？〃
　Catherine　was　out　from　the　covers；　brushing　her　hair　in　the　mirror。　〃You　better　get　moving；〃　she　said　to　Decker's　reflection。　〃I'll　keep　them　at　the　door。〃
　〃We'll　need　a　head　start。〃　
　〃Don't　worry；　Rage。〃
　The　doorbell　rang　again。　The　knocks　turned　to　pounding。　Slunk　handed　Decker　his　jeans　and　shoes。
　〃What's　going　on？〃　James　the　doctor　wondered。　〃Where's　the　damn　dog？〃
　
　Since　the　truck　they'd　been　driving　was　registered　to　Dickie　Lockhart；　and　since　the　New　Orleans　police　had　temporarily　impounded　it　along　with　everything　else　belonging　to　Dickie；　the　Rundell　brothers　had　been　forced　to　take　a　Trailways　all　the　way　back　to　Florida。　On　the　trip　they　talked　primarily　about　two　things…how　their　hero　had　died；　and　what　had　happened　to　their　precious　bass　boat。
　Dim　as　they　were；　even　the　Rundells　realized　that　not　much　could　be　done　for　Dickie；　but　the　boat　was　another　issue。　It　had　been　stolen　and　then　scuttled　in　the　middle　of　Lake　Maurepas；　where　it　had　turned　up　as　bottom　clutter　on　Captain　Coot　Hough's　Vexilar　LCD　Video　sonic　fish…finder。　Once　the　lost　boat　had　been　pinpointed；　the　Rundells　had　recruited　an　amateur　salvage　team　made　up　of　fellow　bass　anglers；　who　raised　the　vessel　with　a　hand…cranked　winch　mounted　on　a　borrowed　construction　barge。　The　sight　of　their　sludge…covered　beauty　breaking　the　surface　was　the　second　saddest　thing　Ozzie　Rundell　had　ever　seen…the　first　being　Dickie　Lockhart's　blue…lipped　corpse　in　the　big　fish　tank。
　On　the　long　bus　ride　back　to　Harney；　Ozzie　and　Culver　puzzled　over　who　might　have　stolen　their　boat　and　why。　The　prime　suspect　seemed　to　be　the　violent　hermit　known　to　the　Rundells　only　as　Skink。　A　peculiar　and　vividly　garbed　man　matching　his　description　had　been　spotted　on　the　lake　by　several　other　anglers；　though　no　one　had　reported　witnessing　the　actual　sinking　of　the　boat。　What　Skink　was　doing　in　Louisiana　was　a　mystery　that　the　Rundells　did　not　contemplate　for　long…he　was　there；　that's　all　that　mattered。　They　clearly　remembered　the　sky　marshals　leading　him　off　the　airplane　in　New　Orleans；　and　they　remembered　the　look　of　latent　derangement　in　his　eyes。　Certainly　the　man　was　capable　of　stealing　a　boat；　the　riddle　was　finding　a　plausible　motive。　With　a　fellow　like　Skink；　unadulterated　malice　might　have　been　enough；　but　the　Rundells　remained　doubtful。　Culver　in　particular　suspected　revenge；　or　a　plot　hatched　by　one　of　Dickie　Lockhart's　jealous　petitors。　In　the　world　of　professional　bassing　it　was　well　known　that　the　Rundell　brothers　were　the　most　loyal　of　Dickie's　retinue；　and　in　Culver's　mind　it　made　them　likely　targets。
　If　Culver　were　outwardly　angry　about　the　destruction　of　their　prized　fishing　boat；　Ozzie　seemed　more　wounded　and　perplexed。　He　was　particularly　incredulous　that　Skink　would　mit　such　an　atrocity　against　them　for　no　apparent　reason。　In　the　ten…odd　years　since　the　shaggy　woodsman　had　e　to　live　on　Lake　Jesup；　Ozzie　had　probably　not　exchanged　a　half…dozen　words　with　him。　On　the　rare　occasions　when　Skink　came　to　town；　he　purchased　lumber　and　dry　goods　and　used　books　from　the　Faith　Farm…or　so　Mrs。　Coot　Hough　had　gossiped…but　never　once　had　he　e　into　the　bait　shop　for　tackle　or　lures　（though　he　was　reputed　to　be　an　expert　angler）。　Ozzie's　only　close　encounters　with　the　man　were　the　many　times　he'd　had　to　swerve　to　avoid　the　crouched　figure　plucking　animal　carcasses　off　the　Gilchrist　Highway　or　Route　222。　Nearly　all　the　citizenry　of　Harney　had　occasionally　e　across　Skink　and　his　fresh　roadkills；　and　the　general　assumption　was　that　he　ate　the　dead　critters；　though　no　one　could　say　for　a　fact。　The　only　person　known　to　have　a　friendly　relationship　with　Skink　was　Trooper　Jim　Tile　of　the　state　highway　patrol。　Occasionally　fishermen　out　on　Lake　Jesup　would　see　Jim　Tile　sitting　at　Skink's　campfire；　but　none　of　them　knew　the　trooper　well　enough　to　ask　about　it。　Actually　no　one　in　Harney；　not　even　the　blacks；　knew　Jim　Tile　much　better　than　they　knew　Skink。
　Which　was　why　Ozzie　was　so　stunned　to　hear　his　brother　announce　that　they　would　visit　the　trooper　as　soon　as　they　got　home。
　〃We'll　get　some　answers　out　of　that　nigger；〃　Culver　said。
　〃I　don't　know；〃　Ozzie　mumbled。　He　wasn't　keen　on　confrontations。　Neither　was　Culver；　usually；　but　Dickie's　murder　had　set　him　on　edge。　He　was　talking　big　and　mean；　the　way　he　sometimes　did　after　drinking。
　Ozzie　Rundell　had　a　perfectly　good　reason　for　not　wanting　to　see　Jim　Tile　face…to…face：　Jim　Tile　had　been　out　at　Morgan　Slough　the　night　Ott　Pickney　was　killed；　the　night　Ozzie　was　driving　Tom　Curl's　truck。　As　they　were　speeding　out　from　the　trail；　Ozzie　had　spotted　the　trooper　on　foot。　What　he　didn't　know　was　whether　or　not　Jim　Tile　had　spotted　him　too。　Ozzie　had　assumed　not；　since　nothing　terrible　had　happened　in　the　days　that　followed；　but　he　didn't　want　to　press　his　meager　luck。　He　felt　he　should　explain　to　his　brother　the　risks　of　visiting　Jim　Tile；　but　as　usual　the　words　wouldn't　e　out。　The　day　after　the　newsman's　death；　Ozzie　had　assured　Culver　that　everything　had　gone　smoothly　at　the　slough；　and　hadn't　mentioned　the　black　trooper。　If　Ozzie　revealed　the　truth　now；　Culver　would　be　furious；　and　Ozzie　was　in　no　mood　to　get　yelled　at。　The　closest　thing　to　a　protest　he　could　muster　was：　〃A　trooper　is　the　law。　Even　a　nigger　trooper。〃
　Culver　scowled　and　said；　〃We'll　see　about　that。〃
　
　Jim　Tile　lived　alone　in　a　two…bedroom　apartment　on　Washington　Drive；　in　the　black　neighborhood　of　Harney。　He　had　been　married　for　three　years　until　his　wife　had　gone　off　to　Atlanta　to　bee　a　big…time　fashion　model。　Jim　Tile　could　have　gone　with　her；　since　he　had　been　offered　an　excellent　job　with　the　Georgia　Bureau　of　Investigation；　but　he　had　chosen　to　stay　with　the　highway　patrol　in　Florida。　His　loyalty　had　been　rewarded　with　a　protracted　tour　of　duty　in　the　most　backward…thinking　and　racist　county　in　the　state。　To　stop　a　car　for　speeding　in　Harney　was　to　automatically　invite　a　disgusting　torrent　of　verbal　abuse…the　whites　hated　Jim　Tile　because　he　was　black；　and　the　blacks　hated　him　for　doing　a　honky's　job。　Rough　words　were　expected；　and　occasionally　somebody　would　sneak　up　and　cut　the　tires　on　his　patrol　car　late　at　night；　but　it　seldom　went　any　further。　In　all　the　years　only　one　person　had　been　foolhardy　enough　to　try　to　fight　Trooper　Jim　Tile。　The　boy's　name　was　Dekle；　and　he　was　eighteen；　as　big　and　white　as　a　Frigidaire；　and　just　about　as　intelligent。　Dekle　had　been　doing　seventy　in　a　school　zone　and　had　run　down　a　kitten　before　Jim　Tile　caught　up　and　forced　him　off　the　road。　At　the　time　Jim　Tile　was　new　to　Harney；　and　the　Dekle　boy　remarked　how　he　had　never　seen　a　chocolate　state　trooper　before。　Now　you　have；　said　Jim　Tile；　so　turn　around　and　put　your　hands　on　the　roof　of　the　car。　At　which　point　Dekle　punched　Jim　Tile　with　all　his　strength　and　was　astounded　to　see　the　trooper　merely　rock　back　slightly　on　his　heels；　when　any　other　human　being　would　have　fallen　flat　on　his　back；　out　cold。　The　fight　did　not　last　long；　perhaps　thirty　seconds；　and　years　afterward　Dekle's　right　arm　still　hung　like　a　corkscrew　and　he　still　got　around　with　the　aid　of　a　special　Lucite　cane；　which　his　mother　had　purchased　from　a　mail…order　house　in　Tampa。　Even　in　a　place　where　there　was　no　shortage　of　booze　or　stupidity；　no　one　in　Harney　had　since　gotten　drunk　enough　or　dumb　enough　to　take　a　poke　at　the　black　trooper。　Most　folks；　including　Ozzie　Rundell；　wouldn't　consider　giving　the　man　any　lip。
　They　found　the　apartment　on　Washington　Drive　easily；　Jim　Tile's　black…and…tan　Ford　police　cruiser　was　out　front。
　Culver　parked　his　mother's　truck。　He　got　a　pistol　from　under　the　front　seat　and　tucked　it　into　the　back　of　his　dungarees。
　〃What's　that　for？〃　Ozzie　asked　worriedly。
　〃It's　a　bad　neighborhood；　Oz。〃
　〃I　ain't　going　in　there　with　a　gun；〃　Ozzie　said　in　a　brittle　voice。　〃I　ain't！〃
　〃Fine；〃　Culver　said。　〃You　sit　out　here　in　the　parking　lot　with　all　these　jigaboos。　I'm　sure　they'll　love　the　prospect　of　a　fat　little　cracker　boy　like　you。〃
　Ozzie　looked　around　and　knew　that　his　brother　was　right。　The　streets　were　full　of　black　faces；　including　some　frightfully　muscular　teenagers　slam…dunking　basketballs　through　a　rusty　hoop　nailed　to　a　telephone　pole。　Ozzie　decided　he　didn't　want　to　stay　in　the　truck　after　all。　He　followed　Culver　up　to　Jim　Tile's　apartment。
　The　trooper　was　finishing　dinner；　and　getting　ready　to　go　out　on　the　night　shift。　He　came　to　the　door　wearing　the　gray；　sharply　pressed　trousers　of　his　uniform；　but　no　shirt。　The　Rundell　brothers　were　awestruck　by　the　dimensions　of　his　chest　and　arms。
　After　stammering　for　a　second；　Culver　finally　said；　〃We　need　to　talk　about　the　guy　lives　up　on　the　lake。〃
　〃Our　boat　got　sunk；〃　Ozzie　warbled；　without　explanation。
　Jim　Tile　let　them　in；　motioned　toward　two　chairs　at　the　dinette。　The　Rundell　brothers　sat　down。
　〃Skink　is　his　name；　right？〃　Culver　said。
　〃What's　the　connection；〃　Jim　Tile　asked　mildly；　〃between　the　man　on　the　lake　and　your　boat？〃
　Ozzie　started　to　say　something；　got　lost；　and　looked　to　his　brother　for　help。　Culver　said；　〃We　heard　Mr。　Skink　is　the　one　who　sunked　it。〃
　Jim　Tile　said；　〃Well；　Mr。　Skink　is　out　of　town。〃
　〃It　happened　out　of　town；〃　Culver　said。　〃At　a　tournament　up　in　Louisiana。〃
　〃Did　you　go　to　the　police？〃　Jim　Tile　asked。
　〃Not　yet；〃　Culver　said。　He　had　wanted　to；　but　Thomas　Curl　had　said　it　was　a　bad　idea。　He　said　the　police　would　be　busy　with　Dickie's　murder；　and　it　wouldn't　be　righ