ch.doublewhammy-第44部分

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　felt　no　pain；　only　an　unbelievable　pressure。　He　stared　at　the　dog　and　couldn't　believe　it。　Eyes　wide；　its　pale　muzzle　splotched　with　Curl's　blood；　the　frenzied　animal　twisted　and　turned　as　it　dangled　from　the　arm；　it　was　trying　to　tear　the　flesh　from　Thomas　Curl's　bone。
　Curl　swallowed　his　scream。　With　his　left　hand　he　feverishly　groped　for　the　long　screwdriver；　still　wedged　in　the　doorjamb。　He　found　it；　grunted　as　he　yanked　it　free；　and　poised　it　firmly　in　his　good　fist。
　With　all　his　strength　Thomas　Curl　lifted　his　right　arm　as　high　as　his　head；　so　that　the　pit　bull　hung　before　him　at　eye　level；　squirming　and　frothing。　With　one　jagged　downward　thrust　Thomas　Curl　disemboweled　the　animal。　Its　wild　eyes　went　instantly　dull　and　the　legs　stopped　kicking；　but　still　the　powerful　jaws　held　fast　to　Curl's　thick　arm。　Moments　passed　and　Curl　stood　rigid；　waiting　for　the　animal's　muscles　to　slacken　in　death。　Yet　even　as　its　guts　dripped　on　the　cold　doorstep；　steaming　the　night　air；　the　dog's　jaws　would　not　let　go。
　Thomas　Curl　braced　against　waves　of　nausea。　The　screwdriver　slipped　from　his　good　hand　and　pinged　off　the　concrete　stoop。
　At　a　nearby　trailer　the　porch　light　came　on；　and　an　elderly　man　in　a　long　undershirt　poked　his　head　out。　Thomas　Curl　quickly　turned　his　back　so　that　the　neighbor　would　not　see　the　dead　dog　on　his　arm。　By　the　fresh　light　Curl　noticed　that　in　his　panic　he　had　succeeded　in　breaking　the　doorjamb。　With　his　good　hand　he　turned　the　knob；　and　lurched　inside　R。　J。　Decker's　trailer。
　Curl　lay　faceup　on　a　sofa；　the　big　dog　across　his　chest。　He　stayed　there　for　what　seemed　like　an　hour；　until　he　could　no　longer　tolerate　the　weight　of　the　animal　and　the　raw　odor　of　its　blood。　In　the　darkness　he　could　only　imagine　what　his　right　arm　looked　like；　he　felt　the　first　stinging　tickle　of　a　vile　infection；　and　the　burning　throb　of　torn　muscles。　He　realized　that　before　long　the　dog's　body　would　stiffen；　and　it　would　bee　virtually　impossible　to　pry　its　jaws。　Angrily　Thomas　Curl　balled　his　left　fist　and　tested　his　strength。　Still　supine；　he　aimed　a　fierce　upper　cut　at　the　pit　bull's　head。　The　punch　made　little　noise　and　had　no　effect；　but　Thomas　Curl　did　not　stop。　He　shut　his　eyes　and　imagined　himself　on　the　bag　at　the　Fifth　Street　Gym；　and　punched　left…breathe…left　in　a　steady　tempo。　For　the　heavy　bag　drill　his　ex…manager　used　to　play　〃Midnight　Rambler〃　on　the　PA；　so　Curl　ran　the　tune　through　his　skull　while　he　pounded　on　the　pit　bull。　With　each　impact　a　ferocious　bolt　shot　from　his　mangled　arm　into　the　vortex　of　his　neck。　The　pain　was　miserable；　but　his　alone；　like　any　punching　bag；　the　dog　felt　nothing。　Its　grip　was　immovable　and；　Thomas　Curl　began　to　fear；　supernatural。
　He　dragged　himself　off　the　sofa；　flipped　on　the　kitchen　lights；　and　began　to　tear　Decker's　trailer　apart；　looking　for　a　tool。　A　wooden　broom　handle　proved　impotent　against　the　demonic　mandibles；　a　hammer　satisfying　to　the　grip；　but　messy　and　ineffectual。　Finally；　hanging　from　a　pegboard　in　a　utility　closet；　Thomas　Curl　found　what　he　was　looking　for：　a　small　hacksaw。　He　struggled　into　the　narrow　bathroom　and　knelt　down。　With　his　deadening　right　arm　he　slung　the　dog　carcass　into　the　shower　stall；　and　gazed　numbly　at　the　livid　mess。　Thomas　Curl　didn't　know　whether　he　was　just　exhausted　or　going　crazy；　but　he　found　it　difficult　to　distinguish　which　flesh　was　his　and　which　belonged　to　the　animal。　From　the　knotted　muscle　of　his　shoulder　to　the　pinkish　tail　of　the　dog　corpse　seemed　a　single　evil　mass。　Thomas　Curl's　left　hand　searched　the　tile　until　his　fingers　found　the　steel　teeth　of　the　hacksaw。　He　took　a　breath；　and　did　what　he　had　to。
　
　Catherine　was　alone　in　bed　when　the　doorbell　rang。
　James　the　doctor　was　gone　again；　this　time　to　Montreal　for　a　big　trade　show。　He　and　several　other　chiropractors　had　agreed　to　endorse　a　new　back…pain　product　called　the　Miracle　VibraCouch；　and　the　Canadian　trade　show　was　to　be　the　scene　of　its　unveiling。　Saying　good…bye　at　the　car；　James　had　promised　to　bring　back　videotapes　of　all　the　excitement；　and　Catherine　had　said　that'll　be　wonderful　and　pecked　him　on　the　cheek。　James　had　asked　her　which　model　VibraCouch　would　go　best　in　the　Florida　room；　the　tartan　or　the　dusty　rose；　and　Catherine　had　said　neither；　I　don't　want　an　electric　couch　in　my　house；　thank…you。　James　was　pouting　as　he　drove　away。
　When　the　bell　rang；　Catherine　slipped　into　a　short　chiffon　robe　and　padded　barefoot　to　the　door。　The　house　was　bright；　and　the　clock　in　the　alcove　said　nine…thirty。　She'd　overslept　again。
　Through　a　window　she　saw　the　gray　Plymouth　Volare　parked　in　the　driveway。　Catherine　smiled…here　we　go　again。　She　checked　herself　in　the　mirror　and　said　what　the　hell；　it's　hopeless　this　early　in　the　morning。　When　she　opened　the　door　she　said；　〃Great　timing　as　usual；　Rage。〃
　But　the　man　turned　around　and　it　wasn't　R。J。　It　was　a　heavyset　stranger　wearing　R。J。's　brown　leather　coat。　Catherine　had　bought　the　coat　for　him　at　a　western　shop　near　Denver。　The　stranger　wore　it　on　his　shoulders　like　a　cape。　Maybe　it　wasn't　R。J。's　coat　after　all；　Catherine　thought　anxiously；　maybe　it　was　one　just　like　it。
　〃　'Scuze　me；〃　said　the　man；　〃you　Mrs。　Decker？〃
　〃Stuckameyer；〃　Catherine　said。　〃I　used　to　be　Mrs。　Decker。〃
　The　man　had　thin　sandy　hair；　a　flat　crooked　nose；　and　tiny　dull　eyes。　He　handed　Catherine　a　crisp　brown　office　envelope　containing　a　sheaf　of　legal　papers。　Catherine　scanned　them　and　looked　up　quizzically。
　〃So？〃　she　said。　〃These　are　my　old　divorce　papers。〃
　〃But　that　is　you？　Catherine　Decker。〃
　〃Where'd　you　get　this　stuff？〃　she　said　irritably。
　〃I　found　it；〃　the　man　said；　〃at　Mr。　Decker's。〃
　Catherine　studied　him　closely。　She　saw　that　he　was　also　wearing　one　of　R。J。's　knit　shirts。　She　tried　to　slam　the　door　but　the　man　blocked　it　with　a　black　round…toed　boot。
　〃Don't　be　a　dumb　cunt；〃　he　said。
　Catherine　was　turning　to　run　when　she　saw　the　pistol。　The　man　pointed　it　with　his　right　hand　extended　from　under　the　leather　coat。　Something　round　and　mottled　and　awful　was　attached　to　the　stranger's　arm。　It　looked　like　a　football　with　ears。
　〃Oh　Jesus；〃　Catherine　cried。
　〃Don't　mind　him；〃　the　man　said；　〃he　don't　bite。〃
　He　pushed　his　way　into　the　house　and　shut　the　door。　He　shifted　the　pistol　to　his　other　hand；　and　tucked　the　dog…headed　arm　back　under　the　coat。
　〃Decker's　in　some　deep　shit；〃　said　the　stranger。
　〃Well；　I　don't　know　where　he　is。〃　Catherine　pulled　her　robe　tight　in　the　front。
　Thomas　Curl　said；　〃You　know　why　I'm　here？〃
　〃No；　but　I　know　who　you　are；〃　Catherine　said。　〃You're　one　of　the　Fish　People；　aren't　you？〃
　
　Jim　Tile's　patrol　car　passed　Garcia　on　Route　222　and　led　them　into　town；　which　was　as　dark　as　a　mortuary。　The　trooper　took　them　directly　to　the　house　of　an　old　black　doctor；　who　packed　and　dressed；　Skink's　seeping　eye　wound。　Silently　Decker　and　Garcia　watched　the　old　man　dance　a　penlight　in　front　of　Skink's　haggard　face　and　peer　into　the　other　eye　for　quite　a　long　time。　〃He　needs　a　neurologist　right　away；〃　the　doctor　said　finally。　〃Gainesville's　your　best　bet。〃
　Skink　himself　said　nothing。　When　they　got　back　to　the　cabin；　he　curled　up　on　a　mattress　and　went　to　sleep。　Jim　Tile　got　the　campfire　going。　Al　Garcia　selected　an　oak　stump　of　suitable　width　and　sat　down　close　to　the　flames。　〃Now　what？〃　he　said。　〃We　tell　ghost　stories？〃
　R。　J。　Decker　said；　〃This　is　where　he　lives。〃
　〃Unbelievable；〃　the　detective　muttered。
　Jim　Tile　went　to　the　car　and　came　back　with　two　black…and…white　photographs；　eight…by…tens。　〃From　our　friends　in　the　bayou；〃　he　said；　handing　the　pictures　to　R。　J。　Decker。
　〃Christ；〃　Decker　mumbled。　They　were　the　caught…in…the…act　shots　of　the　bass　cheaters　in　the　reeds　at　Lake　Maurepas…except　that　Dickie　Lockhart's　head　had　been　supered　onto　one　of　the　other　men's　bodies。　Decker　recognized　the　mug　of　Dickie　from　the　bunch　he'd　shot　at　the　Cajun　Classic　weigh…in。　Looking　at　the　doctored　photographs　made　him　feel　angry　and；　in　a　way；　violated。
　〃Somebody　swiped　my　film　and　had　some　fun　in　the　darkroom；〃　he　said　to　Jim　Tile。　〃I've　seen　better　phonies。〃
　〃Sure　fooled　New　Orleans　homicide。〃
　〃It's　still　bush；〃　Decker　snapped。　〃I　can　find　a　half…dozen　expert　witnesses　to　say　these　are　tricked。〃
　Al　Garcia　took　the　prints　from　Decker　and　studied　them。　〃Nifty；〃　he　said。　〃That's　how　they　do　it；　huh？〃
　〃In　cages；　yeah。〃
　〃And　how　long　will　those　fish　stay　alive？〃
　Decker　shrugged。　〃Couple　days；　I　guess。〃
　Jim　Tile　said；　〃There's　some　other　things　you　ought　to　know。〃　He　told　them　about　his　conversation　with　Ozzie　Rundell；　and　Ozzie's　version　of　Ott　Pickney's　murder。
　〃He　also　says　Lockhart　didn't　kill　Robert　Clinch。〃
　〃You　believe　that？〃　Decker　asked。
　Jim　Tile　nodded。
　Garcia　said；　〃Had　to　be　Gault。〃
　〃That's　my　guess　too；〃　the　trooper　agreed；　〃but　I'm　not　sure　why　he'd　do　it。〃
　R。　J。　Decker　thought　about　it。　Why　would　Dennis　Gault　order　the　murder　of　a　man　he　had　recruited　to　work　for　him？　Lanie　might　know；　she　might　even　be　part　of　the　reason。
　Jim　Tile　said；　〃There's　a　guy　named　Thomas　Curl；　a　real　shitkicker。　He　and　his　brother　killed　your　friend　Ott。　My　bet　is　they　did　Bobby　Clinch　too。〃
　〃The　Louisiana　boys；〃　Decker　said。
　Jim　Tile　said；　〃It　just　so　happens　that　Lemus　Curl　is　missing。　Family　says　he　fell　into　Lake　Okeechobee。〃
　Garcia　looked　curiously　at　Decker；　who　tried　not　to　react。
　〃But　the　other　Curl；〃　Jim　Tile　went　on；　〃Thomas　Curl；　is　in　Miami。〃
　〃Fuck　me；〃　said　Al　Garcia。
　Decker　said；　〃Let　me　guess：　Curl　is　looking　for　me。〃
　〃Most　likely；〃　Jim　Tile　said。　〃By　phone　I　tracked　him　to　some　ritzy　hotel　in　the　Grove；　but　then　he　took　off。〃
　〃What's　the　connection　to　Gault？〃
　〃He　paid　for　Curl's　room；〃　Jim　Tile　said。
　He　took　a　piece　of　paper　from　his　left　breast　pocket；　unfolded　it　carefully　and　handed　it　to　Decker。　〃Meanwhile；〃　Jim　Tile　said；　〃Mr。　Gault　is　going　fishing。〃
　It　was　a　promotional　flier　for　the　Dickie　Lockhart　Memorial　Bass　Blasters　Classic。　In　the　firelight　Garcia　read　it　aloud　over　Decker's　shoulder：　'The　richest　tournament　in　history。　Entry　fee　is　only　three　thousand　dollars；　but　hurry…the　field　will　be　limited　to　fifty　boats。〃
　Decker　couldn't　believe　it；　the　ballsiness　of　these　guys。　〃Three　thousand　buc