Double Whammy (46 page)

“Faster,” Gault told his sister, who nudged the throttle. She had never driven a Ranger before, but figured it couldn't be much different from the Vette.

Motoring in reverse, the boat gradually ate up the distance between Dennis Gault and the thing on the end of his line. After several brief surges, the bass bore deep and hunkered on the bottom to regain its wind.

Gault held such faith in his expensive tackle and in his knowledge of fish behavior that he felt confident tightening the drag on his reel. The purpose was to prevent the bass from running out any more line, and for any other hawg the strategy might have worked: the twenty-pound monofilament was extremely strong, the graphite rod pliant but stout. Finally, and most important to Gault's reasoning, the fish should have rightfully been exhausted after such an extraordinary battle.

Gault twisted the drag down so that nothing smaller than a Mack truck could have stolen more line. Then he began to reel.

“I think it's coming,” he announced. “By God, the fucker's giving up.”

The great fish bucked its head and resisted surrender, but Gault was able to lift her off the bottom. Unlike the wily old lunkers of well-traveled farm ponds and tourist lakes, this bass had never before felt the sting of the hook, had never struggled against invisible talons. She had acquired no tricks to use on Dennis Gault and his powerful noise machine; all she had was her strength, and in the bad water there was little of it left.

Gault savored the feel of the fish weakening, and a faint smile came over his face. If Dickie weren't already dead, he thought, the sight of this monster hanging at the dock would kill him. Gault checked to make sure the landing net was within reach.

Then the line went slack.

For a sickening moment Gault thought the bass had broken off, but then he figured it out. The bass was coming in fast. He reeled frenetically, trying to bring the line tight.

“Elaine, it's running at us—go the other way!”

She jammed the engine in gear and the boat churned forward, roiling the water to a foam.

The great fish came to the top; a big bronze drainpipe, hovering behind the stem. It was dark enough and deep enough to be the shadow of something, not the thing itself. For the first time Dennis Gault realized its true dimensions and felt a hot rush. This fish was undoubtedly a world record; already he could see his name on the plaque. Already he could picture the bass mounted on the wall behind his desk; the taxidermist would brighten its flanks, touch up the gills, put some fury back in the dull purple eyes.

The fury was there now, only Dennis Gault couldn't see it.

When he pulled on the line, the bass obligingly swam toward the boat. “Get the net,” he shouted at his sister. “Give me the goddamn net.”

Then, with a kick of its tail, the fish sounded.

“Reverse!” Dennis Gault cried.

Lanie jerked on the throttle as hard as she could, and the big outboard cavitated loudly as it backed up. It was then, with the boat directly overhead, that the fish exhibited what little guile nature had invested in her pebble-sized brain. She changed direction.

“No-no-no-no!” Dennis Gault was shrieking.

The boat was heading one way, the bass was going the other. Gault braced his knees against the gunwale. He clutched the butt of the rod with both hands.

The line came tight.

The rod doubled until the tip pricked the water. “Stop!” Dennis Gault grunted. “Stop, you sorry-dumb-dirty-fat-mother—”

The great fish did not stop.

With the drag cranked down, Dennis Gault could give her no line. All he could do was hang on.

“Let go!” Lanie pleaded.

“No fucking way,” said Dennis. “This fish is mine.”

Lanie watched helplessly as her brother pitched over the transom. The last she saw of him were the soles of his Top-Siders.

The splash was followed by a dreadful low whine, but it was not Dennis' scream. His scream had died when he hit the propeller, which was turning (according to the dash-mounted tachometer) at precisely four thousand revolutions per minute. The propeller happened to be a brand-new turbo model SST, so the three cupped stainless blades were as sharp as sabers. Dennis Gault might as well have fallen facefirst into a two-hundred-horsepower garbage disposal. Grinding was the sound that his sister had heard.

Lanie cut off the engine and stood up to see what had happened.

“Dennis?” Timorously she peered into the cloudy water, darkening from tea to rust.

A rag-size swatch of sky-blue fabric floated up; a piece of Dennis Gautt's official Bass Blasters jumpsuit. When Lanie saw it, she knew there was no point in diving in after her brother. She held on to the side of the boat with both hands, leaned over, and daintily tossed her croissants.

A hundred yards away, at the point where Charlie Weeb's canal met the dike, the great fish crashed to the surface, shook its head, and threw the hook.

They sat on the hood of the car, parked among the bass trucks. They had a good view of the stage, the weigh-in station, the ramp, and the dock. The sun was starting to slip behind a low bank of copper clouds, and some of the boats were heading in.

“You all right?” Catherine asked. She had showered and brushed out her hair and changed clothes. Decker had stopped at a shopping mall and bought her some slacks and a kelly-green blouse; she'd been touched that he still remembered her size.

“I'm fine,” Decker said. His mental lens had preserved Thomas Curl in three frames, none of them pretty.

Catherine said, “James'll never believe all this.”

Decker looked at her in an odd way. Immediately she felt rotten about mentioning her husband.

Decker said, “See the excitement you're missing, not being married to me?”

“I don't remember it quite like this.”

“I do,” Decker said, “just like this.” He smiled and gave her hand a little squeeze. Catherine felt relieved; he'd be all right. She slid off the car and went to scout the food at the buffet, which was set up near the stage.

From out of somewhere Skink materialized and stole Catherine's place on the hood.

“Nice threads,” Decker said.

“First suit I've worn in years.”

“The hat's a treat too.”

Skink shrugged. “You missed the show.”

“What happened?”

“Preacher tried to heal me.”

Decker laughed a little as Skink told the story.

“That explains where the crowd went,” he said.

“Scattered like hamsters,” Skink said. “Worst part is, I lost the damn eye. Just kept rolling.”

“We'll get you a new one.”

“Not an owl this time, either. I'd prefer a boar—one of those big nasty bastards.”

Up to this moment, Decker had been watching the boats race in. Now he turned to Skink and in a quiet voice said, “I'm in some trouble, captain.”

Skink clicked his tongue against his teeth.

“I killed that man,” Decker said.

“Figured as much.”

“There was no other way.”

Skink asked what happened to the body, and Decker told him. “Don't worry about it,” he said. “You did good.”

“Don't worry about it?”

“You heard me.”

Decker sighed. He felt detached and fuzzy, as if he were having an out-of-body experience. He felt as if he were in a tall tree looking down on himself and this hoary character in a straw hat, a bad suit, and sunglasses. From this vantage Skink would have made a fine photographic portrait; like one of those debauched-looking acid dealers at Woodstock. Or maybe Altamont. One of those guys who looked too old and too hard for the crowd.

Decker decided to tell Skink why he'd come back to Lunker Lakes. He was bound to ask, anyway.

“When I found Catherine,” Decker said, “I got to thinking about Dennis Gault.”

“He's
the
case in New Orleans, the whole thing,” Skink repeated. “It's a joke, so forget about it. You're clear.”

Decker said, “I wasn't thinking about New Orleans, captain. I was thinking about Bobby Clinch and Ott Pickney and Dickie Lockhart. In relation to Gault, I mean.”

“And Catherine.”

“Yes. Catherine too.”

“True,” Skink said, “Mr. Gault is not a very nice man.”

Decker took a short breath and said, “I was seriously thinking about killing him.”

“Now that you got the hang of it, right?”

Decker was stung by Skink's sarcasm. And a sterling example you are, he thought. “I don't know what I'll do when I see him. Could be I won't be able to stop myself.”

“Don't give me that cuckoo's-nest routine,” Skink said. “Do you really want to do it? Or do you want yourself to want to? Think about it. Tom Curl was a different story—your girl was involved. That was rescue; this is revenge. Even a one-eyed basket case like me can see you don't have the stomach for it, and I'm glad.”

Decker turned away.

“But the best reason not to kill the bastard,” Skink added, “is that it's simply not necessary.”

“Maybe you're right.”

“I don't think you understand.”

“Doesn't matter.” Decker hopped off the hood. He spotted Catherine on her way back with a couple of chili dogs. “I think it's best if we take off before the festivities,” he said wearily.

Skink shook his head. “It's best if you stay,” he said. “Besides, I need a favor.”

“Naturally.”

“You know how to work one of these damn TV cameras?”

 

Later, when
The Wall Street journal
and others would reconstruct the collapse of the Outdoor Christian Network, some of Charlie Weeb's colleagues and competitors would say he was a fool not to pull the plug on the Lunker Lakes show the instant Skink Frenchkissed the Minicam. However, such a judgment failed to take into account the pressure from Weeb's corporate sponsors, who had paid extraordinary sums to finance the bass tournament and definitely expected to see it (and their fishing products) on national television. To these businessmen, the attempted faith-healing was merely a gross and irritating preamble to the main event. The weigh-in itself was attended by no less than the entire board of directors of the Happy Gland fish-scent company, who had flown down from Elijay, Georgia, with the expectation that Eddie Spurling, their new spokesman, would win the Lockhart Memorial hands down. Charlie Weeb had assured them of this in the most positive terms.

So, even after Skink's performance, little thought was given to aborting the program. In fact, there was no time between the church show and the tournament for Weeb to contemplate the scope of the catastrophe, broadcast-wise. He knew it was bad; very bad. Before his eyes the sea of faithful Christian faces had dissipated; the first ten rows in front of the stage now were empty, with some of the chairs overturned by hasty departures. A few people milled around the boat docks, while others hovered at the free buffet. Most apparently had retreated to the charter buses, where they huddled in their seats and recited appropriate Bible tracts. They couldn't wait to get out of Lunker Lakes.

As soon as Skink had leapt off the stage in pursuit of his eyeball, Charlie Weeb had cut to a commercial and gone searching for Deacon Johnson, who had presciently commandeered the limousine and struck out for parts unknown. Weeb's principal inquiry—as enunciated in a gaseous torrent of obscenities—concerned the selection of Mr. Jeremiah Skink as a subject worthy of healing. It was Reverend Weeb's opinion that Skink was more demented than disabled, and that his schizoid tendency toward self-mutilation should have been evident to Deacon Johnson (who, after all, was being paid two hundred thou a year to prevent such embarrassments).

Failing to locate Deacon Johnson, Charlie Weeb returned to the stage and tried to make the best of things. His image as a faith-healer was damaged, perhaps irreparably, but that concerned him less than the mounting specter of financial ruin. Word had filtered back to Weeb that many of the pilgrims who had signed new contracts for Lunker Lakes homesites were having second thoughts—a half-dozen had even demanded their deposits back. Weeb's stomach had churned sourly at the news.

What he now needed—in fact, the only thing that would save the project—was a big warm Southern finish. Specifically: a beaming, tanned, lovable, good ole boy in the person of Eddie Spurling, with a string of lunker bass. That would put the mood right.

So Charlie Weeb seized the microphone and talked a blue streak as the boats roared in. He talked about sunshine, balmy climate, calm waters, central air, adjustable mortgages, bike paths, rec rooms, low maintenance fees, the Olympic-size swimming pool, everything but fish.

Because there weren't any.

Every boat was coming back empty. The OCN sports reporter would stick a mike in front of the angler and the angler would straighten his cap and spit some chaw and grumble about it being one of those days, and then the sports reporter would smile lamely and say better luck next time.

Those gathered dockside—primarily the sponsors and tackle reps and devoted relatives of the contestants—could not recall such a dismal day of bass fishing, even in the weeks after Hurricane Camille had torn up the South.

Skink himself was worried by what he saw, but there was nothing to do but wait. Surely somebody had caught some fish.

As the pattern became clear to Charlie Weeb, he found it increasingly difficult to put a positive spin on the day's events. A weigh-in with nothing to weigh was extremely dull television, even by cable standards. To fill air time until Fast Eddie Spurling arrived, Weeb ordered the director to run some how-to fishing videos supplied by the big tackle companies.