ch.doublewhammy-第71部分

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　He　pushed　Catherine　toward　Decker；　who　pulled　her　close　with　both　hands。　〃Rage；　please；〃　she　whispered。
　Curl　said；　〃So　who　wants　it　first？〃　When　neither　of　them　answered；　he　consulted　his　faithful　pal。　〃Lucas；　who　gets　it　first？〃
　〃Tom；　one　final　favor　before　you　do　this。〃
　〃Shut　up。〃
　〃Take　our　picture　together；　okay？　Me　and　Catherine。〃
　Curl　sneered。　〃What　the　hell　for？〃
　〃Because　I　love　her；〃　Decker　said；　〃and　it's　our　last　moment　together。　Forever。〃
　〃You　got　that　right。〃
　〃Then　please；〃　Decker　said。
　Catherine　squeezed　his　hand。　〃I　love　you　too；　Rage。〃　The　words　sounded　wonderful；　but　under　the　circumstances　Decker　wasn't　sure　how　to　take　it；　guns　make　people　say　the　darnedest　things。
　He　lifted　the　Minolta　from　around　his　neck。　Thomas　Curl　tucked　the　pistol　under　his　right　arm　and　took　the　camera　in　his　good　hand。　He　examined　it　hopelessly；　as　if　it　were　an　atom…splitter。
　〃My　daddy's　just　got　a　Polaroid。〃
　〃This　is　almost　the　same；〃　Decker　said　reassuringly。　〃You　look　through　that　little　window。〃
　〃Yeah？〃　Thomas　Curl　raised　the　camera　to　his　big　eye。
　〃Can　you　see　us？〃
　〃Nope；〃　Curl　said。
　Decker　took　two　steps　backward；　pulling　Catherine　by　the　elbows。
　〃How　about　now；　Tom？〃
　Curl　cackled。　〃Hey；　yeah；　I　see　you。〃
　〃Good。　Now　。。。　just　press　that　black　button　on　top。〃
　〃Wait；　you're　all　fuzzy…looking。〃
　〃That's　all　right。〃
　Curl　said　〃Shit；　might　as　well　have　a　good　final　pitcher；　considering。　Now'　how　do　I　fix　the　focus？〃
　Catherine　squeezed　Decker's　arm。　〃Fuck　the　focus；〃　she　said　under　her　breath。　〃Go　for　his　gun。〃
　But　in　a　helpful　tone　Decker　said；　〃Tom；　the　focus　is　in　the　black　button。〃
　〃The　same　one？〃
　〃Yeah。　It's　all　automatic；　you　just　press　it。〃
　〃I'll　be　damned。〃
　Decker　said；　〃Isn't　that　something？〃
　〃Yeah；〃　Thomas　Curl　said；　〃but　then　where　does　the　pitcher　e　out？〃
　〃Jesus；〃　Catherine　sighed。
　〃Underneath；〃　Decker　lied。　For　the　first　time　he　sounded　slightly　impatient。
　Curl　turned　the　camera　upside…down　in　his　hand。　〃I　don't　see　where。〃
　〃Trust　me；　Tom。〃
　〃You　say　so。〃　Curl　raised　the　Minolta　one　more　time。　It　took　several　drunken　moments　to　align　the　viewfinder　with　his　eye。
　〃Lucas；　don't　the　two　of　them　look　sweet？〃　Curl　hacked　out　a　cruel　watery　laugh。　〃First　I　shoot　your　pitcher；　then　I　shoot　your　goddamn　brains　out。〃
　He　located　the　black　button　with　a　twitching　forefinger。　〃Okay；　fuckheads；　say　cheese。〃
　〃Good…bye；　Tom；〃　said　R。　J。　Decker。
　
　There　was　no　film　loaded　in　the　camera；　only　fourteen　ounces　of　water　gel；　a　malleable　plastic　explosive　monly　used　at　construction　sites。　For　Decker　it　was　a　simple　chore　to　run　bare　copper　wires　from　the　camera's　batteries　directly　into　the　hard…packed　gelatin；　a　substance　so　volatile　that　the　charge　from　the　shutter　contact　provided　more　than　enough　heat。
　As　chemical　reactions　go；　it　was　simple　and　brief。
　At　the　touch　of　the　button　the　Minolta　blew　up；　not　much　in　the　way　of　flash；　but　a　powerful　air…puckering　concussion　that　tore　off　Thomas　Curl's　poisoned　skull　and　launched　it　in　an　arc　worthy　of　a　forty…foot　jump　shot。　It　landed　with　a　noisy　sploosh　in　the　middle　of　the　canal。
　Catherine　was　transfixed　by　how　long　it　took　for　Curl's　headless　body　to　fold　up　and　collapse　on　the　reddening　mud；　minutes；　it　seemed。　But　then；　in　the　pungent　gray　haze　of　the　killing；　every　scene　seemed　to　happen　in　slow　motion：　R。　J。　tossing　the　gun　into　the　water；　R。　J。　dragging　the　corpse　to　the　boat；　R。　J。　sliding　the　boat　down　the　bank；　R。　J。　lifting　her　easily　in　his　arms；　carrying　her　away　to　someplace　safe。
　They　took　turns　rowing。　Every　time　they　squeaked　past　another　bass　boat；　they　got　the　same　mocking　look。
　〃I　don't　give　a　shit；〃　Al　Garcia　said　to　Jim　Tile。　〃You　notice；　they　don't　seem　to　be　catching　fish。〃
　This　was　true；　Garcia　and　Jim　Tile　did　not　know　why；　nor　did　they　give　it　much　thought　as　they　rowed。　Their　concern　was　for　one　fish　only；　and　they　still　had　a　long　way　to　go。　As　for　the　other　contestants；　they　might　have　been　interested　to　know　that　Charlie　Weeb's　hydrologist　had　warned　this　would　happen；　that　the　imported　bass　might　not　feed　in　the　bad　water。　Even　had　the　pros　known　the　full　truth；　it　was　unlikely　they　would　have　given　up　and　packed　their　rods…not　with　so　much　at　stake。　Deep　in　every　angler's　soul　is　a　secret　confidence　in　his　own　special　prowess　that　impels　him　to　keep　fishing　in　the　face　of　mon　sense；　basic　science；　financial　ruin；　and　even　natural　disasters。　In　the　maddening　campaign　at　Lunker　Lakes；　whole　tackleboxes　were　emptied　and　no　secret　weapon　was　left　unsheathed。　The　putrid　waters　were　plumbed　by　lures　of　every　imaginable　size　and　color；　retrieved　through　every　navigable　depth　at　every　possible　speed。　By　midday　it　became　obvious　that　even　the　most　sophisticated　angling　technology　in　the　world　would　not　induce　these　fish　to　eat。
　As　they　tediously　rowed　the　skiff　through　the　network　of　long　canals；　Jim　Tile　and　Al　Garcia　detected　angst　on　the　faces　of　other　petitors。
　〃They　don't　look　like　they're　having　much　fun；〃　Garcia　said。
　〃They　don't　know　what　fun　is；〃　said　Jim　Tile；　taking　his　turn　at　the　oars。　〃This　here's　fun。〃
　With　each　pull　the　truth　was　sinking　in：　even　if　they　reached　the　brushpile　and　did　what　Skink　told　them；　they'd　probably　never　get　back　to　the　dock　by　sunset。　Not　rowing。
　But　they　had　to　try。
　〃Step　on　it；　chicoj〃　Al　Garcia　said。　〃Oxford's　gaining　on　us。〃
　
　At　that　moment；　on　the　westernmost　end　of　Lunker　Lake　Number　Seven；　Dennis　Gault　was　refolding　the　waterproof　map　that　his　helicopter　pilot　had　marked　for　him。　Lanie　was　up　in　the　pedestal　seat；　reading　from　a　stack　of　Cosmos　she'd　brought　along　to　kill　time。　Her　nose　shone　with　Hawaiian　tanning　butter。
　Dennis　Gault　breathed　on　his　sunglasses　and　wiped　each　lens　with　a　tissue。　He　tested　them　against　the　sun　before　putting　them　on。　Scanning　his　arsenal；　he　selected　a　plug…casting　outfit　with　a　brand…new　Double　Whammy　tied　to　the　end　of　the　line。　He　tested　the　sharpness　of　the　hook　against　his　thumbnail；　and　grinned　in　self…satisfaction　when　the　barb　stuck　fast。　Then　he　squirted　the　lure　three　times　with　Happy　Gland　Bass　Bolero。
　Finally　Gault　was　ready。　He　reared　back　and　fired　the　spinnerbait　to　the　exact　spot　where　the　sunken　brushpile　should　have　been。
　〃e　on；　mother；〃　he　said。　〃Suck　on　this。〃
　
　〃Explain　to　me；〃　the　Reverend　Charles　Weeb　said　from　the　barber　chair；　〃exactly　how　that　shit　got　on　the　air。〃
　〃The　promo　spot？〃　Deacon　Johnson　asked。
　〃Yes；　Izzy。　With　all　the　police　cars。〃
　〃It　was　a　live　remote；　Charles；　just　like　you　wanted。　We　interrupt　our　regular　programming　to　take　you　to　the　Dickie　Lockhart　Memorial　Bass　Blasters　blah；　blah；　blah。　Tune　in　later　for　the　exciting　finish。'〃
　〃Sixteen　frigging　cop　cars；　Izzy…it　looked　like　a　dope　raid；　not　a　fishing　tournament。〃
　〃It　wasn't　like　we　invited　them。〃
　〃Oh　no；〃　Charlie　Weeb　said；　〃you　went　one　better。　You　beamed　them　into　eleven　million　households。〃
　Deacon　Johnson　said；　〃We'd　already　paid　for　the　satellite　time；　Charles。　I　think　you're　overreacting。〃
　Weeb　squirmed　impatiently　while　the　barber　worked　on　his　bushy　blond　eyebrows。　He　thought：　Maybe　Izzys　right；　maybe　the　cop　cars　weren't　so　bad。　Might　even　get　viewers　curious；　jack　up　the　ratings。
　〃May　I　bring　him　in　now？〃　Deacon　Johnson　asked。
　〃Sure；　Izzy。〃　Weeb　was　done　with　his　haircut。　He　gave　the　barber　a　hundred　dollars　and　told　him　to　go　home。　Weeb　checked　himself　in　the　mirror　and　splashed　on　some　Old　Spice。　Then　he　went　to　the　closet　and　selected　a　pale　raspberry　suit；　one　of　his　favorites。　He　was　stepping　into　the　shiny　flared　trousers　when　Deacon　Johnson　returned　with　die　designated　sinner。
　〃Well；　you're　certainly　a　big　fella；〃　Weeb　said。
　〃I　must　be；〃　said　the　man。
　〃Deacon　Johnson　tells　me　you're　blind。〃
　〃Not　pletely。〃
　〃Well；　no；　of　course　not；〃　Reverend　Weeb　said。　〃No　child　of　God　is　pletely　blind；　not　in　the　spiritual　sense。　His　eyes　are　your　eyes。〃
　〃That's　damn　good　to　know。〃
　〃What's　your　name；　sinner？〃
　〃They　call　me　Skink。〃
　〃What's　that；　Scandinavian　or　something？　Skink。〃　Weeb　frowned。　〃Would　you　mind；　Mr。　Skink；　if　today　you　took　a　biblical　name？　Say；　Jeremiah？〃
　〃Sure。