Charlie Weeb shook his head. "The fish will croak, Eddie, that's the problem. I got two thousand yearlings coming in the night before and I'll be lucky if they hang on until dusk. Worse comes to worst, you might be the only guy in the tournament to bring in a live bass."

"But I ain't gone cheat."

Reverend Weeb smiled patiently. "Eddie, you just bought that big place outside Tuscaloosa—what, sixty acres, something like that. And I notice your wife's driving a new Eldorado ... well, Eddie, I look at you and see a man who's enjoying himself, am I right? I see a man who likes being number one, for a change. Some men get a chance like this and they blow it—think of Dickie Lockhart."

Eddie Spurling didn't want to think about that fool Dickie Lockhart. What happened to Dickie Lockhart was a damn fluke. Eddie ground his Red Man to a soggy pulp. "You got a place I could spit this?" he asked.

"The sink is fine," Weeb said. Angrily Eddie Spurling drilled the wad straight into the disposal.

"So what's it gonna be," Charlie Weeb said. "You want to be a star, or not?"

Later that afternoon, Deacon Johnson knocked on the door to Reverend Weeb's private office. Inside, Reverend Weeb was getting a vigorous back rub and dictating a Sunday sermon for transcription.

"Who you got lined up for the healing?" Weeb grunted, the masseuse kneading his freckled shoulder blades.

"No kids," Deacon Johnson reported glumly. "Florida's different from Louisiana, Charles. The state welfare office threatened to shut us down if we use any kids on the show."

"Pagan assholes!"

Charlie Weeb had planned a grand healing for the morning of the big bass tournament. A lavish pulpit was being constructed as part of the weigh station.

"Now what?" he said.

"I'm going down to the VA tomorrow to look for some cripples," Deacon Johnson said.

"Not real cripples?"

"No," said the deacon. "With some of the vets, it comes and goes. They stub their toe, they get a wheelchair—it's all in their head. I think we can find one to play along."

"Be careful," Reverend Weeb said. "All we need is some fruitcake Rambo flashing back to Nam on live TV."

"Don't worry," Deacon Johnson said. "Charles, I thought you'd like to hear some good news."

"Absolutely."

Deacon Johnson said, "The tournament's full. Today we got our fiftieth boat."

"Thank God." The hundred-fifty grand in entry fees would almost cover costs. "Anybody famous?" Weeb asked.

"No, couple of brothers," Deacon Johnson said. "In fact, Eddie said he never even heard of them. Tile is the name. James and Chico."

The preacher chuckled and rolled over on his back. "Long as the check cleared," he said.

Catherine was astonished when they went through the Golden Glades interchange and the toll-booth lady hardly looked twice at Lucas.

"I can't believe it," Catherine said as they drove away.

Behind the wheel, Thomas Curl scowled. "What the hell wouldshe say?"

When they had pulled up to the booth, Curl had reached out with his dog-headed arm to get the ticket. The toll-booth lady glanced benignly at the pit bull, which was decomposing rather noticeably.

"Have a nice day," the toll-booth lady said. "I'm all out of Milk-bones."

"Thanks just the same," said Thomas Curl, driving on.

He had named the dead dog head Lucas.

"Why not Luke?" Catherine asked.

"What a dumb name for a dog."

Thomas Curl held the pistol tightly with his left hand; that's why he'd had to reach for the toll ticket with his right arm, the dog arm. That's the one he steered with. Catherine could see that it was grossly swollen with infection. The pus-lathered flesh had turned gray, with lightning streaks of crimson.

"You should see a doctor."

"After I see Dennis," Thomas Curl said. "And after I see your goddamn husband." Curl was sweating like a pig.

Catherine said, "He's not my husband anymore."

"I still plan to kill him, on account of Lemus."

"See if I care," said Catherine, staring out the window, seemingly enjoying the ride.

Thomas Curl didn't know what to make of her. The girl should have been frightened to death.

"Wait'll he finds out where you are."

"Decker? What makes you think he still cares?" she bluffed.

Thomas Curl laughed coarsely. "He's only got about a million fucking pitchers."

"Of me?"

"Fucking A. Under the bed, in the closet, probably in his underpants drawer too. Didn't you know that?"

Catherine didn't know about the pictures. She wondered which ones R.J. had kept, which ones he liked best.

"My husband's a doctor. He could take a look at that arm when he gets back tonight." Another bluff. James would have passed out at the sight.

"No way," Thomas said. "We're headed for Lauderdale." He looked down at the dog head and smiled. "Ain't that right, Lucas boy?"

Catherine was not surprised when Lucas made no reply, but Thomas Curl frowned unhappily. "Lucas, you hear me? Goddammit, puppy, speak!"

The festering dog head clung mutely to his arm.

Thomas Curl shoved the barrel of the pistol into one of the animal's piebald ears.

"Please don't," Catherine cried, raising her arms.

No longer paying even cursory attention to the highway, Thomas glared down at Lucas and bared his own teeth. "My daddy said you got to show 'em who's boss. Dogs is like wives, he said, you can't let 'em have their way once else they run wild. Ain't that right, Lucas boy?"

Again nothing.

Thomas Curl cocked the pistol. "Bad dog, Lucas!"

Catherine covered her mouth and let out a muffled little bark.

Curl grinned and leaned closer. "Hear that?"

Catherine barked again. It was better than having him fire a gun inside the car, doing seventy.

"That's my puppy," Curl said, oblivious. He laid the pistol in his lap and patted the crown of the dead dog's head. "You good boy, Lucas, I knew all along."

"Ruff!" said Catherine.

Skink netted more shiners and made Al Garcia practice with the fish until nearly dawn. Finally they let the monster-beastie rest, and Skink rowed back across Lake Jesup. As they dragged the skiff ashore, Garcia noticed two cars parked behind Skink's truck at the shack. One belonged to Trooper Jim Tile. The other was a tangerine Corvette.

"Company," Skink said, removing his raincap.

The four of them were sitting around the campfire: Decker, Tile, Lanie Gault, and a woman whom Skink did not recognize. Decker introduced her as Ellen O'Leary.

"How's the eye?" Jim Tile asked.

Skink grinned and took off his sunglasses. "Good as new," he said. Everyone felt obliged to say something nice about the owl eye.

"You hungry?" Skink said. "I'll take the truck and find some breakfast."

"We hit the Mister Donut on the way in," Decker said.

"Thank you anyway," Lanie added.

Skink nodded. "I am, sort of," he said. "Hungry, I mean. You please move the cars?"

"Take mine," Lanie said, fishing the keys out of her jeans. "Better yet, I'll go with you."

"Like hell," Decker said.

"I don't mind," said Skink, "if you don't."

"No more rope tricks," Lanie said. It was her cockteasing voice; Decker recognized it. She got in the passenger side of the Corvette. Skink squeezed himself behind the wheel.

"Hope she likes possum omelets," Decker said.

Skink and Lanie were gone a long time.

Al Garcia told Decker the plan, beginning with: "The man's totally crazy."

"Thanks for the bulletin."

Jim Tile said, "He knows about things. You can trust him."

Skink's plan was to crash the big bass tournament and ruin it. His plan was to sabotage the Lunker Lakes resort on national television.

Garcia said to Jim Tile: "You and me are fishing together."