During his outlaw career Skinner had been exceptionally cautious and discreet. His only mistake was trusting a man he’d known since kindergarten. To save his own hide, the friend had ratted out both Perry and Perry’s brother, betrayal being the boilerplate denouement of most drug-running enterprises. Skinner only fleetingly had contemplated revenge against the person who’d turned him in. It was, after all, his first cousin.
The shit had gone down before Fry was born, and he wouldn’t have been born at all if Honey Santana hadn’t been waiting for Skinner when he got out of prison; waiting in a lemon-colored sundress and white sandals. It was a total surprise, especially the smile. She’d mailed 147 letters to Skinner while he was locked up; few were conciliatory and none were forgiving. Yet there she’d been, all dressed up and glowing in the Pensacola sunshine when he’d stepped through the gates at Eglin. The first words from her mouth were: “If you ever run another load of weed, I’m gonna cut off your pecker and grind it into snapper chum.”
Perry Skinner had resumed a life of honest crabbing, and things at home had been good, for a while.
“You gave the GPS to your mom?” he asked Fry.
“Yep.”
“And showed her how to use it?”
“I tried,” Fry said.
“What are the odds?”
“Fifty-fifty. She still can’t figure out the cruise control on her car.”
Nothing ever changes, Skinner thought. “How are you feelin’? And tell the truth.”
“Shitty.”
“That’s more like it.” Skinner was still worried about bringing Fry. He was not a fan of hospitals, and leaving the boy with strangers in the emergency room had seemed unthinkable at the time.
“You gonna shoot him, Dad?”
“Piejack? If it comes to that, yeah.”
“But what if we’re too late? What if he already did something bad to Mom?”
“Then he dies for sure,” Skinner said.
Fry nodded. It was the answer he’d expected.
Louis Piejack hadn’t heard anyone sneak up behind him. The blow had caught him at the base of the skull and he was out cold before he hit the cactus patch.
At dusk he regained consciousness, roused by an onslaught of medieval pain. He thrashed free of the clinging limbs, lost his balance and skidded backward into a ravine full of Busch beer cans. His landing sounded like a Krome Avenue head-on.
In the twilight, the prone and panting Piejack surveyed upon his fishy clothing and sunburned flesh a bristle of fine needles. Incessant stinging enabled him to map mentally a pattern of perforation extending from his forehead to his shins. Miraculously spared from puncture were the tender digits protruding from the grubby gauze on his left hand. Unfortunately, because of the surgical bungling, his forefinger and thumb were now situated so far apart and at such inopportune angles as to render impossible the simplest of tweezing motions. Consequently Piejack had to rely on his weaker and less facile right hand to pluck at the tiny cactus spines, the number of which he calculated to exceed one hundred.
A less inspired degenerate might have been laid low by such a handicap, but Piejack quickly collected himself. He didn’t much care who’d clobbered him, or why. He wasn’t overly concerned about losing his shotgun, or forgetting where he’d beached the johnboat. Nor did he feel especially motivated to hunt down his former captive, the fatass suit with the video camera, before the law came looking.
Louis Piejack had only one thing on his mind: Honey Santana.
He was fixated in the twitchy, pathological style of true-blue stalkers, and as he lay throbbing among the rusted beer cans he found himself deliciously reliving the single lightning-quick grope that had catapulted him toward this adventure; a deftly aimed hand, snaking out to cup Honey’s magnificent right breast as she’d unsuspectingly leaned over the display cooler to set on chipped ice a tray of fresh wahoo steaks. That she’d been wearing a bra had in no way diminished Piejack’s thrill; if anything, the intimate crinkle of fingertip upon fabric had only heightened his arousal.
Honey’s retaliatory malleting had caught him off guard, yet he’d experienced only the slightest ebb of lust as his nuts swelled to the size of Brazilian limes. Soon thereafter Piejack had been abducted by the Miami thugs and subjected to the sadistic stone-crab torture.
In fact, his whole existence had been a scroll of searing agony since he’d fondled Honey Santana, yet he desired her more avidly than ever. He’d come to believe that she secretly felt the same way, a pathetic delusion fueled by Honey’s surprise visit to his house. It was true that she’d hastily fled, but Piejack had chosen to interpret her apparent revulsion to his overtures as a tease.
Possessing Honey would be a triumph-and also a dagger in the soul of her ex-husband, the man who Piejack believed was responsible for the mutilation of his hand. He could hardly wait to be seen, arm in arm with his new mate, strolling the waterfront of Everglades City.
Piejack had no particular plan for capturing Honey; lust alone was his co-pilot. Even after the cacti encounter his focus remained singular and unbreakable, for his pain was so intense as to erase such primal distractions as thirst, hunger and exhaustion.
Under a rising moon he emerged from the pile of cans and on pricked knees began to ascend the shell mound from which he’d earlier fallen. After reaching the top he wilted feverishly, hurt pulsing in every pore. Feminine voices rose from the campsite below, and Piejack rallied with the hope that one of them belonged to Honey. He thought about the other woman in the group-the big blonde who’d gone topless in the kayak-and he fantasized for himself a star role in a writhing, glistening three-some. He recalled that the male camper was of lumpy build and not much good with a paddle, and from him Piejack foresaw minimal resistance. The man would either flee on impulse or be hurled into the creek.
Like a rheumatic old crocodile, Piejack began his long crawl, guided by the soft voices and a reddish smudge of flame at the edge of his vision.
Dear Geenie,
Last night in my truck was magikal and prefect. I never had such amayzing you-no-what!
Truly I believe we’re destinationed to be together for eternalty, and I will do everthing in my par to make it happen!!! I am a man of my werd, as soon you’ll find out.
Yours fourever,
V. Bonneville
What a fucking Neanderthal, thought Boyd Shreave. The woman’s obviously got a thing for primitive hunks.
“What are you doing down there with the flashlight?” Eugenie Fonda inquired. “Or maybe I don’t want to know.”
“Just reading,” Shreave replied crossly.
“Right. Under a blanket in the woods.”
“I’m not up for socializing. Sorry.”
She said, “I’m not askin’ you to square-dance, Boyd, I just want to know how you’re feeling.”
“How do you think I feel? I Tasered myself in the schlong.”
“Did it get burned?”
“Don’t pretend like you care.”
“Let me see.”
“No thanks,” Shreave said, too emphatically. Quickly he added, “Not right now,” on the chance that Eugenie might later choose to demonstrate her concern in a more generous way.
“Why don’t you come out and join us by the fire?” she asked.
“In a minute.”
Even more punishing than the fifty thousand volts was the withering embarrassment. Once the convulsions had ceased, Shreave had staggered to his feet, removed the now-broken stun gun from his pocket and mutely gimped away. He’d been sulking shamelessly ever since, certain that the two women had nothing more interesting than him to talk about.
Eugenie said, “So, what’re you reading down there?”
“A book.” He was strongly tempted to show her the front jacket of Storm Ghoul, just to get a rise.