ch.doublewhammy-第33部分

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e　bath　suddenly　swept　over　Decker；　and　his　chest　started　to　throb。
　
　He　was　half…asleep　on　the　sofa　when　the　phone　rang。　The　machine　answered　on　the　third　ring。　Decker　sat　up　when　he　heard　Al　Garcia's　voice。
　〃Call　me　as　soon　as　you　get　in。〃
　Garcia　was　a　Metro　police　detective　and　an　old　friend。　Except　he　didn't　sound　so　friendly　on　the　machine；　he　sounded　awfully　damn　professional。　Decker　was　a　little　worried。　He　drank　two　cups　of　black　instant　coffee　before　calling　back。
　〃Hey；　Sarge；　what's　up？〃
　Garcia　said；　〃You　at　the　trailer？〃
　〃No；　I'm　in　the　penthouse　of　the　Coconut　Grove　Hotel。　They're　having　a　Morgan　Fairchild　lookalike　contest　and　I'm　the　judge　for　the　swimsuit　petition。〃
　Normally　Garcia　would　have　donated　some　appropriately　lewd　counterpunchline；　but　today　all　he　offered　was　a　polite　chuckle。
　〃We　need　to　talk；〃　the　detective　said　mildly。　〃See　you　in　about　thirty。〃
　Garcia　was　sitting　on　something；　that　much　was　certain。　Decker　shaved　and　put　on　a　fresh　shirt。　He　could　easily　guess　what　must　have　happened。　A　Louisiana　cop　probably　had　found　those　three　dirtbags　that　Decker　had　clobbered　along　the　interstate。　They　would　have　sworn　that　this　scoundrel　from　Miami　had　flagged　them　down　and　robbed　them；　of　course。　A　tracer　on　the　Hertz　car　would　have　yielded　Decker's　name　and　address；　and　from　then　on　it　was　only　a　matter　of　professional　courtesy。　Al　Garcia　was　probably　bringing　a　bench　warrant　from　St。　Charles　Parish。
　Decker　was　not　especially　eager　to　return；　or　be　returned；　to　Louisiana。　He　figured　he　could　beat　the　phony　assault　rap　from　the　highway　robbers；　but　what　if　the　Lockhart　case　broke　open　in　the　meantime？　Decker　didn't　want　to　be　around　if　Skink　got　arrested。
　Skink　was　the　big　problem。　If　Decker　hadn't　enlisted　the　mad　hermit　into　the　case；　Dickie　Lockhart　would　still　be　alive。　On　the　other　hand；　it　was　probably　Lockhart　who　had　arranged　the　murders　of　Robert　Clinch　and　then　Ott　Pickney。　Decker　didn't　know　exactly　what　to　do　next；　it　was　a　goddamn　mess。　He　had　e　to　like　Skink　and　he　hated　the　thought　of　him　going　to　the　gas　chamber　over　a　greedy　sleazoid　such　as　Lockhart；　but　murder　was　murder。　As　he　straightened　up　the　trailer…a　week's　worth　of　moldy　laundry；　mainly…Decker　toyed　with　the　idea　of　telling　Garcia　the　whole　story；　it　was　so　profoundly　weird　that　even　a　Miami　cop　might　be　sympathetic。　But　Decker　decided　to　hold　off；　for　the　moment。　There　appeared　to　be　a　good　chance　that　Skink　might　never　be　found；　or　even　identified　as　a　suspect。　Decker　also　understood　that　Skink　might　see　absolutely　nothing　wrong　in　what　he　did；　and　would　merely　appear　one　day　to　take　full　credit　for　the　deed。　This　was　always　a　possibility　when　dealing　with　the　chronically　unraveled。
　The　news　from　Louisiana　was　relatively　sparse。　In　the　two　days　Decker　had　been　back　in　Florida；　the　local　newspapers　had　run　only　a　couple　of　four…paragraph　wire　stories　about　Dickie　Lockhart's　murder　at　the　bass　tournament…robbery　believed　to　be　the　motive；　no　prints；　no　suspects；　services　to　be　held　in　Harney　County。　The　stories　probably　would　have　gotten　better　play　had　it　not　been　for　the　biannual　mass　murder　in　Oklahoma；　this　time　it　was　twelve　motorists　shot　by　a　disgruntled　toll…booth　operator　who　was　fed　up　with　people　not　having　exact　change。
　After　trying　Catherine；　Decker　had　made　three　attempts　to　reach　Dennis　Gault。　Various　disinterested　secretaries　had　reported　that　the　sugarcane　baron　was　on　long　distance；　in　a　conference；　or　out　of　town。　Decker　had　not　left　his　name　or　a　message。　What　he　had　wanted　to　tell　Gault　was　that　the　case　was　over　（obviously）　and　that　he　was　pocketing　twenty　grand　of　the　advance　for　time　and　expenses。　Gault　would　bitch　and　argue；　but　not　too　much。　Not　if　he　had　any　brains。
　Al　Garcia　showed　up　right　on　time。　Decker　heard　the　car　door　slam　and　waited　for　a　knock。　Then　he　heard　another　car　pull　up　the　gravel　drive；　and　another。　He　looked　out　the　window　and　couldn't　believe　it：　Al's　unmarked　Chrysler；　plus　two　green…and…whites…a　whole　damn　posse　for　a　lousy　agg　assault。　Then　a　terrible　thought　occurred　to　him：　What　if　it　were　something　more　serious？　What　if　one　of　those　Louisiana　dirtbags　had　actually　died？　That　would　explain　the　mittee。
　The　cops　were　out　of　their　squad　cars；　having　a　huddle　in　front　of　Decker's　trailer。　Garcia's　cigarette　bobbed　up　and　down　as　he　talked　to　the　uniformed　officers。
　〃Shit；〃　Decker　said。　The　neighbors　would　be　absolutely　thrilled；　this　was　good　for　a　year's　worth　of　gossip。　Where　were　the　pit　bulls　when　you　needed　them？
　Decker　figured　the　best　way　to　handle　the　scene　was　to　stroll　outside　and　say　hello；　as　if　nothing　were　out　of　the　ordinary。　He　was　two　steps　from　opening　the　door　when　something　the　approximate　consistency　of　granite　crashed　down　on　the　base　of　his　neck；　and　he　fell　headlong　through　a　dizzy　galaxy　of　white　noise　and　blinding　pinwheels。
　When　he　awoke；　Decker　felt　like　somebody　had　screwed　his　skull　on　crookedly。　He　opened　his　eyes　and　the　world　was　red。
　〃Don't　fucking　move。〃
　A　man　had　him　from　behind；　around　the　neck。　It　was　a　military　hold；　unbreakable。　One　good　squeeze　and　Decker　would　pass　out　again。　A　large　gritty　hand　was　clapped　over　his　mouth。　The　man's　chin　dug　into　Decker's　right　shoulder；　and　his　breath　whistled　warmly　in　Decker's　ear。
　Even　when　Decker's　head　cleared；　the　red　didn't　go　away。　The　intruder　had　dragged　him　into　the　darkroom；　turned　on　the　photo　light；　and　locked　the　door。　From　somewhere；　remotely；　Decker　heard　Al　Garcia　calling　his　name。　It　sounded　like　the　detective　was　outside　the　trailer；　shouting　in　through　a　window。　Probably　didn't　have　a　search　warrant；　Decker　thought；　that　was　just　like　Garcia；　everything　by　the　bloody　book。　Decker　hoped　that　Al　would　take　a　chance　and　pop　the　lock　on　the　front　door。　If　that　happened；　Decker　was　ready　to　make　some　serious　noise。
　Decker's　abductor　must　have　sensed　something；　because　he　brutally　tightened　his　hold。　Instantly　Decker　felt　bug…eyed　and　queasy。　His　arms　began　to　tingle　and　he　let　out　an　involuntary　groan。
　〃Ssshhh；〃　the　man　said。
　Forced　to　suck　air　through　his　nose；　Decker　couldn't　help　but　notice　that　the　man　smelled。　Not　a　stink；　exactly；　but　a　powerful　musk；　not　altogether　unpleasant。　Decker　tuned　out　Garcia's　muffled　shouts；　closed　his　eyes；　and　concentrated。　The　smell　was　deep　swamp　and　animal；　sweet　pine　tinged　with　carrion。　Mixed　in　were　fainter　traces　of　black　bog　mud　and　dried　sweat　and　old　smoke。　Not　tobacco　smoke；　either；　but　the　woodsy　fume　of　campfires。　Suddenly　Decker　felt　foolish。　He　abandoned　all　thought　of　a　struggle　and　relaxed　in　the　intruder's　bearlike　grip。
　The　voice　in　his　ear　whispered；　〃Nice　going；　Miami。〃
　
　R。　J。　Decker　was　right。　Al　Garcia　didn't　have　a　search　warrant。　What　he　had；　stuffed　in　an　inside　pocket　of　his　J。　C。　Penney　suit　jacket；　was　a　bench　warrant　for　Decker's　arrest；　which　had　been　Federal　Expressed　that　morning　all　the　way　from　New　Orleans。　The　warrant　was　as　literate　and　prehensible　as　could　be　expected；　but　it　did　not　give　Al　Garcia　the　right　to　bust　down　the　door　to　Decker's　trailer。
　〃Why　the　hell　not？〃　asked　one　of　the　uniformed　cops。
　〃No　PC；〃　Garcia　snapped。　PC　was　probable　cause。
　〃He's　hiding　in　the　can；　I　bet。〃
　〃Not　Decker；〃　Garcia　said。
　〃I　don't　want　to　wait　around；〃　the　other　cop　said。
　〃Oh；　you　got　big　plans；　Billy？〃　Garcia　said。　〃Late　to　the　fucking　opera　maybe？〃
　The　cop　turned　away。
　Garcia　grumbled。　〃I　don't　want　to　wait　either；〃　he　said。　He　was　tired　of　hollering　through　Decker's　window　and　he　was　also　pissed　off。　He　had　driven　all　the　way　out　here　as　a　favor；　and　regretted　it。　He　hated　trailer　parks；　trailer　parks　were　the　reason　God　invented　tornadoes。　Garcia　could　have　sent　only　the　green…and…whites；　but　Decker　was　a　friend　and　this　was　serious　business。　Garcia　wanted　to　hear　his　side　of　it；　because　what　the　Louisiana　people　had　told　him　so　far　was　simply　not　believable。
　〃You　want　me　to　disable　his　vehicle？〃　asked　the　uniformed　cop　named　Billy。
　〃What　are　you　talking　about？〃
　〃Flatten　the　tires；　so　he　can't　get　away。〃
　Garcia　shook　his　head。　〃No；　that　won't　be　necessary。〃　The　standards　at　the　police　academy　had　gone　to　hell；　that　much　was　obvious。　Anybody　with　an　eighteen…inch　neck　could　get　a　badge　these　days。
　〃He　said　he'd　be　here；　right？〃　the　other　cop　asked。
　〃Yeah；〃　Garcia　mumbled；　〃that's　what　he　said。〃
　So　where　was　he？　Why　hadn't　he　taken　his　own　car？　Garcia　was　more　miffed　than　curious。
　The　cop　named　Billy　said；　〃Suppose　the　jalousies　on　the　back　door　suddenly　fell　out？　Suppose　we　could　crawl　right　in？〃
　〃Suppose　you　go　sit　under　that　palm　tree　and　play　with　yourself；〃　Garcia　said。
　Christ；　what　a　day。　It　began　when　the　Hialeah　grave　robbers　struck　again；　swiping　seven　human　skulls　in　a　predawn　raid　on　a　city　cemetery。　At　first　Garcia　had　refused　to　answer　the　call　on　the　grounds　that　it　wasn't　really　a　murder；　since　the　victims　of　the　crime　were　already　dead。　One　of　them　in　particular　had　been　dead　since　before　Al　Garcia　was　born；　so　he　didn't　think　it　was　practical；　or　fair；　that　he　should　have　to　reinvestigate。　Everybody　in　the　office　had　agreed　that　technically　it　wasn't　a　homicide；　more　likely　petty　larceny。　Wh