ch.doublewhammy-第52节

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ent；　the　city。　Even　from　the　lake　there　were　noises…what；　he　couldn't　imagine…splashes　and　gurgles　of　all　dimensions。　Garcia　wondered　about　bears；　what　kind；　how　big。　The　weight　of　the　Colt　Python　under　his　arm　was　a　small　fort；　but　he　knew　the　gun　was　not　designed　to　kill　bears。　Garcia　was　no　outdoorsman；　his　main　exposure　to　the　wilderness　being　old　reruns　of　The　American　Sportsman。　Two　things　he　remembered　most　vividly　about　the　TV　show　were　ferocious　bears　the　size　of　Pontiacs；　and　convivial　campfire　scenes　where　all　the　men　slugged　down　beers　and　feasted　on　fresh　venison。　Garcia　seemed　to　recall　that　there　were　always　at　least　ten　heavily　armed　guys　around　Curt　Gowdy　at　the　camp；　plus　a　camera　crew。　And　here　he　was；　practically　all　alone　with　a　dead　fire。
　Halfheartedly　Garcia　collected　some　kindling　and　tossed　it　into　the　embers。　He　put　his　cigarette　lighter　to　the　pile；　but　the　wood　sparked　and　in　a　moment　went　cold。　The　detective　unscrewed　the　top　of　his　disposable　lighter　and　dumped　the　fluid　on　the　sticks。　Then　he　leaned　over　and　touched　a　match　to　the　fire；　which　promptly　blew　up　in　his　face。
　After　Garcia　picked　himself　off　the　ground；　he　sat　down　lugubriously　by　the　smoldering　campfire。　Gingerly　he　explored　his　face　and　found　only　minimal　damage…his　eyebrows　were　scorched　and　curlicued；　and　his　mustache　gave　off　an　acrid　smell。　Garcia　jumped　at　the　low　rumble　of　laughter…it　was　Skink；　hulking　in　the　doorway　of　the　shack。
　〃Honest　to　God；〃　the　big　man　said。　In　three　minutes　the　fire　was　ablaze　again。　Skink　made　coffee；　which　Garcia　accepted　gratefully。　There　was　something　odd　about　the　governor's　appearance；　and　it　took　the　detective　several　moments　to　figure　it　out。
　〃Your　eye；〃　he　said　to　Skink。
　〃What　of　it？〃
　A　new　eye　stared　from　the　socket　where　the　heavy　gauze　had　been　packed。　The　new　eye　was　strikingly　big；　with　a　starting　yellow　iris　and　a　pupil　as　large　as　a　half…dollar。　Garcia　couldn't　help　but　notice　that'the　new　eye　was　not　a　perfect　fit　for　the　hole　in　Skink's　face。
　〃Where　did　you　get　it？〃　Garcia　asked。
　〃Does　it　look　okay？〃
　〃Fine；〃　the　detective　said。　〃Very　nice。〃
　Skink　clomped　into　the　shack　and　came　back　with　a　stuffed　barn　owl；　an　erect；　imperious…looking　bird。　〃I　tie　this　on　the　roof　to　keep　the　crows　and　grackles　away；〃　he　said。　Admiring　the　taxidermied　owl　at　arm's　length；　Skink　said；　〃If　looks　could　kill。〃
　Garcia　asked；　〃Will　it　still　scare　the　birds？　With　one　eye；　I　mean。〃
　〃Hell；　yes；〃　Skink　said。　〃Even　more　so。　Just　look　at　that　vicious　flicker。〃
　The　owl's　frozen　gaze　was　still　fierce；　Garcia　had　to　admit。　And　Skink　himself　looked　exceptional；　while　his　new　eye　did　not　move　in　concert　with　its　mate；　it　still　manded　attention。
　〃I'll　give　it　a　try；〃　Skink　said；　and　put　on　his　sunglasses。
　After　they　finished　the　coffee；　Skink　got　the　Coleman　lantern　and　led　Garcia　down　to　the　water。　He　told　him　to　get　in　the　rowboat。　Garcia　shared　the　bow　with　an　old　tin　bucket；　a　nylon　castnet　folded　inside。　Skink　rowed　briskly　across　the　lake；　singing　an　old　rock　song　that　Garcia　vaguely　recognized：　No　one　knows　what　it's　like　to　be　the　bad　man；　to　be　the　sad　man　。。。　More　like　the　madman；　Garcia　said　to　himself。
　He　was　impressed　by　Skink's　energy；　after　the　savage　beating　he'd　taken。　The　wooden　boat　cut　the　water　in　strong　bolts；　Skink　pulling　at　the　oars　with　a　fervor　that　bordered　on　jubilation。　Truly　he　was　a　different　man　than　the　bloodied　heap　wheezing　in　the　back　seat　of　Garcia's　car。　If　the　pain　still　bothered　him；　Skink　didn't　show　it。　He　was　plainly　overjoyed　to　be　home；　and　on　the　water。
　After　twenty　minutes　Skink　guided　the　rowboat　into　a　cove　on　the　northern　shore；　but　he　didn't　break　his　pace。　With　his　good　eye　he　checked　over　his　shoulder　and　kept　a　course　for　the　mouth　of　a　small　creek　that　emptied　into　the　lake　between　two　prehistoric　live　oaks。　To　Garcia　the　creek　seemed　too　narrow　even　for　the　little　skiff；　yet　it　swallowed　them　easily。　For　fifty　yards　it　snaked　through　mossy　bottomland；　beneath　lightning…splintered　cypress　and　eerie　tangled　beards　of　Spanish　moss。　Garcia　was　awestruck　by　the　primordial　beauty　of　the　swamp　but　said　nothing；　afraid　to　disturb　the　silence。　Skink　had　long　stopped　singing。
　Eventually　the　creek　opened　to　a　blackwater　pond　rimmed　by　lily　pads　and　mined　with　rotting　stumps。
　Skink　removed　his　sunglasses　and　tucked　them　into　the　pocket　of　his　weathersuit。　He　turned　from　the　oars　and　motioned　for　the　cast…net。　Awkwardly　Garcia　handed　it　to　him；　the　lead　weights　were　heavy　and　unwieldly。　Standing　wide…legged；　Skink　clenched　the　string　in　his　teeth　and　hurled　the　net　in　a　smooth　low　arc；　it　opened　perfectly　and　settled　to　the　water　like　a　gossamer　umbrella。　When　he　dragged　the　net　back　into　the　boat；　it　was　spangled　with　fish；　flashing　in　the　mesh　like　pieces　of　a　shattered　mirror。　Skink　filled　the　tin　bucket　with　water　and　emptied　the　fish　into　it。　Then　he　refolded　the　net　and　sat　down；　facing　Al　Garcia。
　〃Golden　shiners；〃　he　announced。　Skink　plucked　one　out　of　the　bucket　and　swallowed　it　alive。
　Garcia　stared　at　him。　〃What　do　they　taste　like？〃　he　asked。
　〃Like　shiners。〃　Skink　took　another　fish　from　the　bucket　and　thwacked　it　lightly　against　the　gunwale；　killing　it　instantly。　〃Watch　here；〃　he　said　to　Garcia。
　Leaning　over　the　side　of　the　skiff；　Skink　slapped　the　palm　of　his　hand　on　the　water；　causing　a　loud　concussion。　He　repeated　this　action　several　times　until　suddenly　he　pulled　his　hand　from　the　pond　and　said；　〃Whooo；　baby！〃　He　dropped　the　dead　shiner　and　beneath　it　the　black　water　erupted…a　massive　fish；　as　bronze　and　broad　as　a　cannon；　engulfed　the　little　fish　where　it　floated。
　〃Cristo！〃　gasped　Al　Garcia。
　Skink　stared　at　the　now…silken　surface　and　grinned　proudly。　〃Yeah；　she's　a　big　old　momma。〃　He　tossed　another　shiner；　with　the　same　volcanic　result。
　〃That's　a　bass？〃　Garcia　asked。　^
　〃Hawg；〃　Skink　said。　〃The　fucking　monster…beastie　of　all　time。　Guess　her　weight；　Sergeant。〃
　〃I've　got　no　idea。〃　In　the　fickle　light　of　the　lantern　Garcia　looked　hard　for　the　fish　but　saw　nothing；　the　water　was　impenetrable；　the　color　of　crude　oil。
　〃Name's　Queenie；〃　Skink　said；　〃and　she　weighs　twenty…nine　pounds；　easy。〃
　Skink　tossed　three　more　shiners；　and　the　bass　devoured　them；　soaking　the　men　in　her　frenzy。
　〃So　this　is　your　pet；〃　Garcia　said。
　〃Hell；　no；〃　Skink　said；　〃she's　my　partner。〃　He　handed　the　bucket　to　Al　Garcia。　〃You　try；〃　he　said；　〃but　watch　your　pinkies。〃
　Garcia　crippled　a　shiner　and　tossed　it　into　the　pond。　Nothing　happened；　not　a　ripple。
　〃Spank　the　water；〃　Skink　instructed。
　Garcia　tried；　timidly；　making　more　bubbles　than　noise。
　〃Louder；　dammit！〃　Skink　said。　〃That's　it。　Quick；　now；　drop　a　shiner。〃
　No　sooner　had　the　tiny　fish　landed…still　wriggling；　this　one…than　the　monster…beastie　slurped　it　down。　The　noise　was　obscene。
　〃She　likes　you；〃　Skink　said。　〃Do　it　again。〃
　Garcia　tossed　another　baitfish　and　watched　it　disappear。　〃You　learn　this　shit　from　Marlin　Perkins？〃　he　said。
　Skink　ignored　him。　〃Give　me　the　bucket；〃　he　said。　He　fed　the　big　fish　the　rest　of　the　dying　shiners；　save　one。　Skink　held　it　between　his　thumb　and　forefinger；　tickling　the　water。　He　used　the　fish　as　a　silvery　wand；　tracing　figure…eights　by　the　side　of　the　rowboat。　From　its　unseen　lair　deep　in　the　pond；　the　big　fish　rose　slowly　until　its　black　dorsal　punctured　the　velvet　surface。　As　the　fish　hung　motionless；　Garcia　for　the　first　time　could　see　its　true　size；　and　appreciate　the　awesome　capacity　of　its　underslung　jaw。　The　bass　glided　slowly　toward　Skink's　teasing　shiner；　frenzy　had　been　replaced　by　a　delicate　deliberation。　Skink's　fingers　released　the　baitfish；　which　disappeared　instantly　into　the　white　maw…yet　the　fish　did　not　swim　away；　nor　did　Skink　withdraw　his　hand。　Amazingly；　he　took　the　bass　by　its　lower　lip；　hoisted　it　from　the　pond；　and　laid　it　carefully　across　his　lap。　〃There　now；　momma；〃　Skink　said。　Dripping　in　the　boat；　the　fish　flared　its　gills　and　snapped　at　air；　but　did　not　struggle。　It　was；　Garcia　thought；　a　magnificent　gaping　brute…nearly　thirty　pounds　of　iridescent　muscle。
　〃Sergeant；〃　Skink　said；　〃say　hi　to　Queenie。〃
　Garcia　did　not　wish　to　seem　rude；　but　he　didn't　feel　like　talking　to　a　fish。
　〃e　on；〃　Skink　prodded。
　〃Hey；　Queenie；〃　said　the　detective；　without　conviction。　He　was　very　glad　his　lieutenant　couldn't　see　him。
　Skink　kept　a　thumb　curled　in　the　bass's　lower　lip；　and　slipped　the　other　hand　under　its　bloated　pale　belly。　He　lifted　the　bass　and　propped　it　long…wise　on　his　shoulder；　like　a　barrel。　Skink's　face　was　side…by…side　with　that　of　the　monster　bass；　and　Al　Garcia　found　himself　staring　at　（from　left　to　right）　the　eyes　of　a　fish；　a　man；　and　a　stuffed　owl。
　As　if　cuddling　a　puppy；　Skink　pressed　his　cheek　against　Queenie's　scaly　gillplates。　〃Meet　the　new　boss；〃　he　whispered　to　the　fish；　〃same　as　the　old　boss。〃
　Al　Garcia　didn't　know　what　the　hell　he　was　talking　about。
　The　Reverend　Charles　Weeb　arrived　at　Lunker　Lakes　just　in　time　to　see　the　second　batch　of　fish　die。　The　hydrologist　was　crestfallen　but　said　there　was　nothing　to　be　done。　Under　a　gray　sky　Weeb　stood　on　the　bank　next　to　the　young　scientist　and　counted　the　fish　as　they　bobbed　to　the　surface　of　the　bad　water。