Double Whammy

The man was alone on a bus bench outside the entrance to Lunker Lakes; beneath the big cedar billboard, in fact, directly under the second L. That he would be sitting right there at such a crucial moment seemed like a heavenly miracle, except that Deacon Johnson didn't believe in miracles. Plain old dumb luck was more like it. He told the limo driver to stop.

The blind man did not have a guide dog or a white cane, so Deacon Johnson was hopeful that they could do business.

He walked up to him and said hello. The man didn't move one bit, just stared straight ahead. Deacon Johnson could see nothing but his own natty reflection in the dark glasses.

"May I ask," Deacon Johnson said, "are you blind?"

"I suppose," the man said.

"May I ask how blind?"

"Depends what you mean."

"Can you see what that billboard says?" Deacon Johnson pointed to a big Toyota sign a quarter-mile down the road.

The man said, "Not hardly."

Deacon Johnson held a hand in front of the man's face. "Can you see that?"

The man nodded yes.

"Very good." Thank God, Deacon Johnson thought. For coaching purposes, partly blind was perfect. As a telegenic bonus, the man appeared sickly but not morbidly sunken, like some of the bums at the soup kitchen.

Deacon Johnson introduced himself and said, "Have you heard of the Outdoor Christian Network?"

"Yes," the blind man said.

"Then you've heard of the Reverend Charles Weeb, how he heals people on national television?"

"I watch no television."

"Yes, I understand, but at least have you heardof Reverend Weeb's healings? The reason I ask, he's having one today. Right here, inside this gate."

"A healing."

"On live satellite television," Deacon Johnson said. "Would you be interested?"

The man toyed with his beard.

"For five hundred dollars," Deacon Johnson said.

"And would I be healed?"

"Let me say, Reverend Weeb gets excellent results. With the Lord's help, of course." Deacon Johnson circled the blind man and assessed his camera presence. "I think the Lord would probably like us to shave you," he said. "And possibly cut your hair—the braid could be a distraction."

The blind man raised a middle digit in front of Deacon Johnson's face. "Can you see that?" he said.

Deacon Johnson chuckled weakly. "I underestimated you, sir. Let's make it a thousand dollars."

"For a thousand bucks I take a shower," the blind man said, "that's all."

When the man stood up he towered over Deacon Johnson. He pulled on a flowered plastic cap and smoothed it flat over his skull. Then, with thick callused fingers, he pinched Deacon Johnson's elbow and held on.

"Lead the way," the blind man said.

The instant the other bass boats roared away, Al Garcia felt sure that he and Jim Tile would be drowned, that the roiling wakes would swamp the wooden skiff and it would sink upside-down, trapping them both in a cold underwater pocket.

This did not happen. The skiff proved not only stable but also dry. It was, however, maddeningly slow—made even slower by the sloshing heft of the Igloo cooler, which was filled with fresh Lake Jesup water especially for Queenie. That, added to the considerable weight of the two men, the tackle, the gas tank, the lunchboxes, the anchor, and the bait (several pounds of frozen Harney County shiners, Queenie's favorite) was almost too much for the tired little six-horse Mercury to push.

Garcia puttered down the canal on a straight course for Lunker Lake Number Seven. With one hand he steered the engine. With the other he idly trolled a fishing line baited with a misshapen jangling monstrosity of a lure. "Looks like an elephant IUD," Garcia had told the perky but unappreciative sales rep who'd given it to him on the dock. "Maybe one of Cher's earrings."

It was a long slow ride, and the rhythmic drone of the outboard eventually brought on drowsiness. Garcia was half-dozing when something jolted his hands; he opened his eyes to see the tip of the fishing rod quiver and dip. Remembering what Skink had taught him, he jerked twice, solidly, and a stubborn tug answered at the end of the line. Without much effort the detective reeled in his catch, a feisty black fish no more than twelve inches long.

Jim Tile said, "I believe that's a baby bass."

"I'll be damned," said Al Garcia. "Throw him in the cooler."

"What for?"

"So we can show the governor we got one fair and square."

"It's awfully small," Jim Tile remarked, releasing the bass into the Igloo.

"A fish is a fish," the detective said. "Come on, Jimbo, get in the goddamn tournament spirit."

Then the engine quit; coughed twice, spit blue smoke, and died. Al Garcia removed the cowling and tinkered fruitlessly for ten minutes, then traded places so the trooper could give it a try.

Jim Tile repeatedly pulled the starter cord, but the Mercury showed no sign of life. After the tenth try, he sat down and said, "Damn."

The wooden skiff hung motionless in the canal, not another bass boat in sight.

"We got a long ways to go," Garcia said.

On a hunch, Jim Tile disengaged the fuel line and sniffed the plug.