Double Whammy

"You guess." Skink laughed harshly. "You better damn well find out, Miami. You're not the only wizard with a darkroom."

Decker felt tired; he wanted to close his eyes, cap the lens. Skink told him they should take U.S. 27 up to Alligator Alley and go west.

"We'd be safer in the city," Decker said. He didn't feel like driving the entire width of the state; the drumbeat pain on his brainstem was unbearable. The Alley would be crawling with state troopers, too; they had an eye for sporty rental cars. "Where exactly did you want to go?" he asked Skink.

"The Big Cypress is a good place to hide." Skink gave him a sideways glance.

"Not the swamp-rat routine," Decker said, "not tonight. Let's stay in town."

"You got somewhere that's safe?"

"Maybe."

"No hotels," Skink hissed.

"No hotels."

Decker parked at the curb and studied the house silently for several moments. It seemed impressively large, even for Miami Shores. There were two cars, a Firebird and a Jaguar sedan, parked in a half-circle gravel driveway. The sabal palms and seagrape trees were bathed by soft orange spotlights mounted discreetly around the Bermuda lawn. A Spanish archway framed the front door, which was made of a coffee-colored wood. There were no iron bars across the front window, but Decker could see a bold red sticker advertising the burglar alarm.

"You gonna sit here and moon all night?" Skink said.

They got out and walked up the driveway, the gravel crunching noisily under their feet. Skink had nothing to say about the big house; he'd seen plenty, and most were owned by wealthy and respectable thieves.

Indelicately Decker asked him to stand back a few steps from the door.

"So they don't die of fright, is that it?" Skink said.

Catherine answered the bell. "Rage," she said, looking more than a little surprised.

She wore tight cutoff jeans and a sleeveless lavender top, with no brassiere. Decker was ticked off that James the doctor had let her answer the door in the middle of the night—they could have been any variety of nocturnal Dade County creep: killers, kidnappers, witch doctors looking for a sacrificial goat. What kind of a lazy jerk would send his wife to the door alone, with no bra on, at eleven-thirty?

"I would've called," R. J. Decker said, "but it's kind of an emergency."

Catherine glanced at Skink and seemed to grasp the seriousness of the situation.

"Come on in, guys," she said in a friendly den-mother tone. Then she leaned close and whispered to Decker: "James is here."

"I know." The Jag was the giveaway.

A snow-white miniature poodle raced full speed into the foyer, its toenails clacking on the tile. The moment it saw Skink, the dog began to snarl and drool deliriously. It chomped the cuff of his orange rainsuit and began tearing at the plastic. Wordlessly Skink kicked the animal once, sharply, skidding it back down the hall.

"Sorry," Decker said wanly.

"It's okay," Catherine said, leading them into the kitchen. "I hate the little bastard—he pees in my shoes, did I tell you that?"

Out of nowhere Skink said: "We need a place for the night."

Catherine nodded. "There's plenty of room." An emergency is right, she thought; that would be the only thing to get Decker to stay under the same roof.

Skink said: "Decker's hurt, too."

"I'm all right."

"What is it?" Catherine asked.

"I almost broke his neck," Skink said, "accidentally."

"It's just a sprain," Decker said.

Then James the doctor—Catherine's husband—walked into the kitchen. He wore a navy Ralph Lauren bathrobe that stopped at his pale hairless knees; he also wore matching blue slippers. Decker was seized by an urge to repeatedly slap the man in the face; instead he just froze.

James studied the two visitors and said, "Catherine?" He wanted an explanation.

Both Catherine and Decker looked fairly helpless, so Skink stepped forward and said, "This is your wife's ex-husband, and I'm his friend."

"Oh?" In his lifetime James had never seen anything like Skink up close, but he was doing his best to maintain a man-of-the-house authority. To Decker he extended his hand and said, "R.J., isn't it? Funny we haven't met before."

"Uproarious," Decker said, giving the doctor's hand an exceedingly firm shake.

"They're spending the night," Catherine told her husband. "R.J.'s trailer flooded."

"There's been no rain," James remarked.

"A pipe broke," Catherine said impatiently.

Good girl, Decker thought; still quick on her feet.

"I'm going to fix these fellows some tea," she said. "Everybody into the living room, now, scat."

The living room had been designed around one of those giant seven-foot televisions of the type Decker had seen at Dennis Gault's condominium. Every chair, every sofa, every bar stool had a view of the screen. James the chiropractor had been watching a videocassette of one of the "Star Wars" movies. "I've got all three on tape," he volunteered.

Decker was calming down. He had no reason to hate the guy, except maybe for the robe; anyway, it was Catherine who had made the choice.