"The Outdoor Christian Network. You heard of it?"

"TV Bible geysers," Decker said.

Lanie straightened, as if working out a crick in her spine. "More than old-time religion," she said. "OCN is quite the modern conglomerate. They're into health insurance, unit trusts, oil futures, real-estate development ... "

"I'll check into it," Decker promised. "I'm tired, Lanie. I've got a rotten drive tomorrow."

She nodded, got up, and slipped into her sandals. She stood in front of the mirror and brushed through her hair in brisk, sure strokes.

"One more thing," Decker said. "Out at the cemetery, how did you know which one was me? Sanibel was a long time ago."

Lanie laughed. "You kidding?"

"Don't tell me I stood out."

"Yeah, you did," she said, "but Dennis wired me a picture, in case I wasn't sure."

"A picture."

Lanie reached in her purse. "Courtesy of the booking desk at the Dade County Jail."

Decker recognized the old mug shots. Cute move, Dennis. Just a touch of the hot needle.

"I've seen friendlier smiles," Lanie said, studying the police photos. "You still taking pictures, Decker?"

"Once in a while."

"Maybe you could do me sometime. I'm thinking of going back into modeling." Lanie put the purse under her arm and opened the door. "It's been so long I've probably forgotten how to pose."

You're doing just fine, Decker thought. "Good night," he said.

Decker had to go back to Miami to soup some film for an insurance-fraud trial, set for the coming week. He figured he'd use the long drive to decide what to do about Dennis Gault and the fishing scam. His instincts about the cast of characters told him to drop the case—but what about the death of Bobby Clinch?

As he packed his suitcase Decker heard himself say: So what? He hated the way he sounded because he sounded like every lazy asshole cop or P.I. he'd ever met. Big cases, big problems. Go for the easy bucks, that would be the advice.

Yet Decker knew he couldn't drop it now. Bobby Clinch got killed because he went snooping for a secret fish; such a remarkable crime couldn't easily be ignored. The idea that somebody had become homicidal over a largemouth bass was perversely appealing to Decker, and it made him want very much to get a picture of the guys who did it.

First he needed to meet with Gault again, a distasteful prospect. He could do it this evening, back in Miami; it wouldn't take long. From the motel room Decker called and made reservations for the following night on a seven-P.M. United flight to New Orleans. The Cajun Invitational Bass Classic was this week's stop on the professional fishing tour, and a good place for Decker to get his first glimpse of Dickie Lockhart in action. He had seen the famous TV angler's face on a billboard across from a bait shop on Route 222: "Dickie Lockhart Loves Happy Gland Fish Scent! So Do Lunker Bass!" Decker had been so intrigued by the billboard that he'd asked a man at the bait shop if the Happy Gland company made a formula for humans. The man at the bait shop dutifully checked behind the counter and said no.

Before leaving Harney, Decker tried to call Ott Pickney at the newspaper. Sandy Kilpatrick, the birdlike editor, said Ott had gone out early to do some interviews. The note of concern in Kilpatrick's voice suggested that pre-lunchtime enterprise was uncharacteristic behavior for Ott. Decker left a message to have Ott call him that night in Miami.

At that moment Ott Pickney was slurping down black coffee at Culver Rundell's bait shop on the southern shore of Lake Jesup. Culver Rundell was behind the counter and his brother Ozzie was out back dipping shiners. Ott was trying to strike up a conversation about Bobby Clinch. Ott had set his reporter's notebook on the counter twenty minutes earlier, and the pages were still blank.

"Sorry I'm not much help," Culver Rundell said. "Bobby was a nice guy, a pretty good basser. That's about all I can tell you. Also, he favored spinnerbaits."

"Spinnerbaits."

"Over plastic worms," Culver Rundell explained.

Ott Pickney could not bring himself to transcribe this detail.

"I understand you were here when they brought in the body," Ott said.

"I was. The Davidson boys found him. Daniel and Desi."

"How awful," Ott said.

"It was my truck that took him to the morgue."

Ott said nothing about the autopsy. Dr. Pembroke was third on his list of interview subjects.

"I hated to miss the funeral," Culver Rundell said, "but we had one hellacious busy morning."

"The casket was made out of Bobby's boat."

"So I heard!" Culver said. "What a neat idea. I wisht I coulda seen it."

Ott tapped his Bic pen on the counter and said amiably, "I was amazed how handsomely they did it."

"What I heard," said Culver Rundell, "is they got a regular oak coffin from Pearl Brothers, sanded off the finish, and paneled it with long strips from the hull of the boat. Cost another two grand, I know for a fact. The bass club is paying."

Ott Pickney said, "And who would have done the work, the funeral home?"

"Naw, it was Larkin's shop."

Larkin was a carpenter. He had done all the benches at the Harney County Courthouse, and also the front doors on the new U.S. Post Office.

"He's the best in town," Culver Rundell remarked. He thought he was doing Larkin a favor, a little free publicity for the business.

"Well, he did a damn fine job with the coffin," Ott said. He left two one-dollar bills on the countertop, said good-bye, and drove immediately to Larkin's shop. Ott hoped there would be something left to see, though he had no idea exactly what to look for.

The shop was more of an old A-frame barn with a fancy new electric garage door, the kind used on those big import-export warehouses in western Dade County. The door to the wood shop was up. Ott saw plenty of raw furniture but no carpenters. It turned out Larkin wasn't there; it was a slow morning, so he'd gone fishing. Naturally.

A young black apprentice carpenter named Miller asked the reporter what he wanted.

"I'm doing a story about Bobby Clinch, the young man who died in that terrible boating accident at the Bog."

"Yeah," Miller said. His workshirt was soaked. Sawdust and curlicued pine shavings stuck to his coal-black arms. He looked as if he were in the middle of a project, and wanted to get back to it.

Pushing things, Ott Pickney said, "This shop did the custom work on the coffin, right?"

"Yeah," Miller said, "the boat job."

"It was really something," Ott said. "How did you guys do that? You won't mind if I take some notes—"

"Mr. Larkin did it all by himself," Miller said. "I guess he knew the deceased."

That last word rattled Ott. He glanced up from the notebook to catch the cutting look in Miller's eye. The look said: Don't patronize me, pal, I got better things to do.

"Blue metal-flake casket, man. Looked like a giant fucking cough drop."

Ott cleared his throat. "I'm sure they meant well ... I mean, it was supposed to be symbolic. Sort of a farewell gesture."

"I'll give you a farewell gesture—" Miller said, but then the phone rang in the far corner of the workshed. The apprentice hurried off, and Ott quietly poked through the shop. He wondered why he'd never gotten the hang of talking to black people, why they always looked at him as if he were a cockroach.

Miller was talking in a loud voice into the phone. Something about a walnut dining table and an unpaid bill.

Ott Pickney slipped out the front way, then walked around to the back of the shop where Miller couldn't see him. Against one wall stood two long green dumpsters filled with fresh-cut lumber remnants. They were the sweetest-smelling dumpsters Ott had ever come across. He stood on his tiptoes and looked inside. In the first he saw a pile of wooden chips, blocks, odd triangles and rectangles, a broken sawhorse, a hogshead, empty cans of resin and varnish; Mr. Larkin's predictable junk.