During his brief and turbulent tenure in the governor's mansion, Clinton Tyree confided often in Jim Tile. The trooper grew to admire him; he thought the new governor was courageous, visionary, earnest, and doomed. Jim Tile was probably the only person in Florida who was not surprised when Clinton Tyree resigned from office and vanished from the public eye.

As soon as Tyree was gone, Trooper Jim Tile was removed from the governor's detail and sent back to Harney in the hopes that he'd come to his senses and quit the force.

For some reason he did not.

Jim Tile remained loyal to Clinton Tyree, who was now calling himself Skink and subsisting on fried bass and dead animals off the highway. Jim Tile's loyalty extended so far as to driving the former governor to the Orlando airport for one of his rare trips out of state.

"I could take some comp time and come with you," Jim Tile volunteered.

Skink was riding in the back of the patrol car in order to draw less attention. He looked like a prisoner anyway.

"Thanks for the offer," he said, "but we're going to a tournament in Louisiana."

Jim Tile nodded in understanding. "Gotcha." Bopping down Bourbon Street he'd be fine. Fishing the bayous was another matter.

"Keep your ears open while I'm gone," Skink said. "I'd steer clear of the Morgan Slough, too."

"Don't worry."

Skink could tell Jim Tile was worried. He could see distraction in the way the trooper sat at the wheel; driving was the last thing on his mind. He was barely doing sixty.

"Is it me or yourself you're thinking about?" Skink asked.

"I was thinking about something that happened yesterday morning," Jim Tile said. "About twenty minutes after I dropped you guys off on the highway, I pulled over a pickup truck that nearly broke my radar."

"Mrnrnm," Skink said, acting like he couldn't have cared less.

"I wrote him up a speeding ticket for doing ninety-two. The man said he was late for work. I said where do you work, and he said Miller Lumber. I said you must be new, and he said yeah, that's right. I said it must be your first day because you're driving the wrong damn direction, and then he didn't say anything."

"You ever seen this boy before?"

"No," Jim Tile said.

"Or the truck?"

"No. Had Louisiana plates. Jefferson Parish."

"Mmmm," Skink said.

"But you know what was funny," Jim Tile said. 'There was a rifle clip on the front seat. No rifle, just a fresh clip. Thirty rounds. Would have fit a Ruger, I expect. The man said the gun was stolen out of his truck down in West Palm. Said some nigger kids stole it."

Skink frowned. "He said that to your face? Niggerkids? What the hell did you do when he said that, Jim? Split open his cracker skull, I hope."

"Naw," Jim Tile said. "Know what else was strange? I saw two jugs of coffee on the front seat. Not one, but two."

"Maybe he was extra thirsty," Skink said.

"Or maybe the second jug didn't belong to him. Maybe it belonged to a buddy." The trooper straightened in the driver's seat, yawned, and stretched his arms. "Maybe the man's buddy was the one with the rifle. Maybe there was some trouble back on the road and something happened to him."

"You got one hell of an imagination," Skink said. "You ought to write for the movies." There was no point in telling his friend about the killing. Someday it might be necessary, but not now; the trooper had enough to worry about.

"So you got the fellow's name, the driver," Skink said.

Jim Tile nodded. "Thomas Curl."

"I don't believe he works at Miller's," Skink remarked.

"Me neither."

"Suppose I ask around New Orleans."

"Would you mind?" Jim Tile said. "I'm just curious."

"Don't blame you. Man's got to have a reason for lying to a cop. I'll see what I can dig up."

They rode the last ten miles in silence; Jim Tile, wishing that Skink would just come out and tell him about it, but knowing there were good reasons not to. The second man was dead, the trooper was sure. Maybe the details weren't all that important.

As he pulled up to the terminal, Jim Tile said, "This Decker, you must think he's all right."

"Seems solid enough."

"Just remember he's got other priorities. He's not working for you."

"Maybe he is," Skink said, "and he just doesn't know it."

"Yet," said Jim Tile.

R. J. Decker was pacing in front of the Eastern Airlines counter when Skink lumbered in, looking like a biker who'd misplaced all his amphetamines. Still, Decker had to admit, the overall appearance was a slight improvement.

"I took a bath," Skink said, "aren't you proud?"

"Thank you."

"I hate airplanes."

"Come on, they're boarding our flight."

At the gate Skink got into an argument with a flight attendant who wouldn't let him carry on his scuba gear.

"It won't fit under the seat," she explained.

"I'll show you where it fits," Skink growled.

"Just check the tanks into baggage," Decker said.

"They'll bust 'em," Skink protested.

"Then I'll buy you new ones."

"Our handlers are very careful," the flight attendant said brightly.

"Troglodytes!" said Skink, and stalked onto the airplane.

"Your friend's a little grumpy this morning," the flight attendant said as she took Decker's ticket coupon.

"He's just a nervous flier. He'll settle down."

"I hope so. You might mention to him that we have an armed sky marshal on board."

Oh, absolutely, Decker thought, what a fine idea.

He found Skink hunkered down in the last row of the tail section.

"I traded seats with a couple Catholic missionaries," Skink explained. "This is the safest place to be if the plane goes down, the last row. Where's your camera gear?"

"In a trunk, don't worry."

"You remembered the tripod?"

"Yes, captain."

Skink was a jangled mess. He fumed and squirmed and fidgeted. He scratched nervously at the hair on his cheeks. Decker had never seen him this way.

"You don't like to fly?"

"Spent half my life on planes. Planes don't scare me. I hate the goddamn things but they don't scare me, if that's what you're getting at." He dug into a pocket of his black denim jacket and brought out the black sunglasses and the flowered shower cap.

"Please don't put those on," Decker said. "Not right now."

"You with the fucking FAA or what?" Skink pulled the rainhat tight over his hair. "Who cares," he said.

The man looks miserable, Decker thought, a true sociopath. It wasn't the airplane, either, it was the people; Skink plainly couldn't stand to be out in public. Under the rainhat he seemed to calm. Behind the charcoal lenses of the sunglasses, Decker sensed, Skink's green eyes had closed.

"Pay no attention to me," he said quietly.

"Take a nap," Decker said. The jet engines, which seemed anchored directly over their heads, drowned Decker's words; the plane started rolling down the runway. Skink said nothing until they were airborne.

Then he shifted in his seat and said: "Bad news, Miami. The Rundell brothers are on this bird. Picking their noses up in first class, if you can believe it. Makes me sick."

Decker hadn't noticed them when he boarded; he'd been preoccupied with Skink. "Did they see you?"

"What do you think?" Skink replied mordantly.

"So much for stealth."

Skink chuckled. "Culver damn near wet his pants."

"He'll be on the phone to Lockhart the minute we're on the ground."

"Can't have that," Skink said. He stared out the window until the flight attendants started moving down the aisle with the lunch trays. Skink lowered the tabletop at his seat and braced his logger's arms on it.

"Ozzie and Culver, they don't know your face."

"I don't think so," Decker said, "but I can't be sure. I believe I stopped in their bait shop once."