The man named Skink said, "Go."

"I need to talk to you."

"You got thirty seconds." The man named Skink had a gun. A Remington, Decker noted. The rifle lay across his lap.

It was a large lap. Skink appeared to be in his late forties, early fifties. He sat in "a canvas folding chair on the porch of his cabin. He wore Marine-style boots and an orange rainsuit, luminous even in the twilight. The shape and features of his face were hard to see, but Skink's silver-flecked hair hung in a braided rope down his back. Decker figured long hair was risky in this part of the woods, but Skink was substantial enough to set his own style.

"My name is Decker."

"You from the IRS?" The man's voice was deep and wet, like mud slipping down a drain.

"No," Decker said.

"I pay no taxes," Skink said. He was wearing a rainhat, though it wasn't raining. He was also wearing sunglasses and the sun was down. "I pay no attention to taxes," Skink asserted. "Not since Nixon, the goddamn thief."

"I'm not from the government," Decker said carefully. "I'm a private investigator."

Skink grunted.

"Like Barnaby Jones," Decker ventured.

Skink raised the rifle and aimed at Decker's heart. "I pay no attention to television," he said.

"Forget I mentioned it. Please."

Skink held the gun steady. Decker felt moisture bead on the back of his neck. "Put the gun away," he said.

"I don't know," Skink said. "I feel like shooting tonight."

Decker thought: Just my luck. "I heard you do some guiding," he said.

Skink's gun lowered a fraction of an inch. "I do."

"For bass," Decker said. "Bass fishing."

"Hundred bucks a day, no matter."

"Fine," Decker said.

"You'll call me captain?"

"If you want."

Skink lowered the rifle all the way. Decker reached into his pocket and pulled out a one-hundred-dollar bill. He unfolded it, smoothed it out, and offered it to Skink.

"Put it away. Pay when we get your fish in the boat." Skink looked annoyed. "You act like you still want to talk."

For some reason the banjo music from Deliverancekept tinkling in Decker's head. It got louder every time he took a good look at Skink's face.

"Talk," Skink said. "Quick." He reached over and set the rifle in a corner, its barrel pointing up. Then he removed the sunglasses. His eyes were green; not hazel or olive, but deep green, like Rocky Mountain evergreens. His eyebrows, tangled and ratty, grew at an angle that gave his tanned face the cast of perpetual anger. Decker wondered how many repeat customers a guide like Skink could have.

"Do you fish the tournaments?"

"Not anymore," Skink said. "If it's tournament fish you're after, keep your damn money."

"It's cheaters I'm after," Decker said. ,

Skink sat up so suddenly that his plastic rainsuit squeaked. The forest-green eyes impaled R.J. Decker while the mouth chewed hard on the corners of its mustache. Skink took a deep breath and when his chest filled, he looked twice as big. It was only when he got to his feet that Decker saw what a diesel he truly was.

"I'm hungry," Skink said. He took ten steps toward his truck, stopped, and said, "Well, Miami, come on."

As the pickup bounced down the old Mormon Trail, Decker said, "Captain, how'd you know where I was from?"

"Haircut."

"That bad?"

"Distinctive."

"Distinctive" was not a word Decker expected to hear from the captain's lips. Obviously this was not the type of fellow you could sort out in a day, or even two.

Skink steered the truck onto Route 222 and headed south. He drove slow, much slower than he had driven on the trail. Decker noticed that he hunched himself over the wheel, and peered hawklike through the windshield.

"What's the matter?" Decker asked.

"Hush."

Cars and trucks were flying by at sixty miles an hour. Skink was barely doing twenty. Decker was sure they were about to get rear-ended by a tractor-trailer.

"You all right?"

"I pay no attention to the traffic," Skink said. He turned the wheel hard to the right and took the truck off the road, skidding in the gravel. Before Decker could react, the big man leapt from the cab and dashed back into the road. Decker saw him snatch something offthe center line and toss it onto the shoulder.

"What the hell are you doing?" Decker shouted, but his voice died in the roar of a passing gasoline tanker. He looked both ways before jogging across the highway to join Skink on the other side.

Skink was kneeling next to a plump, misshapen lump of gray fur.

Decker saw it was a dead opossum. Skink ran a hand across its furry belly. "Still warm," he reported.

Decker said nothing.

"Road kill," Skink said, by way of explanation. He took a knife out of his belt. "You hungry, Miami?"

Decker said uneasily, "How about if we just stop someplace and I buy you supper?"

"No need," Skink said, and he sawed off the opossum's head. He lifted the carcass by its pink tail and stalked back to the truck. Decker now understood the reason for the fluorescent rainsuit; a speeding motorist could see Skink a mile away. He looked like a neon yeti.

"You'll like the flavor," Skink remarked as Decker got in the truck beside him.

"I think I'll pass."

"Nope."

"What?"

"We both eat, that's the deal. Then you get the hell out. Another day we'll talk fish."

Skink pulled the rainhat down tight on his skull.

"And after that," he said, turning the ignition, "we might even talk about cheaters."

"So you know about this?" Decker said.

Skink laughed bitterly. "I do, sir, but I wisht I didn't."

Clouds of insects swirled in and out of the high-beams as the truck jounced down the dirt road. Suddenly Skink killed the lights and cut the ignition. The pickup coasted to a stop.

"Listen!" Skink said.

Decker heard an engine. It sounded like a lawn mower.

Skink jumped from the truck and ran into the trees. This time Decker was right behind him. ^

"I told the bastards," Skink said, panting.

"Who?" Decker asked. It seemed as if they were running toward the noise, not away from it.

"I told them," Skink repeated. They broke out of the pines, onto a bluff, and Skink immediately shrank into a crouch. Below them was a small stream, with a dirt rut following the higher ground next to the water. A single headlight bobbed on the trail.

Decker could see it clearly—a lone rider on a dirt bike. Up close the motorcycle sounded like a chainsaw, the growl rising and falling with the hills. Soon the rider would pass directly beneath them.

Decker saw that Skink had a pistol in his right hand.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Quiet, Miami."

Skink extended his right arm, aiming. Decker lunged, too late. The noise of the gun knocked him on his back.

The dirt bike went down like a lame horse. The rider screamed as he flew over the handlebars.

Dirt spitting from its rear tire, the bike tumbled down the embankment and splashed into the stream, where the engine choked and died in bubbles.

Up the trail, the rider moaned and began to extricate himself from a cabbage palm.

"Christ!" Decker said, his breath heavy.

Skink tucked the pistol in his pants. "Front tire," he reported, almost smiling. "Told you I was in the mood to shoot."

Back at the shack, Skink barbecued the opossum on an open spit and served it with fresh corn, collards, and strawberries. Decker focused on the vegetables because the opossum tasted gamy and terrible; he could only take Skink's word that the animal was fresh and had not lain dead on the highway for days.

As they sat by the fire, Decker wondered why the ferocious mosquitoes were concentrating on his flesh, while Skink seemed immune. Perhaps the captain's blood was lethal.