Thomas Curl had been drinking ferociously since before dawn, and she surmised that this alone had kept the pain of infection from consuming him. He drove the boat slowly, steering with his knees and squinting against the sun. They passed several fishermen on the canal, but apparently none could see the pistol poking Catherine's left breast. If they noticed the pit bull's head, they didn't let on.
"I'm a rich man, Lucas," Thomas Curl said to the dog. "I got enough money for ten of these speedboats."
Catherine said, "Tom, we're almost there." She felt the muzzle of the gun dig harder.
"Lucas, boy, we're almost there," Thomas Curl said.
With this announcement he threw himself against the throttle and the Starcraft shot forward, plowing aimlessly through a stand of thick sawgrass. Catherine let out a cry as the serrated stalks raked her cheeks, drawing blood. The boat broke out of the matted grass, leapt the water, and climbed a mudbank. The prop stuck hard, and there they sat.
"This is the place," Thomas Curl declared.
"Not quite," Catherine said.
"He'll find us, don't you worry," Curl said. "He's got a nose for your little pussy, I bet."
"Cute," Catherine said. "You ought to work for Hallmark, writing valentines."
She used the hem of her skirt to dab the cuts on her face. Half-staggering, Curl got himself out of the boat. The pistol was still in his good hand.
"Don't bother with the leash," he said to Catherine.
"Right," she said. There was no leash, of course. She climbed out of the beached Starcraft and instantly cursed Thomas Curl for not letting her wear any shoes.
While she stooped to pick the nettles from her feet, Curl cocked his head and cupped an ear with his gun hand. "What is it?" he said excitedly.
"What is what?" Catherine asked, but he wasn't speaking to her.
"What is it, boy?"
Somewhere in the deep rotting bog of Thomas Curl's brain, his dog was barking. Curl dropped to a crouch and lowered his voice.
"Lucas hears something comin'," he said.
Catherine heard it too. Her heart raced when she spotted R. J. Decker, hands in his pockets, walking along the bank of the canal.
She waved and tried to shout, but nothing came out. Decker waved back and grinned, the way he always did when he hadn't seen her for a while. Grinned like nothing was wrong, like no gangrenous madman was jabbing a loaded pistol into Catherine's nipple while shouting at a severed dog head on his arm: "Heel, boy, heel!"
"Easy, Tom," said R. J. Decker.
"Shut up, fuckhead."
"Did we get up on the wrong side of the bed?"
"I said shut up, and don't come no closer." Decker stood ten feet away. Jeans, flannel shirt, tennis shoes. A camera hung from a thin strap around his neck.
"You remember the deal," he said to Curl. "A straight-up trade: Me for her."
"What kind of deal you offer Lemus?"
Decker said, "I didn't shoot your brother, but I will say he had it coming."
"So do you, fuckhead."
"I know, Tom."
R. J. Decker could see that something was monstrously wrong with Thomas Curl, that he was a sick man. He could also see that something ghastly had happened to Curl's right arm, and that this might be a cause of his distress.
Decker said, "That a dog, Tom?"
"The hell does it look like?"
"It's definitely a dog," Catherine said. "A pit bull, I believe."
"I used to know a dog like that," Decker said affably. "Lived in my trailer park. Poindexter was its name."
Thomas Curl said, "This one is Lucas."
"Does he do any tricks?"
"Yeah, he chews the balls off fuckheads like you."
"I see."
Catherine said, "You're hurting me, Tom."
"Take the gun out of there." Decker spoke calmly. "Let her go now, that was the deal."
"I'll show you the deal," said Thomas Curl. With his tumid red tongue he licked the tip of the gun barrel and placed it squarely between Catherine's light brown eyebrows. He twisted the muzzle back and forth, leaving a wet round imprint on her forehead.
"That's the deal Lemus got," said Thomas Curl. "Dead-center bull's-eye." He poked the gun back in her breast.
The touch of blue steel on her face had made Catherine shiver. She thought she might even faint; in a way, she wished she would. Falling facedown in the sawgrass would be better than this. And Deckershe could have clobbered him, standing there like it was the checkout line of the supermarket. The one time she wanted to see the hot streak, the dangerous temper. Normally she detested violence, but this would have been an exception; Catherine would have been delighted to watch her ex-husband strangle Thomas Curl with his bare hands.
"I got to kill you both," Curl said. He was fighting off deep tremors. Sweat gathered in big drops on his cheeks, and his breath came in raspy bursts.
Decker knew he could take him, probably with one good punch. If only the pistol weren't aimed point-blank at Catherine's heart. Oh, Catherine. Decker had to be careful, he was so close to the edge.
"A deal is a deal," Decker said.
"Hell, I can't let her go now."
"She won't tell," Decker said. "She's got a husband to think about."
"Too bad," Thomas Curl growled. Suddenly one eye looked bigger than the other. He started rocking slightly, as if on the deck of a ship.
Curl said, "Let's get it over with, I don't feel so good."
He pushed Catherine toward Decker, who pulled her close with both hands. "Rage, please," she whispered.
Curl said, "So who wants it first?" When neither of them answered, he consulted his faithful pal. "Lucas, who gets it first?"
"Tom, one final favor before you do this."
"Shut up."
"Take our picture together, okay? Me and Catherine."
Curl sneered. "What the hell for?"
"Because I love her," Decker said, "and it's our last moment together. Forever."
"You got thatright."
"Then please," Decker said.
Catherine squeezed his hand. "I love you too, Rage." The words sounded wonderful, but under the circumstances Decker wasn't sure how to take it; guns make people say the darnedest things.
He lifted the Minolta from around his neck. Thomas Curl tucked the pistol under his right arm and took the camera in his good hand. He examined it hopelessly, as if it were an atom-splitter.
"My daddy's just got a Polaroid."
"This is almost the same," Decker said reassuringly. "You look through that little window."
"Yeah?" Thomas Curl raised the camera to his big eye.
"Can you see us?"
"Nope," Curl said.
Decker took two steps backward, pulling Catherine by the elbows.
"How about now, Tom?"
Curl cackled. "Hey, yeah, I see you."
"Good. Now ... just press that black button on top."
"Wait, you're all fuzzy-looking."
"That's all right."
Curl said "Shit, might as well have a good final pitcher, considering. Now' how do I fix the focus?"
Catherine squeezed Decker's arm. "Fuck the focus," she said under her breath. "Go for his gun."
But in a helpful tone Decker said, "Tom, the focus is in the black button."
"The same one?"
"Yeah. It's all automatic, you just press it."
"I'll be damned."
Decker said, "Isn't that something?"
"Yeah," Thomas Curl said, "but then where does the pitcher come out?"
"Jesus," Catherine sighed.
"Underneath," Decker lied. For the first time he sounded slightly impatient.
Curl turned the camera upside-down in his hand. "I don't see where."
"Trust me, Tom."
"You say so." Curl raised the Minolta one more time. It took several drunken moments to align the viewfinder with his eye.
"Lucas, don't the two of them look sweet?" Curl hacked out a cruel watery laugh. "First I shoot your pitcher, then I shoot your goddamn brains out."