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Garcia pulled off the Turnpike at Fort Pierce and stopped at a Pic 'n' Pay convenience store。 Decker got out to make a phone call。 While he was gone Skink stirred again and straightened up。 In the washhouse light his face looked pulpy and lopsided； Garcia could tell he was in agony。
He said； 〃Hang in there； Governor。〃
Skink stared at him。 〃What； you lifted some fingerprints？〃
Garcia nodded。 〃From a brass doorknob。 That night at the chiropractor's house。 Got a solid match from the FBI on an ancient missing…persons case。〃
〃A closed case；〃 Skink said。
〃A famous case。〃
Skink gazed out the window of the car。
〃Who else knows？〃 he said。
〃Nobody but me and some G…7 clerk at the Hoover Building。〃
〃I see。〃
Garcia said； 〃For what it's worth； I don't like quitters； Mr。 Tyree； but I suspect you had your reasons。〃
〃I'll make no goddamn apologies；〃 Skink said。 After a pause he added： 〃Don't tell Decker。〃
〃No reason to；〃 said Al Garcia。
Decker came back with hot coffee and Danish。 Skink said he wasn't hungry。 〃Keep your eyes out； though；〃 he added when they were back on the road。
〃I got you something。〃 Decker handed him a brown bag。
Skink opened it and grinned what was left of his TV smile。
Inside the bag was a new pair of black sunglasses。
Just before midnight he suddenly groaned and passed out again。 Decker tore up his own shirt for a press bandage and wrapped the bad eye。 He held Skink's head in his lap and told Garcia to drive faster。
Minutes after they crossed the county line into Harney； a highway…patrol car appeared in the rearview mirror and practically glued itself to the Chrysler's bumper。
〃Oh hell；〃 Al Garcia said。
But R。 J。 Decker was feeling much better。
Deacon Johnson was proud of himself。 He had gone down to the welfare office near the Superdome and found a nine…year…old blond girl who was double…jointed at the elbows。 When she popped her bony arms out they looked magnificently grotesque； an effect that would be amplified dramatically by Charlie Weeb s television cameras。 Deacon Johnson asked the girl's mother if he could rent her daughter for a couple of days and the mother said sure； for a hundred bucks…but no funny business。 Deacon Johnson said don't worry； ma'am； this is a wholesome Christian enterprise； and led the little girl to his limousine。
At the downtown production studios of the Outdoor Christian Network； Deacon Johnson took the little girl； whose name was Darla； to meet the famous Reverend Charles Weeb。
Twirling his eyeglasses in one hand； Weeb looked relaxed behind his desk。 He wore a powder…blue pullover； white parachute pants； and a pair of black Nike running shoes。 A young woman with astounding breasts was trimming his famous cinnamon…blond eyebrows。
Deacon Johnson said； 〃Darla； show the preacher your little trick。〃
Darla took one step forward and extended both arms； as if awaiting handcuffs。
〃Well？〃 said Charlie Weeb。
Darla closed her eyes； strained…and chucked her elbows out of joint at preposterous angles。 The sockets emitted two little pops as they disengaged。
The statuesque eyebrow barber nearly wilted。
〃Bravo！〃 said Charlie Weeb。
〃Thank you；〃 said Darla。 Her pale arms hung crookedly at her sides。
〃Izzy； whadya think？〃 Weeb said。 〃I think we're talking the big P。〃
〃Polio？〃 Deacon Johnson frowned。
〃Why the hell not？〃
Deacon Johnson said； 〃Well； it's very unmon these days。〃
〃Perfect。〃
〃Except everybody knows there's a vaccine。〃
〃Not in the bowels of Appalachian coal country；〃 Charlie Weeb said。 〃Not for a poor little orphan girl raised on grubworms and drainwater。〃
Darla spoke up。 〃I live in a 'partment on St。 Charles；〃 she said firmly。 〃With my momma。〃
〃Talk to this child；〃 Charlie Weeb said to Deacon Johnson。 〃Explain how TV works。〃
It was a good thing for Charlie Weeb that there was no audience for the dress rehearsals。 At first Darla insisted on popping her elbows in and out； in and out…just to show off…and it took Deacon Johnson quite some time to make her understand the theatrical importance of timing。 At a given cue Darla was supposed to roll her eyes； loll her tongue； and fall writhing onto the stage； when she rose again to face the cameras and audience； her polio would be cured。 To demonstrate the success of his ministrations； the Reverend Charles Weeb would then toss her a beach ball。
The cue for Darla's fit was to be when Weeb raised his arms and implored： 〃Lord Jesus； mend this poor Christian creature！〃 The first few times； Darla jumped the gun badly； collapsing on the word 〃Jesus〃 so that the sound of her limp form hitting the stage stepped all over Charlie Weeb's big climax。 Once Deacon Johnson had coached Darla past this problem； the next challenge was teaching her to catch the beach ball。 The first few times she simply let the ball bounce off her chest； and the noise of it smacking the lanyard mike nearly blew out the engineer's eardrums。 Darla dropped the ball so many times in rehearsal that the Reverend Weeb lost his Christian temper and called her a 〃palsied little twat〃…a term which； fortunately； the child did not understand。 When Weeb demanded that they go back to the lidocaine…injection method； Deacon Johnson quickly intervened and suggested now was a good time for lunch。
Miraculously； the live Sunday broadcast went off without a hitch。 The crew did an extraordinary job making Darla appear sallow and gray and mortally ill。 When the cue came； she collapsed perfectly and…after much thrashing…arose beaming and cherubic and healed。 Reviewing the videotapes later； the Reverend Weeb marveled aloud at how deftly and invisibly little Darla had reengaged her elbow joints。 Only on slo…mo could you see her do it。 And； at the end； she even caught the beach ball。 Charlie Weeb had been so genuinely overjoyed that he hadn't even needed the glycerine tears。
They ran the 800 number for five full minutes on the TV screen following Darla's performance。 That evening； when Charlie Weeb got the final figures from the phone bank； he called Deacon Johnson at home。
〃Guess the totals； Izzy。〃
〃I really don't know。 A million？〃
Weeb cackled and said； 〃Guess again； sucker。〃
Deacon Johnson was too tired to guess。 〃I don't know； Charles；〃 he said。
〃How does a million…four sound？〃 the Reverend Weeb exulted。
The deacon was amazed。 〃Holy shit；〃 he said。
〃Exactly；〃 said Charlie Weeb。 〃Are you thinking what I'm thinking？〃
Thomas Curl had been thoroughly enjoying himself at the Grand Bay Hotel and was annoyed that he had to depart so suddenly。 One morning； while eating eggs Benedict in the sunken bathtub； he had received a strange and unsettling phone call。 Thomas Curl could tell by the scratchy connection that it was long distance； and he could tell by the voice that it wasn't either Dennis Gault or his Uncle Shawn； the only two men who knew where to find him。 The voice sounded to Thomas Curl like it might belong to a nigger； but Curl couldn't be sure。 Whoever it was had called him by name； so Curl had hung up the phone immediately and decided to check out of the hotel。 He was worried that the black…sounding voice might turn out to be Decker's crazy gorilla friend Skink； who would think nothing of breaking into a fancy suite and drowning somebody in a sunken tub。
Thomas Curl took a more modest room at the Airport Marriott and shrewdly registered under the name 〃Juan Gomez；〃 which he figured was the Miami equivalent of John Smith。 The fact that Thomas Curl looked about as Hispanic as Gale Yarborough didn't stop him； and his Juan Gomez signature drew scarcely a raised eyebrow from a desk clerk named Rosario。
That evening； after a room…service steak； Thomas Curl went to work。 R。 J。 Decker's address was in the phone book； and now it was only a matter of finding a decent map of Bade County。
The Palmetto Expressway； Thomas Curl decided； was worse than anything in New Orleans； worse even than Interstate 4 in Orlando。 Thomas Curl had always considered himself a fast and sharp…witted driver； but the Palmetto shattered his confidence。 It was as if he'd stalled out in the center lane； with bleating semis and muffler…dragging low…riders and cherry Porsches speeding past on both sides。 Thomas Curl had heard the wild tales about Miami drivers； and now he could go back home and say it was all true。 They were moving so damn fast you couldn't even flip them the finger。
He was delighted when he found his exit and got on a street with actual traffic lights。 The trailer park was at the dark end of a deadend street。 Thomas Curl poked the car around slowly until he found the mailbox to R。 J。 Decker's mobile home。 The lights were off and the trailer looked empty； as Thomas Curl knew it would be。 An older grey sedan； a Dodge or Plymouth； sat in the gravel drive； the rear tires looked low on air； as if the car hadn't been driven recently。 Curl parked behind it and cut off his headlights。 He took a sixteen…inch flathead screwdriver from under the front seat。 He was not the world's greatest burglar but he knew the fundamentals； including the fact that trailers usually were a cinch。
Another cardinal rule of burglary was： Leave your gun in the car unless you want another nickel tacked onto your prison sentence。 Thomas Curl began to have second thoughts about this rule after he had gotten the screwdriver stuck in Decker's back door； and after a neighbor's sixty…five…pound pit bulldog came trotting over to investigate the racket。 As the dog bared its teeth and emitted a tremulous rumble； Thomas Curl could not help thinking how nice it would have been to be holding either the shotgun or the pistol； both locked in the trunk of his car。
The pit bull got a running start before it leapt； so it landed on Thomas Curl with maximum impact。 He crashed against the aluminum wall and lost his wind； but somehow kept his balance。 The dog crouched at his feet and snarled hotly。 The animal seemed genuinely surprised that it had failed to knock its victim down； but Thomas Curl was a muscular and stocky fellow with a low center of gravity。
The next time the dog jumped； Thomas Curl recoiled and tried to shield his face with his right arm； which is where the animal sank its yellow fangs。 At first Thomas Curl felt no pain； only an unbelievable pressure。 He stared at the dog and couldn't believe it。 Eyes wide； its pale muzzle splotched with Curl's blood； the frenzied animal twisted and turned as it dangled from the arm； it was trying to tear the flesh from Thomas Curl's bone。
Curl swallowed his scream。 With his left hand he feverishly groped for the long screwdriver； still wedged in the doorjamb。 He found it； grunted as he yanked it free； and poised it firmly in his good fist。
With all his strength Thomas Curl lifted his right arm as high as his head； so that the pit bull hung before him at eye level； squirming and frothing。 With one jagged downward thrust Thomas Curl disemboweled the animal。 Its wild eyes went instantly dull and the legs stopped kicking； but still the powerful jaws held fast to Curl's thick arm。 Moments passed and Curl stood rigid； waiting for the animal's muscles to slacken in death。 Yet even as its guts dripped on the cold doorstep； steaming the night air； the dog's jaws would not let go。
Thomas Curl braced against waves of nausea。 The screwdriver slipped from his good hand and pinged off the concrete stoop。
At a nearby trailer the porch light came on； and an elderly man in a long undershirt poked his head out。 Thomas Curl quickly turned his back so that the neighbor would not see the dead dog on his arm。 By the fresh light Curl noticed that in his panic he had succeeded in breaking the doorjamb。 With his good hand he turned the knob； and lurched inside R。 J。 Decker's trailer。
Curl lay faceup on a sofa； the big dog across his chest。 He stayed there for what seemed like an hour； until he could no longer tolerate the weight of the animal and the raw odor of its blood。 In the darkness he could only imagine what his right arm looked like； he felt the first stinging tickle of a vile infection； and the burning throb of torn muscles。 He realized that before long the dog's body would stiffen； and it would bee virtually impossible to pry its jaws。 Angrily Thomas Curl balled his left fist and t