Free Double Whammy by Carl Hiaasen Page A

is what Bobby’s life was all about, Mr. Pickney. Not me or the kids or the job at the phone company . . . just this. He wasn’t happy unless he was out on the lake.”
    Finally a decent quote, Ott thought, and scribbled feverishly in his notebook. He wasn’t happy unless he was fishing on the lake. Close enough.
    It wasn’t until later, as Ott Pickney was driving back to the newspaper office, that it hit him like a fist in the gut: R. J. Decker was right. Something odd was going on.
    If Bobby Clinch had taken the tacklebox on his fateful trip, it surely would have been lost in the boat accident.
    So why had he gone to Lake Jesup without it?
    Â 
    Skink’s boat was a bare twelve-foot skiff with peeling oars and splinters on the seat planks.
    â€œGet in,” he told R. J. Decker.
    Decker sat in the prow and Skink shoved off. It was a chilly night under a muffled sky; an unbroken mat of high gray clouds, pushed south by a cold breeze. Skink set a Coleman lantern in the center of the skiff, next to Decker’s weatherproof camera bag.
    â€œNo bugs,” Skink remarked. “Not with this wind.”
    He had brought two fishing rods that looked like flea-market specials. The fiberglass was brown and faded, the reels tarnished and dull. The outfits bore no resemblance to the sparkling masterpiece that Decker had seen displayed so reverently in Bobby Clinch’s casket.
    Skink rowed effortlessly; wavelets kissed at the bow as the little boat crossed Lake Jesup. Decker enjoyed the quiet ride in the cool night. He was still slightly uneasy around Skink, but he was beginning to like the guy, even if he was a head case. Decker had met a few like Skink, eccentric hoary loners. Some were hiding, some were running, some just waiting for something, or someone, to catch up. That was Skink, waiting. Decker would give him plenty of room.
    â€œLooks like no one else is out tonight,” he said to Skink.
    â€œHa, they’re everywhere,” Skink said. He rowed with his back to Decker. Decker wished he’d take off the damn shower cap, but couldn’t figure a way to broach the subject.
    â€œHow do you know which way to go?” he asked.
    â€œThere’s a trailer park due northwest. Lights shine through the trees,” Skink said. “They leave ’em on all night, too. Old folks who live there, they’re scared if the lights go off. Wild noises tend to get loud in the darkness—you ever noticed that, Miami? Pay attention now: the boat is the face of a clock, and you’re sittin’ at midnight. The trailer park lights are ten o’clock—”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œGood. Now look around about two-thirty, see there? More lights. That’s a Zippy Mart on Route 222.” Skink described all this without once turning around. “Which way we headed from camp, Miami?”
    â€œLooks like due north.”
    â€œGood,” Skink said. “Got myself a fuckin’ Eagle Scout in the boat.”
    Decker didn’t know what this giant fruitcake was up to, but a boat ride sure beat hell out of an all-night divorce surveillance.
    Skink stopped rowing after twenty minutes. He set the lantern on the seat plank and picked up one of the fishing rods. From the prow Decker watched him fiddling with the line, and heard him curse under his breath.
    Finally Skink pivoted on the seat and handed Decker the spinning rod. Tied to the end of the line was a long purple rubber lure. Decker figured it was supposed to be an eel, a snake, or a worm with thyroid. Skink’s knot was hardly the tightest that Decker had ever seen.
    â€œLet’s see you cast,” Skink said.
    Decker held the rod in his right hand. He took it back over his shoulder and made a motion like he was throwing a baseball. The rubber lure landed with a slap four feet from the boat.
    â€œThat sucks,” Skink said. “Try opening the bail.”
    He showed Decker how to open the face of