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That evening； after the practice day； the mood at the boat ramp ranged from doubtful to downhearted。 No one had caught a single bass； though none of the fishermen would admit it。 It was more than a matter of pride…it was the mandatory furtiveness of petition。 With two hundred and fifty thousand dollars at stake； lifelong friendships and fraternal confidences counted for spit。 No intelligence was shared； no strategies pared； no secrets swapped。 As a result； nobody prehended the full scope of the fishless disaster that was named Lunker Lakes。 While scouting the shoreline； a few anglers had e across dead yearling bass； and privately mulled the usual theories…nitrogen runoff； phosphate dumping； algae blooms； pesticides。 Still； it wasn't the few dead fish as much as the absence of live ones that disturbed the contestants； as the day wore on； optimism evaporated。 These were the best fishermen in the country； and they knew bad water when they saw it。 All morning the men tried to mark fish on their Humminbird sonars； but all that showed was a deep gray void。 The banks were uniformly steep； the bottom uniformly flat； and the lakes uniformly lifeless。 Even Dennis Gault was worried； though he had an ace up his L。 L。 Bean sleeve。
At dusk the anglers returned to the boat ramp to find banners streaming； canned country music blaring； and an elaborate rectangular stage rising…a pink pulpit at one end； the bass scoreboard at the other。 The whole stage was bathed by hot kliegs while the OCN cameramen conducted their lighting checks。 Over the pulpit hung a red…lettered banner that said： 〃JESUS IN YOUR LIVING ROOM…LIVE AT FIVE！〃 And over the scoreboard hung a blue…lettered banner that said： 〃Lunker Lakes Presents the Dickie Lockhart Memorial Bass Blasters Classic。〃 Every possible camera angle was cluttered with the signs and logos of the various sponsors who had put up the big prize money。
Once all the bass boats had returned to the dock； the Reverend Charles Weeb ambled centerstage with a cordless microphone。
〃Greeting； sportsmen！〃
The tired anglers grumbled halfheartedly。
〃Understand it was tough fishing out there today； but don't you worry！〃 shouted Charlie Weeb。 〃The Lord tells me tomorrow's gonna be one hell of a day！〃
The PA system amplified the preacher's enthusiasm； and the fishermen smiled and applauded； though not energetically。
〃Yes； sir；〃 Charlie Weeb said； 〃I talked to the Lord this afternoon； and the Lord said： Tomorrow will be good。 Tomorrow the hawgs will be hungry！'〃
Duke Puffin shouted； 〃Did he say to use buzzbaits or rubber worms？〃
The bass fishermen roared； and Reverend Weeb grinned appreciatively。 Anything to loosen the jerks up。
〃As you know；〃 he said； 〃tonight is barbecue night at Lunker Lakes。 Ribs； chicken； Okeechobee catfish； and all the beer you can drink！〃
The free…food announcement drew the first sincere applause of the evening。
〃So；〃 Reverend Weeb continued； 〃I got two air…conditioned buses ready to take y'all to the clubhouse。 Have a good time tonight； get plenty of rest； and tomorrow you put some big numbers on that bass board； because the whole country'll be watching！〃
Eagerly the anglers filed onto the buses。 Jim Tile and Al Garcia made a point of sitting in the very front。 No one spoke a word to them。
As soon as the buses pulled away； Weeb tossed the microphone to an OCN technician； grabbed the young hydrologist backstage； and said： 〃It's here； I hope。〃
〃Yes； sir； just give the word。〃
To the grips Weeb yelled： 〃Turn those kliegs around！ Light the ramp…hurry up； asshole； while we're still young！〃
Out of the settling darkness a gleaming steel tanker truck appeared。 Although it looked like an ordinary oil…pany truck； it was not。 The driver backed cautiously down the slick boat ramp； and three feet from water's edge he braked the tanker with a gaseous hiss。
〃Nice park job；〃 the hydrologist said。
The driver hopped out waving a clipboard。 〃Two thousand fresh basserinos；〃 he said。 〃Who signs for these？〃
After the barbecue Jim Tile and Al Garcia drove the loaner car back to the lodge； where they got the bad news。
The raid had failed。
The Broward SWAT team had swept with lethal certainty into Room 1412 of the Coral Springs Holiday Inn and brusquely arrested one Mr。 Juan Gomez； suspected kidnapper。 Unfortunately he turned out to be a genuine Juan Gomez； puter software salesman。 Furthermore； the young lady he had been diddling in his motel room turned out not to be the missing Catherine Stuckameyer； but rather the nineteen…year…old daughter of the founder of Floppy World； one of Juan Gomez's biggest retail clients。
By the time the confusion was sorted out and the SWAT team returned to the Holiday Inn； the other Juan Gomez； the one whose real name was Thomas Curl； had fled his room for parts unknown。 Evidence technicians spent hours analyzing the Gaines Burger particles。
Al Garcia had arranged the raid without telling R。 J。 Decker； who had fiercely rejected the idea of a police rescue attempt。 He had insisted on handling Thomas Curl himself because Catherine's life was at stake； so Jim Tile and Al Garcia had backed off and pretended to go along with it。 As soon as Decker left Harney； Garcia got on the phone to his lieutenant in Miami； who got on the phone to the Broward sheriff's office。 There was a delay of several hours in the police bureaucracy； mainly because no Catherine Stuckameyer had officially been reported missing and the authorities suspected it was just another lonely rich wife skipping out。 By the time the SWAT team moved； and found the right motel room； it was too late。
〃They fucked it up；〃 Garcia said； slamming down the phone。 〃Can you believe it； now they're pissed off at me！ Some pinhead gringo captain's saying I made 'em look bad； says there's still no evidence of a kidnap。 Fucking GI Joes with their greasepaint and their M…16s hit the wrong damn room； it's not my fault。〃
〃Meanwhile；〃 Jim Tile said； 〃we've lost Curl； Decker's ex； and even Decker himself。〃
〃So the hotshot gets his way after all。 It's his ball game now。〃
Garcia threw down his bass cap and cursed。 〃What the hell else can we do？〃
〃Go fishing；〃 the trooper said。 'That's all。〃
It was half…past midnight when someone knocked on the door of Dennis Gault's room。 He couldn't imagine who it might be。 He had elected not to stay at the Lunker Lakes Lodge with the others because all the parties would be raucous and distracting； and because the other anglers would ignore him as always。 Besides； there was sawdust all over the carpets； and the walls reeked of fresh paint； obviously the place had been slapped together in about two weeks； just for the tournament。
So Gault had taken a suite at the Everglades Hilton； where he always stayed in Fort Lauderdale。 Only Lanie； his secretaries； and a few lady friends knew where to find him。 Which was why he was puzzled by the midnight visitor。
He listened at the door。 From the other side came the sound of a man's labored breathing and a faint buzzing noise。 〃Who is it？〃
〃Me； Mr。 Gault。〃
He recognized the voice。 Angrily Gault opened the door； but what he saw stole his breath away。 〃Mother of Jesus！〃
〃Hey；