Stormy Weather (33 page)

“‘Number Nine Dream,’” he said.

“I don’t know that one.”

She wanted so much to hear about his life. She wanted him to open up and tell the most thrilling and shocking of true stories.

“Sing it for me,” she said.

“Some other time.” Skink pointed across the street. A man and a woman were leaving the house.

Bonnie Lamb stared. “What in the world are they doing?”

The governor rose quickly. “Come, child,” he said.

After the Sally Jessy show ended, Snapper made a couple of phone calls to set something up. Exactly what, Edie Marsh wasn’t sure. Evidently he’d gotten a brainstorm about what to do with the old man, short of murder.

“Gimme hand,” he said to Edie, and began tearing the living-room drapes off the rods. The drapes were whorehouse pink, heavy and dank from rain. They spread the fabric in a crude square on the floor. Then they put Levon Stichler in the middle and rolled him up inside.

To Edie, it resembled an enormous strawberry pastry. She said, “I hope he can breathe.”

Snapper punched the pink bundle. “Hey, asshole. You got air?”

The gagged old man responded with an expressive groan. Snapper said, “He’s OK. Let’s haul his ass out to the Jeep.”

Levon Stichler wasn’t easy to carry. Snapper took the heavy end, but each step was agony to his shattered knee. They dropped the old man several times before they made it to the driveway. Each time it happened, Snapper swore vehemently and danced a tortured one-legged jig around the pink bundle. Edie Marsh opened the rear hatch of the Cherokee, and somehow they managed to fold Levon Stichler into the cargo well.

Snapper was leaning against the bumper, waiting for the searing pain in his leg to ebb, when he spotted the tall stranger coming toward them from the abandoned house across the street. The man was dressed in army greens. His long wild hair looked like frosted hemp. At first Snapper thought he was a street person, maybe a Vietnam vet or one of those cracked-out losers who lived under the interstate. Except he was walking too fast and purposefully to be a bum. He was moving like he had food in his stomach, good hard muscles, and something serious on his mind. Ten yards behind, hurrying to catch up, was a respectable-looking young woman.

Edie Marsh said, “Oh shit,” and slammed the hatch of the Jeep. She told Snapper not to say a damn word; she’d do the talking.

As the stranger approached, Snapper straightened on both legs.
The pain in his injured knee caused him to grind his mismatched molars. He slipped a hand inside his suit jacket.

“Excuse us,” said the stranger. The woman, looking nervous, stood behind him.

Edie Marsh said, helpfully, “Are you lost?”

The stranger beamed—a striking smile, full of bright movie-star teeth. Snapper tensed; this was no interstate bum.

“What a fine question!” the man said to Edie. Then he turned to Snapper. “Sir, you and I have something in common.”

Snapper scowled. “The fuck you talkin’ about?”

“See here.” The stranger calmly pried out one of his eyeballs and held it up, like a polished gemstone, for Snapper to examine. Snapper felt himself keeling, and steadied himself against the truck. The sight of the shrunken socket was more sickening than that of the glistening prosthesis.

“It’s glass,” the man said. “A minor disability, just like your jaw. But we both struggle with the mirror, do we not?”

“I got no problems in that department,” Snapper said, though he could not look the stranger in the face. “Are you some fuckin’ preacher or what?”

Edie Marsh cut in: “Mister, I don’t mean to be rude, but we’ve got to be on our way. We’ve got an appointment downtown.”

The stranger had a darkly elusive charm, a dangerous and disorganized intelligence that put Edie on edge. He appeared content at the prospect of physical confrontation. The pretty young woman, tame and fine-featured, seemed an unlikely partner; Edie wondered if she was a captive.

The tall stranger cocked back his head and deftly reinserted the glass eye. Then, blinking for focus, he said, “OK, kids. Let’s have a peek in that snazzy Jeep.”

Snapper whipped out the .357 and pointed it at a button in the center of the man’s broad chest. “Get in,” he snarled.

Again the stranger grinned. “We thought you’d never ask!” The young woman clutched one of his arms and tried to suppress her trembling.

Augustine noticed a young towheaded boy, rigid in a shredded patio chair outside a battered house. Most of the roof was gone, so a skin
of cheap blue plastic had been stapled to the beams for shade and shelter. It puckered and flapped in the breeze.

The towheaded boy looked only ten or eleven years old. He held a stainless-steel Ruger Mini-14, which he raised from his lap as Augustine passed on the sidewalk. In a thin high pitch, the boy yelled: “Looters will be shot!”

The warning matched a message spray-painted in two-foot letters on the front wall: looters bewair!!

Augustine turned to face the child. “I’m not a looter. Where’s your father?”

“Out for lumber. He told me watch the place.”

“You’re doing a good job.” Augustine stared at the powerful rifle. A bank robber had used the same model to shoot down five FBI agents in Suniland, a few years back.

The boy explained: “We had looters, night after the hurry-cane. We were stayin’ with Uncle Rick, he lives somewheres called Dania. They came through while we’s gone.”

Augustine slowly stepped forward for a closer look. The clip was fitted flush in the Ruger; all systems Go. The boy wore a severe expression, squinting at Augustine as if he stood a hundred yards away. The boy fidgeted in the flimsy chair. One side of his mouth wormed into a creepy lopsided frown. Augustine half expected to hear banjo music.

The boy went on: “They got our TVs and CD player. My dad’s toolbox, too. I’m ’posed to shoot the bastards they come back.”

“Did you ever fire that gun before?”

“All the time.” The child’s hard gray-blue eyes flickered with the lie. The Mini-14 was heavy. His little arms were tired from holding it. “You better go on now,” he advised.

Augustine nodded, backing away. “Just be careful, all right? You don’t want to hurt the wrong person.”

“My dad said he’s gone booby-trap everything so’s next time they’ll be damn sorry. He went to the hardware store. My mom and Debbie are still up at Uncle Rick’s. Debbie’s my half-sister, she’s seven.”

“Promise you’ll be careful with the gun.”

“She stepped on a rusty nail and got infected.”

“Promise me you’ll take it easy.”

“OK,” said the boy. A droplet of sweat rolled down a pink,
sunburned cheek. It surely tickled, but the boy never took a hand off the rifle.

Augustine waved good-bye and went on up the road. When he arrived at the house where he’d left Bonnie Lamb and the governor, he found it empty. Across the street, at 15600 Calusa, the black Jeep Cherokee was gone from the driveway.

Augustine sprinted across the street. He pulled the pistol when he reached the doorway. There was no answer when he called Bonnie’s name. Cautiously he went through the house. It was empty of life. The air was stale; mildew and sweat, except for one of the bedrooms—strong perfume and sex. A hall closet was open, revealing nothing unusual. A plaque on the living-room wall indicated the house belonged to a salesman, Antonio Torres. The hurricane had done quite a number on the place. In the backyard Augustine saw two miniature dachshunds tied to a sprinkler. They barked excitedly when they spotted him.

He sat down in a Naugahyde recliner and tried to reconstruct what could have happened in the twenty minutes he’d been gone. Obviously something had inspired the governor to make his move. Surely he’d ordered Bonnie to wait across the street, but she’d probably followed him just the same. Augustine had to assume they were now in the Jeep with the bad guy, headed for an unknown destination.

Augustine tore through the house once more, searching for clues. In the rubble of the funky-smelling bedroom was an album of water-stained photographs: the salesman, his spouse, and a multitude of well-fed relatives. Brenda Rourke had not recalled her attacker as an overweight Hispanic male, and the pictures of Antonio Torres showed no obvious facial deformity. Augustine decided it couldn’t be the same man. He moved to the kitchen.

Hidden in a large saucepan, in a cupboard over the double sink, was a woman’s leather purse. Inside was a wallet containing a Florida driver’s license for one Edith Deborah Marsh, white female. Date of birth: 5-7-63. The address was an apartment in West Palm Beach. The picture on the license was unusually revealing: a pretty young
lady with smoky, predatory eyes. The photo tech at the driver’s bureau had outdone himself. Folded neatly in the woman’s purse were pink carbons of two insurance settlements from Midwest Casualty, one for $60,000 and one for $141,000. The claims were for hurricane damage to the house at 15600 Calusa, and bore signatures of Antonio and Neria Torres. Interestingly, the insurance papers were dated that very day. Augustine was intrigued that Ms. Edith Marsh would have these documents in her possession, and took the liberty of transferring them to his own pocket.

It was an interesting twist, but Augustine doubted it would help him locate Bonnie and the governor. The key to the mystery was the creep with the crooked jaw. He’d be the one carrying Brenda Rourke’s service revolver. He’d be the one at the wheel of the Cherokee. Yet the house yielded no traceable signs.

With every passing moment, the creep was getting farther away. Augustine experienced a flutter of panic, thinking of what might happen. It was inconceivable that the governor would be cooperative during an abduction. Resistance was in the man’s blood. A .357 aimed at his forehead would only enhance the challenge. And if he screwed up, Bonnie Lamb would be lost.

Augustine ached with dread. His impulse was to get in the truck and start driving; desperate widening grids and circles, in a wild hope of spotting the Jeep. The creep had only a short head start, but also the considerable advantage of knowing which direction he was going.

Then Augustine thought of Jim Tile, the state trooper. One shout on the police radio and every cop in South Florida would know to keep an eye open for the Cherokee. Augustine had made a point of memorizing the new tag: PPZ-350. Save the Manatee.

He picked up the kitchen phone to get the number for the Highway Patrol. That’s when he noticed his old friend, the redial button.

He’d learned the trick while keeping house with the demented surgical intern, the one who ultimately knifed him in the shower. Whenever he found her gone, Augustine would touch the redial button to determine if she’d been phoning around town to score more Dilaudid, or pawn items stolen from his house. Before long he was able to recognize the voices of her various dope dealers and fences, before hanging up. In that way, the redial button had been a valuable tool for predicting his girlfriend’s moods and tracing missing property.

So he punched it now, to find out the last number dialed from 15600 Calusa before Skink and Bonnie disappeared. After three rings, a friendly female voice answered:

“Paradise Palms. Can I help you?”

Augustine hesitated. He knew of only one Paradise Palms, a seaside motel down in Islamorada. He gave it a shot. “My brother just called a little while ago. From Miami.”

“Oh yes. Mister Horn’s friend.”

“Pardon me?”

“The owner. Mister Horn. Your brother’s name is Lester?”

“Right,” said Augustine, flying blind.

“He’s the only Miami booking we’ve had today. Did he want to cancel?”

“Oh no,” Augustine said. “No, I just want to make sure the reservation is all set. See, we’re supposed to surprise him down there—it’s his birthday tomorrow. We’re going to take him deep-sea fishing.”

The woman at the motel said the dolphin were hitting offshore, and advised him to try the docks at Bud ’n’ Mary’s to arrange a charter. “Would you like me to call over there?”

“No, that’s all right.”

“Does Mister Horn know?”

“Know what?” said Augustine.

“That it’s Lester’s birthday. He’ll be so sorry he missed it—he’s in Tampa on business.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Augustine said. “I meant to ask—what time’s my brother getting in? So we can make sure everything’s arranged. You know, for the surprise party.”

“Of course. He told us to expect him late this afternoon.”

“That’s perfect.”

“And don’t you worry. I won’t say a word to spoil it.”

Augustine said, “Ma’am, I cannot thank you enough.”

After a day of inept drinking and arduous self-pity, Max Lamb took a flight from Guadalajara to Miami. There he intended to quit smoking, reclaim his brainwashed spouse and reconstruct his life. Another honeymoon was essential—but, this time, someplace far from Florida.

Hawaii, Max thought. Maybe even Australia.

His head was a cinder block. The tequila hangover fueled vivid, horrific dreams on the plane. Once he awakened clawing at an
invisible shock collar, his neck on fire. In the nightmare it was Bonnie and not the kidnapper wielding the Tri-Tronics remote control, diabolically pushing the buttons. An hour later came another dream; again his wife. This time they were making love on the deck of an airboat, skimming across the Everglades under a blue porcelain sky. Bonnie was on top of him with her eyes half open, the sawgrass whipping her cheeks. Clinging to her bare shoulder was a monkey—the same psoriatic pest that Max had videotaped after the hurricane! In the dream, Max couldn’t see the face of the airboat driver, but believed it was the quiet young man who juggled skulls. As Bonnie bucked her hips, the vile monkey hung on like a tiny wrangler. Suddenly it rose on its hind legs to display a miniature pink erection. That’s when Max screamed and woke up. He was wide-eyed but calmer by the time the plane landed.

Then, at the Miami airport, his tequila phantasms were reignited by a newspaper headline:

Max bought the paper and read the story in horror. A gangster named Ira Jackson had been gobbled by a wild lion that broke out of a wildlife farm during the storm. The gruesome details heightened the urgency of Max’s mission.