Stormy Weather (38 page)

“Looking for work,” explained the driver, a wiry, unshaven fellow with biblical tattoos on both arms. He said his first name was Matthew and his middle name was Luke.

Neria was nervous nonetheless. The men stared ravenously. “What do you guys do?” she asked.

“Construction. We’re here for the hurricane.” Matthew had a spare gas can. He poured four gallons into the van. Neria thanked him.

She said, “All I can give you is three bucks.”

“That’s fine.”

“What kind of construction?”

Matthew said: “Any damn thing we can find.” The other men laughed. “We do trees, also. I got chain saw experience,” Matthew added.

Neria Torres didn’t ask if the crew was licensed to do business in Florida. She knew the answer. The men climbed out of the truck to stretch their legs and urinate. One of them was actually mannered enough to turn his back while unzipping.

Neria decided it was a good time to go. Matthew stood between her and the van. “I dint ketch your name.”

“Neria.”

“That’s Cuban, right?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t talk with no accent.”

She thought: Well, thank you, Gomer. “I was born in Miami,” she said.

Matthew seemed pleased. “So you’re on the way home—hey, how’d you make out in the big blow?”

Neria said, “I won’t know till I get there.”

“We do residential.”

“Do you really.”

“Wood or masonry, it don’t matter. Also roofs. We got a helluva tar man.” Matthew pointed. “That bald guy doin’ his bidness in the bushes—he worked on that new Wal-Mart in Chat’nooga. My wife’s cousin Chip.”

Neria Torres said, “From what I understand, you won’t have a bit of trouble finding jobs when you get to Dade County.”

“Hey, what about your place?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen it yet.”

“So it could be totaled,” Matthew said, hopefully.

Slowly Neria opened the door of the van. Only when it stubbed his shoulder blades did Matthew move out of the way.

Neria got behind the wheel and revved the engine. “Tell you what. When I get home and see how the roof looks, then I’ll give you a call. Where you staying?”

The other workers laughed again. “Sterno Hilton,” said Matthew. “See, we’re campin’ out.” He said they couldn’t afford a motel, no way.

Neria fumbled in the console until she found a gnawed stub of pencil and one of the professor’s matchbooks, which reeked of weed. She wrote down a bogus telephone number and gave it to Matthew. “Ok, then, you call
me
.”

He didn’t even glance at the number. “I got a better idea. Since none of us ever been to Miami before …”

Oh no! she thought. Please no.

“… we’ll just follow you down. That way, we’re sure not to get lost. And if your place needs work, we can git on it rightaways.”

Matthew’s plan was well received by his crew. Neria said, uselessly: “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“We got references.”

She was eyeing the pickup truck, wondering if there was a chance in hell that the professor’s van could outrun it.

“We kicked some ass over Charleston,” Matthew was saying, “after Hurricane Hugo.”

Neria said, “It’s getting pretty late.”

“We’ll be right behind you.”

And they were, all the way down the Turnpike.

The truck’s solitary headlight, stuck on high beam, illuminated the interior of the VW van like a TV studio. Neria stiffened in the harsh brightness, knowing that seven pairs of inbred male eyes were fixed on the back of her head. She drove ludicrously slow, hoping the rednecks would grow impatient and decide to pass. They didn’t.

All she could do was make the best of it. Even if the Neanderthals didn’t know a thing about construction, they might be helpful in tracking a thieving husband.

Max Lamb cracked the door to poke his head out. He’d never met an FBI man before. This one didn’t look like Efram Zimbalist Jr. He wore a green Polo shirt, tan Dockers and cordovan Bass Weejuns. He also toted a bag from Ace Hardware.

When it came to name brands, Max was nothing if not observant. He believed it was part of his job, knowing who in America was buying what.

The agent said, “Is Augustine home?”

“No, he isn’t.”

“Who are you?”

“Could I see some ID?” Max asked.

The agent showed him a badge in a billfold. Max told him to come in. They sat in the living room. Max asked what was in the bag, and the agent said it was drill bits. “Storm sucked the cabinets right out of my kitchen,” he explained.

“Black and Decker?”

“Makita.”

“That’s a first-rate tool,” said Max.

The agent was exceedingly patient. “You’re a friend of Augustine’s?”

“Sort of. My name is Max Lamb.”

“Really? I’m glad to see you’re all right.”

Max’s eyebrows hopped.

“From the kidnapping,” the agent said. “You’re the one who was kidnapped, right?”

“Yes!” Max’s spirits skied, realizing that Bonnie had been so concerned that she’d called the FBI. It was proof of her devotion.

The agent said, “She played the tape for me, the message you left on the answering machine.”

“Then you heard his voice—the guy who snatched me.” Max got a Michelob from the refrigerator. The FBI man accepted a Sprite.

“Where’s your wife?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

Excitedly Max Lamb related the whole story, from his kidnapping on Calusa Drive to the midnight rescue in Stiltsville, up to Bonnie’s disappearance with Augustine and the deranged one-eyed governor. The FBI man listened with what seemed to be genuine interest, but took no notes. Max wondered if they were specially trained to remember everything they heard.

“These are dangerous men,” he told the agent, portentously.

“Was your wife taken against her will?”

“No, sir. That’s why they’re so dangerous.”

“You say he put a collar on your neck.”

“A shock collar,” Max said gravely, “the kind used to train hunting dogs.”

The FBI man asked if the kidnapper had done the same thing to Bonnie. Max said he didn’t think so. “She’s very trusting and impressionable. They took advantage of that.”

“What’s Augustine’s role in all this?”

“I believe,” said Max, “the kidnapper has brainwashed him, too.” He got another beer and tore into a bag of pretzels.

The agent said, “Prosecution won’t be easy. It’s your word against his.”

“But you believe me, don’t you?”

“Mister Lamb, it doesn’t matter what I believe. Put yourself in the jury box. This is a very weird story you’ll be asking them to swallow.…”

Max shot to his feet. His cheeks were stuffed with pretzel fragments. “Jeshush Chritht, mahh wife’s misshing!”

“I understand. I’d be upset, too.” The FBI man was maddeningly agreeable and polite. “And I’m not trying to tell you what to do. But you need to know what you’re up against.”

Max sat down, glowering.

The agent explained that the Bureau seldom got involved unless a ransom demand was issued. “There was none in your case. There’s been none for your wife.”

“Well,
I
think her life’s in danger,” Max said, “and I think you people are in deep trouble if something happens to her.”

“Believe me, Mister Lamb, I understand your frustration.”

No you don’t, Max fumed silently, or you wouldn’t talk to me like I was ten years old.

The agent said, “Have you spoken to the police?”

Max told him about the black state trooper who was acquainted with the kidnapper. “He said I was entitled to press charges. He said he’d take me down to the station.”

The FBI man nodded. “That’s the best way to go, if you’ve got your mind made up.”

Max told the agent there was something he definitely ought to see. He led him to Augustine’s guest room and showed him the wall of skulls. “Tell me honestly,” he said to the FBI man, “wouldn’t you be worried? He
juggles
those damn things.”

“Augustine? Yeah.”

“You know?”

“He won’t hurt your wife, Mister Lamb.”

“Gee, I feel so much better.”

The agent seemed impervious to sarcasm. “You’ll hear from Mrs. Lamb sooner or later. That’s my guess. If you don’t, call me. Or call me even if you do.” He handed his card to Max, who affected hardbitten skepticism as he studied it. Then he walked toward the kitchen, the agent following.

“I was wondering,” the FBI man said, “did Augustine give you a key?”

Max turned.

“To the house,” the agent said.

“No, sir. The sliding door was open.”

“So you just walked in. He doesn’t know you’re here?”

“Well…” It hadn’t occurred to Max Lamb that he was breaking the law. For one infuriating moment, he thought the FBI man was preparing to arrest him.

But the agent said: “That’s a swell way to get your head shot off—being in somebody’s house without them knowing. Especially here in Miami.”

Max, grinding his teeth, realized the impossibly upside-down nature of the situation. He was wasting his breath. A state trooper is friends with the kidnapper, an FBI man is friends with the skull collector.

“You know what I really want?” Max drained his beer with a flourish, set the bottle down hard on the counter. “All I want is to find my wife, put her on a plane and go home to New York. Forget about this fucked-up place, forget about this hurricane.”

The agent said, “That’s a damn good plan, Mister Lamb.”

Snapper made Edie Marsh pull over at a liquor store in Islamorada.

“Not now,” she said.

“I
got
to.”

“We’re almost there.”

A rumble from the back seat: “Let the man have a drink.”

She parked behind the store, away from the road. Jim Tile didn’t see the black Cherokee as he sped past. Neither did Avila, ten minutes later.

Snapper wouldn’t be talked out of his craving, and Edie was worried. She knew firsthand the folly of mixing booze with Midols. Double dosed, Snapper might hibernate for a month.

The woman named Bonnie asked for a cold Coke. “I’m burning up.”

“Welcome to Florida,” said Edie.

Snapper tossed three ten-dollar bills on her lap. “Johnnie Red,” he said.

“Bad idea when you’re full of codeines.”

“Shit, I’ve handled ten times worse. Besides, it don’t feel like codeine you gave me.”

Edie said, “Your knee quit hurting, right? The bottle said ‘codeine.’”

Snapper switched the .357 to his left hand. With his right hand he twisted Edie’s hair, as if he were uprooting a clump of weeds. When she cried out, he said: “I don’t give a fuck if the medicine bottle said turpentine. Go get my Johnnie Walker.”

Edie pulled free and jumped out of the Jeep. She flipped him the finger as she went through the door of the liquor store. Snapper said, “Stubborn bitch.”

“Feisty,” Skink agreed.

Bonnie Lamb felt like her skin was sizzling. She thought it would be glorious to bury herself in fresh snow. “Honest to God, it’s so hot. I feel like taking off my clothes.”

She couldn’t believe she’d said it aloud.

Snapper was startled, and too confused for lust. “Jesus Christ, what’s a matter with you people.”

Bonnie said, “I’m smothering.”

His eyes wandered to the young woman’s chest. Nothing like a pair of tits to fuck up the balance of power. He knew that if she flashed those babies, his position instantly would be weakened, his authority diminished. It was a lost advantage that even the .357 could not restore.

“Keep your goddamn shirt on,” he told her.

“Don’t worry.” Bonnie fanned herself in nervous embarrassment. In the back of the Jeep, Levon Stichler mewled inquiringly, trussed in his cocoon of moldy carpet. Skink figured the old man must have been listening, wondering if he was missing something.

Edie Marsh returned from the store. Her hair sparkled with tiny raindrops. She handed Bonnie a can of Dr Pepper. “The Cokes weren’t cold. Here, asshole.” She shoved a brown paper bag at Snapper. He took out the Johnnie Walker bottle and opened it with one hand. He threw back his head and chugged, as if from a canteen.

“Take it easy,” Edie admonished.

Contemptuously he smacked his lips. “I bet you’d look good completely bald,” he said to her. “That guy on the new
Star Trek
, Gene Luke—you and him could pass for twins.”

Edie said, “Touch my hair again. Just try.”

He swung the .357 until the barrel came to rest on the tip of Edie’s nose. He cocked the hammer and said: “Come on. Somebody talk me out of it.”

Bonnie thought: Oh God, please don’t. She shivered in sweat.

Snapper took another sloppy swig of whiskey. The one-eyed man reminded him of the ammunition shortage. “Shoot her, that’d leave only one bullet for the rest of us.”

“There’s other ways besides the gun.”

Skink let loose an avalanche of laughter. “Son, I’m fairly immune to blunt objects and sharp instruments.”

Edie’s pitch was more blunt. “Pull the trigger,” she said to Snapper, “and kiss your hurricane money good-bye. Forty-seven grand goes out the window with my brains.”

Snapper’s bad mandible began to creak; a sign, Skink hoped, of possible cogitation. The moron was deciding between the long-term rewards from the money and the short-term satisfaction from shooting her. Apparently it wasn’t an easy choice.

Skink said, “Consider it an IQ test, chief.”

Impulsively Bonnie Lamb opened the cold Dr Pepper and poured it under her blouse; a fizzing caramel torrent from the cleft of her neck to her tummy.

“Stop!” Snapper yelled. “You stop that crazy shit!”

“I’m suffocating in here—”

“I don’t care! I don’t fucking care.”

Bonnie was so light-headed from the heat that Snapper’s fury didn’t register. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m really sorry, but it’s a hundred degrees in this stupid truck.”

The soda pop soaked through her top, so that Snapper could see the lacy outline of a bra and a pale damp oval of bare belly. Skink asked Edie Marsh to put on the air conditioner.

“I tried. It’s broken.” Edie’s voice was empty.

“Don’t even think about getting naked,” Snapper warned Bonnie, “or I’ll kill you.” His head jangled with loud voices, some his own. In exasperation he shouted: “You don’t think I’d shoot all you crazy shits? You don’t believe me? Check the fuckin’ hole in the roof a this Jeep!”