by Carl Hiaasen
Every so often the insurance man switched on the flashlight and reexamined Edie’s picture on the driver’s license. The vulturine eyes did not soften. Fred Dove wondered if it was her deviousness that he found so arousing. The notion disturbed him, so he retreated to innocuous diversions. He hadn’t known, for example, that her middle name was Deborah. It was a name he liked: plucky, Midwestern and reliable-sounding. He was willing to bet that if you went through every women’s prison in America, you wouldn’t find a half-dozen Deborahs. Perhaps the name had been taken from one of Edie’s grandmothers, or that of a special aunt. In any event, he regarded it as a positive sign.
He wondered, too, about the apartment listed as her address in West Palm: what kind of art Edie had hung on the walls, what color towels were folded in the bathroom, what sort of homey magnets were stuck on her refrigerator door. Linus and Snoopy? Garfield the Cat? If only, Fred Dove thought. He thought about Edie’s bed, too. He hoped it was king-sized, brass or a big wooden four-poster—anything but a water bed, which negatively affected his thrusting techniques. Fred Dove hoped the sheets on Edie’s bed were imported silk, and that one day she would invite him to lie down on them.
The insurance man stayed in the recliner for more than two hours, long after the neighborhood chain saws and hammers had fallen silent. He finally arose to take a position near a windowpane, in glum preparation to witness the vandalism of his rental car by a group of swaggering, loud-talking teenagers. Mercifully they ignored Fred Dove’s drab sedan, but minutes after they passed the house he heard a pop-pop that could have been the backfire of an automobile, or gunshots. In the backyard Donald and Marla dissolved in frenzy, striking up an irksome chorus with half a dozen other vigilant dogs on the block. Fred Dove’s nerves were fraying fast. He returned Edie’s driver’s license to the purse. Hurriedly he arranged the flowers in a vase and placed it next to the unopened wine on the dining-room table. Then he blew out the candle and went outside to check on the dachshunds.
Tangled impressively in their leashes, the animals whimpered out of hunger, loneliness and general anxiety. Their low-density memories still twitched from the near-fatal encounter with the prowling bear. The moment Fred Dove set them free, the dachshunds clambered up his lap and licked his chin shamelessly. He was suckered into giving them a short walk.
Admiring the unfettered mirth with which Donald and Marla pranced and peed, the insurance man was bothered by the idea that they might spend the whole night outdoors and unattended. He wrote Edie a note and folded it on top of her purse. Then he led the two wiener dogs to his rented sedan, drove back to the motel and smuggled them in a laundry bag up to his room. It was marginally better than all-night movies on cable.
• • •
The motels in the Upper Keys were filling with out-of-town insurance adjusters. The clerk at the Paradise Palms said she felt uncomfortable, profiting off the hurricane.
“But a customer’s a customer. Can I have your name?”
Augustine introduced himself as Lester’s brother. “I phoned earlier. What’s his room number?”
“He’s not here yet.” The clerk leaned across the counter and whispered: “But your sisters checked in about twenty minutes ago. Room 255. I mean, I’m assuming sisters, on account of they’re Parsons, too.”
“Parsons indeed.” Augustine nodded and acted pleased. Sisters? He couldn’t imagine.
He paid for his room with cash. The clerk said, “Those girls know how to dress for a party, I’ll sure say that.”
“Oh boy,” said Augustine. “What have they done now?”
“Don’t you go fussing—let ’em have their fun, all right?” She handed him his key. “You’re in 240. I tried to put you in the unit next door, but some wise guy from Prudential, he didn’t want to switch.”
“That’s quite all right.”
Once inside his room, Augustine put the loaded .38 on the bureau, near the door. He took the parts of the dart rifle from the gym bag and laid them on the bedspread. The muscles of his neck were in knots. He wished he’d brought a few skulls, for relaxation.
Augustine turned up the TV while he assembled the tranquilizer gun. He was surprised that he’d beaten the black Jeep to Islamorada, hadn’t even passed it on the eighteen-mile stretch south of Florida City. He wondered if they’d turned on Card Sound Road, or stopped someplace else—and why. His worst fear, the thing he kept pushing out of his mind, was that the creep with the crooked jaw had already killed Skink and Bonnie, and dumped them. There were only about a hundred ideal locations between Homestead and Key Largo; years might pass before the bodies were found.
Well, he’d know soon enough. If the asshole showed up without them, then Augustine would know.
If the asshole showed up at all. Augustine still wasn’t sure if “Lester Parsons” was the man with the crooked jaw.
He stood the dart rifle in a closet and put the pistol in his waistband, under the tail of his shirt. Rain whipped his face as soon as he stepped out the door. He shielded his eyes and hurried along the walkway to Room 255. He knocked seven times in a neighborly cadence—shave-and-a-haircut, two bits—to give the false impression that he was expected.
The door was flung open by a fragrant redheaded woman in high heels and a luminous green bikini. Augustine recognized her as the hooker in fishnets from 15600 Calusa.
An orange sucker was tattooed on the freckled slope of her left breast. In her left hand was a frosty Rum Runner.
She said, “Shit, I thought you were Snapper.”
“Wrong room,” said Augustine. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Another woman came out of the bathroom, saying, “Goddamn this rain. I wanted to go in the pool.” She wore a silver one-piece suit, an explosive white-blonde wig and gold hoop earrings. When she saw Augustine in the doorway, she said, “Who’re you?”
“I thought this was my sister’s room, but I guess I’m at the wrong motel.”
The redhead introduced herself as Bridget. “You wanna come in and dry off?”
“Not if it gets Snapper mad.” Augustine was thinking: Snapper—now what the hell kind of name is that?
The redhead laughed. “Yeah, he’s quite the jealous maniac. Come on in.”
The blonde said, “Jesus, Bridget, they’re gonna be here any second—”
But Augustine was already inside the room, scouting unobtrusively: an overnight bag, two cosmetic cases, a cocktail dress on a hanger. Nothing out of the ordinary. Bridget tossed him a towel. She said her friend’s name was Jasmine. They were from Miami.
“My name’s George,” said Augustine, “from California.” Inanely he shook hands with the hookers.
Bridget held on, examining his ring finger. “Not married?”
“Afraid not.” Augustine gently tugged free.
Jasmine told Bridget to forget it, they didn’t have enough time. Bridget said they wouldn’t need much.
“George looks like a fast starter.” She winked somewhat mechanically at Augustine. “You want some fun until the rain stops?”
“Thanks, but I really can’t stay.”
“Hundred bucks,” Bridget suggested. “Double date.”
Jasmine pulled a long white T-shirt over her swimsuit. She griped: “Hey, do I get a vote in this? A hundred for what?”
Bridget slipped a milky arm around Augustine’s waist and pulled him close. The obvious implant in her left breast felt like a sack of nickels against his rib cage. “Seventy-five,” she said, dropping her eyes to the bright tattoo, “and I’ll give you a taste of my Tootsie Pop.”
“Can’t,” Augustine said. “Diabetic.”
Jasmine gave a biting laugh. “You’re both pitiful. Bridget, let ‘George from California’ go find his sisters.” She sat cross-legged on the bed and applied pungent glue to a broken artificial fingernail. “Boy, this weather’s suck-o,” she muttered, to no one.
Bridget’s motivational hug went slack, and slowly she recoiled from Augustin
e’s side. “Our man George has a gun.” She announced it with a mix of alarm and regret. “I felt it.”
Jasmine, blowing on her glue job, looked up. “Goddamn, Bridget, I knew it! You happy now? We’re busted.”
“No you’re not.” Augustine took out the pistol and displayed it in a loose and casual way, hoping to quell their concerns. “I’m not a cop, I promise.”
Jasmine’s eyes narrowed. “Shit, now I know. The squeaker sent you.”
“Who?”
“Avila.”
“Never heard of him.”
Bridget backpedaled to the bed and sat next to her friend. Nervously she crossed her arms over her breasts. “Then who the hell are you, George? What is it you’re after?”
“Information.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Really. I just want you to tell me about this ‘Snapper,’” said Augustine, “and I also want to know if you two ladies can keep a secret.”
CHAPTER
25
The professor’s VW van ran out of gas two miles shy of the Fort Drum service plaza. Neria Torres stood by the Turnpike and flagged down a truck. It was an old Chevy pickup; three men in the cab, four others sprawled in the bed. They were from Tennessee. Neria wasn’t crazy about the odds.
“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?”