irritably. “A hurricane looter.”
“Right. Smacked a lumber truck doing eighty.”
“
Now
he tells us,” said Bonnie Lamb.
The wash of relief didn’t hit her until she was back in Augustine’s pickup truck.
It wasn’t Max at the morgue, because Max is still alive. This is good. This is cause to be thankful
. Then Bonnie began to tremble, imagining her husband gutted like a fish on a shiny steel tray.
When they returned to the neighborhood where Max Lamb had vanished, they found the rental car on its rims. The hood stood open and the radiator was gone. Augustine’s note on the windshield wiper was untouched—a testament, he remarked, to the low literacy rate among car burglars. He offered to call a wrecker.
“Later,” Bonnie said, tersely.
“That’s what I meant. Later.” He locked the truck and set the alarm.
They walked the streets for nearly two hours, Augustine with the .38 Special wedged in his belt. He thought Max Lamb’s abductor might have holed up, so they checked every abandoned house in the subdivision. Walking from one block to the next, Bonnie struck up conversations with people who were patching their battered homes. She hoped one of them would remember seeing Max on the morning after the hurricane. Several residents offered colorful accounts of monkey sightings, but Bonnie spoke with no one who recalled the kidnapping of a tourist.
Augustine drove her to the Metro police checkpoint, where she contacted a towing service and the rental-car agency in Orlando. Then she made a call to the apartment in New York to get her messages. After listening for a minute, she pressed the pound button on the telephone and handed the receiver to Augustine.
“Unbelievable,” she said.
It was Max Lamb’s voice on the line. The static was so heavy he could have been calling from Tibet:
“Bonnie, darling, everything’s OK. I don’t believe my life’s in danger, but I can’t say when I’ll be free. It’s too hairy to explain over the phone—uh, hang on, he wants me to read something. Ready? Here goes:
“‘I have nothing to do with the creaking machinery of humanity—I belong to the earth! I say that lying on my pillow and I can feel the horns sprouting from my temples.’”
After a scratchy pause: “Bonnie, honey, it sounds worse than it is. Please don’t tell my folks a thing—I don’t want Dad all worked up for no reason. And please call Pete and, uh, ask him to put me down for sick leave, just in case this situation drags out. And tell him to stall the sixth floor on the Bronco meeting next week. Don’t forget, OK? Tell him under no circumstances should Bill Knapp be brought in. It’s still my account.…”
Max Lamb’s voice dissolved into fuzzy pops and echoes. Augustine hung up. He walked Bonnie back to the pickup.
She got in and said, “This is making me crazy.”
“We’ll call again from my house and get it on tape.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’ll jolt the FBI into action. Especially the poetry.”
“Actually I think it’s from a book.”
“What does it mean?” she asked.
Augustine reached across her lap and placed the .38 Special in the glove compartment. “It means,” he said, “your husband probably isn’t as safe as he thinks.”
By and large, the Highway Patrol troopers based in northern Florida were not overjoyed to learn of their temporary reassignment to southern Florida. Many would have preferred Beirut or Somalia. The exception was Jim Tile. A trip to Miami meant precious time with Brenda Rourke, although working double shifts in the hurricane zone left them scarcely enough energy to collapse in each other’s arms.
Jim Tile hadn’t counted on an intrusion by the governor, but it wasn’t totally surprising. The man worshipped hurricanes. Ignoring his presence would have been selfish and irresponsible; the trooper didn’t take the friendship that lightly, nor Skink’s capacity for outstandingly rash behavior. Jim Tile had no choice but to try to
“Right. Smacked a lumber truck doing eighty.”
“
Now
he tells us,” said Bonnie Lamb.
The wash of relief didn’t hit her until she was back in Augustine’s pickup truck.
It wasn’t Max at the morgue, because Max is still alive. This is good. This is cause to be thankful
. Then Bonnie began to tremble, imagining her husband gutted like a fish on a shiny steel tray.
When they returned to the neighborhood where Max Lamb had vanished, they found the rental car on its rims. The hood stood open and the radiator was gone. Augustine’s note on the windshield wiper was untouched—a testament, he remarked, to the low literacy rate among car burglars. He offered to call a wrecker.
“Later,” Bonnie said, tersely.
“That’s what I meant. Later.” He locked the truck and set the alarm.
They walked the streets for nearly two hours, Augustine with the .38 Special wedged in his belt. He thought Max Lamb’s abductor might have holed up, so they checked every abandoned house in the subdivision. Walking from one block to the next, Bonnie struck up conversations with people who were patching their battered homes. She hoped one of them would remember seeing Max on the morning after the hurricane. Several residents offered colorful accounts of monkey sightings, but Bonnie spoke with no one who recalled the kidnapping of a tourist.
Augustine drove her to the Metro police checkpoint, where she contacted a towing service and the rental-car agency in Orlando. Then she made a call to the apartment in New York to get her messages. After listening for a minute, she pressed the pound button on the telephone and handed the receiver to Augustine.
“Unbelievable,” she said.
It was Max Lamb’s voice on the line. The static was so heavy he could have been calling from Tibet:
“Bonnie, darling, everything’s OK. I don’t believe my life’s in danger, but I can’t say when I’ll be free. It’s too hairy to explain over the phone—uh, hang on, he wants me to read something. Ready? Here goes:
“‘I have nothing to do with the creaking machinery of humanity—I belong to the earth! I say that lying on my pillow and I can feel the horns sprouting from my temples.’”
After a scratchy pause: “Bonnie, honey, it sounds worse than it is. Please don’t tell my folks a thing—I don’t want Dad all worked up for no reason. And please call Pete and, uh, ask him to put me down for sick leave, just in case this situation drags out. And tell him to stall the sixth floor on the Bronco meeting next week. Don’t forget, OK? Tell him under no circumstances should Bill Knapp be brought in. It’s still my account.…”
Max Lamb’s voice dissolved into fuzzy pops and echoes. Augustine hung up. He walked Bonnie back to the pickup.
She got in and said, “This is making me crazy.”
“We’ll call again from my house and get it on tape.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’ll jolt the FBI into action. Especially the poetry.”
“Actually I think it’s from a book.”
“What does it mean?” she asked.
Augustine reached across her lap and placed the .38 Special in the glove compartment. “It means,” he said, “your husband probably isn’t as safe as he thinks.”
By and large, the Highway Patrol troopers based in northern Florida were not overjoyed to learn of their temporary reassignment to southern Florida. Many would have preferred Beirut or Somalia. The exception was Jim Tile. A trip to Miami meant precious time with Brenda Rourke, although working double shifts in the hurricane zone left them scarcely enough energy to collapse in each other’s arms.
Jim Tile hadn’t counted on an intrusion by the governor, but it wasn’t totally surprising. The man worshipped hurricanes. Ignoring his presence would have been selfish and irresponsible; the trooper didn’t take the friendship that lightly, nor Skink’s capacity for outstandingly rash behavior. Jim Tile had no choice but to try to
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