chiaasen.stormyweather-第52部分

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ged　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：
　
　Remains　in　Fox　Hollow　Identified　as　Mob　Figure；　Believed　Mauled；　Devoured　by　Escaped　Cat。
　
　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。
　
　He　arrived　at　Augustine's　home　with　a　prepared　speech　and；　if　necessary；　a　legal　threat。　The　lights　were　off。　Nobody　answered　the　door。　In　the　absence　of　confrontation；　Max　was　emboldened　to　slip　around　to　the　backyard。
　
　The　sliding　glass　door　on　the　porch　was　unlocked。　Inside　the　house；　it　was　stuffy　and　warm。　Max　started　the　air　conditioner　and　turned　on　every　lamp　he　could　find。　He　wanted　to　advertise　his　presence；　he　didn't　want　to　be　found　creeping　through　the　halls　in　darkness；　like　a　mon　burglar。
　
　Thrilled　by　his　own　daring；　Max　bed　the　place　for　signs　of　his　wife。　Hanging　in　a　closet　was　the　outfit　she'd　worn　on　the　day　he　was　kidnapped。　Since　the　rental　car　had　been　looted　of　their　belongings；　Max　reasoned　that　Bonnie　must　now　be　wearing　somebody　else's　clothes；　or　her　folks　had　wired　some　cash…or　perhaps　Augustine　had　bought　her　an　expensive　new　wardrobe。　Wasn't　that　what　wife…stealers　did？
　
　Max　Lamb　forced　himself　to　enter　the　guest　room。　He　purposely　avoided　the　wall　of　skulls；　but　shuddered　anyway　under　the　dissipated　stares。　He　was　pleased　to　find　the　bed　linens　rumpled　exclusively　on　the　left　side…　Bonnie's　favorite。　A　depression　in　the　lone　pillow　seemed；　upon　inspection；　to　match　the　shape　of　a　young　woman's　head。　The　bed　showed　no　manifest　evidence　of　male　visitation。
　
　An　oak　dresser　yielded　an　assortment　of　female　clothing；　from　bras　to　blue　jeans；　in　an　intriguing　range　of　sizes。　Relics　of　Augustine's　ex…girlfriends；　Max　assumed。　One　of　them　must　have　stood　six　feet　two；　judging　by　the　Amazonian　cut　of　her　black　exercise　leggings。　Max　located　several　petite　items　that　would　have　fit　his　wife；　including　a　pair　of　powder…blue　sweat　socks　in　a　tidy　mound　on　the　hardwood　floor。　His　outlook　improved；　at　least　she　was　wearing　borrowed　clothes。
　
　He　steeled　himself　for　the　next　survey：　Augustine's　room。
　
　The　man's　bed　looked　like　a　grenade　had　been　set　off　under　the　sheets。　Max　Lamb　thought：　He's　either　having　fantastic　sex　or　horrible　nightmares。　The　disarray　made　it　impossible　to　determi