chiaasen.stormyweather-第57部分

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attering　cat　bones　and　tipping　two　of　the　santeria　candles。　Avila　tried　to　subdue　the　coati　by　stunning　it　with　the　pry　bar；　but　it　was　too　swift　and　agile。　Like　a　monkey；　it　vertically　scampered　up　a　wall　of　metal　shelves　and　bounded　onto　the　ceiling　track　of　the　electric　door…opener。　There　it　perched；　using　its　remarkable　tail　for　balance；　squealing　and　baring　sharp　yellow　teeth。　Meanwhile　one　of　the　santeria　candles　rolled　beneath　Avila's　lawn　mower；　igniting　the　gas　tank。　Cursing　bitterly；　Avila　ran　to　the　kitchen　for　the　fire　extinguisher。　When　he　returned　to　the　garage；　he　was　confronted　with　fresh　disaster。
　
　The　electric　door　was　open。　In　the　driveway　was　his　wife's　Buick；　idling。　Why　she　had　e　back；　Avila　didn't　know。　Perhaps　she'd　decided　to　pilfer　the　buried　Tupperware　for　extra　bingo　money。　It　truly　didn't　matter。
　
　Apparently　her　mother　had　emerged　from　the　car　first。　The　scene　that　greeted　Avila　was　so　stupefying　that　he　temporarily　forgot　about　the　flaming　lawn　mower。　For　reasons　beyond　human　prehension；　the　overwrought　coatimundi　had　jumped　from　its　roost　in　the　garage；　dashed　outdoors　and　scaled　Avila's　mother…in…law。　Now　the　creature　was　nesting　in　the　woman's　coiffure；　a　brittle　edifice　of　chromium　orange。　Avila　had　always　believed　that　his　wife's　mother　wore　wigs；　but　here　was　persuasive　evidence　that　her　fantastic　mop　was　genuine。　She　shrieked　and　spun　about　the　front　yard；　flailing　spastically　at　the　demon　on　her　scalp。　The　jabbering　coati　dug　in　with　all　four　claws。　No　hairpiece；　Avila　decided；　could　withstand　such　a　test。
　
　His　wife　bilingually　shouted　that　he　should　do　something；　for　God's　sake；　don't　just　stand　there！　The　pry　bar　was　out　of　the　question；　one　misplaced　blow　and　that　would　be　the　end　of　his　mother…in…law。　So　Avila　tried　the　fire　extinguisher。　He　unloaded　at　point…blank　range；　soaping　the　stubborn　animal　with　sodium　bicarbonate。
　
　The　coati　snarled　and　snapped　but；　incredibly；　refused　to　vacate　the　old　woman's　hair。　In　the　turmoil　it　was　inevitable　that　some　of　the　cold　mist　from　the　fire　extinguisher　would　hit　Avila's　mother…in…law；　who　mashed　her　knuckles　to　her　eyes　and　began　a　blind　run。　Avila　gave　chase　for　three…quarters　of　a　block；　periodically　firing　short　bursts；　but　the　old　woman　showed　surprising　speed。
　
　Avila　gave　up　and　trotted　home　to　extinguish　the　fire　in　the　garage。　Afterwards　he　rolled　the　charred　lawn　mower　to　the　backyard　and　hosed　it　down。　His　distraught　wife　remained　sprawled　across　the　hood　of　the　Buick；　crying：　〃Mami；　mamt；　luke　what　chew　did　to　my　mamil〃
　
　Above　her　keening　rose　the　unmistakable　whine　of　sirens…someone　on　the　block　had　probably　called　the　fire　department。　Avila　thought：　Why　can't　people　mind　their　own　goddamn　business！　He　was　steaming　as　he　hurried　to　his　car。
　
　At　the　very　moment　he　fit　the　key　in　the　ignition；　the　passenger　window　exploded。　Avila　nearly　wet　himself　in　shock。　There　stood　his　wife；　beet…faced　and　seething；　holding　the　iron　pry　bar。
　
　〃Chew　fucking　bastard！〃　she　cried。
　
　Avila　jammed　his　heel　to　the　accelerator　and　sped　away。
　
　〃O　Change；　Change；〃　he　whispered；　brushing　chunks　of　glass　from　his　lap。　〃I　know　I　fucked　up　again；　but　don't　abandon　me　now。　Not　tonight。〃
　
　A　peculiar　trait　of　this　hurricane；　Jim　Tile　marveled　on　the　drive　along　North　Key　Largo；　was　the　dramatic　definition　of　its　swath。　The　eye　had　e　ashore　like　a　bullet；　devastating　a　thin　corridor　but　leaving　virtually　untouched　the　coastline　to　the　immediate　north　and　south。　August　hurricanes　are　seldom　so　courteous。　Its　bands　had　battered　the　vacation　estates　of　ritzy　Ocean　Reef　and　stripped　a　long　stretch　of　mangrove。　Yet　two　miles　down　the　shore；　the　mangroves　flourished；　leafy　and　lush；　offering　no　clue　that　a　killer　storm　had　passed　nearby。　A　ramshackle　trailer　park　stood　undamaged；　not　a　window　was　broken；　not　a　tree　was　uprooted。
　
　Phenomenal；　thought　Jim　Tile。
　
　He　goosed　the　Crown　Victoria　to　an　invigorating　ninety…five；　blue　lights；　no　siren。　At　high　speeds　the　big　Ford　whistled　like　a　bottle　rocket。
　
　Paradise　Palms　was　a　lead　but　not　a　lock。　Augustine　had　done　his　best　in　a　tough　situation；　the　trick　with　the　redial　button　was　slick。　Maybe　the　guy　who'd　beaten　up　Brenda　was　in　the　black　jeep　Cherokee。　Augustine　didn't　know　for　sure。　Maybe　they　were　headed　to　the　Keys；　maybe　not。　Maybe　they'd　stay　with　the　Jeep；　or　maybe　they'd　ditch　it　for　another　car。
　
　The　only　certainty　was　that　they　were　transporting　Skink　and　the　tourist　woman；　Augustine's　girlfriend。　The　circumstances　of　the　abduction；　and　its　purpose；　remained　a　mystery。　Augustine　had　promised　to　lie　back　and　wait　at　Paradise　Palms；　and　the　trooper　told　him　that　was　an　excellent　idea。　One…man　rescues　only　worked　in　the　movies。
　
　The　old　road　from　Ocean　Reef　rejoined　Highway　One　below　Jewfish　Creek；　where　it　split　into　four　lanes。　The　traffic　thickened；　so　Jim　Tile　slowed　to　seventy　miles　per　hour；　weaving　deftly　between　the　Winnebagos　and　rental　cars。　It　was　the　time　of　late　summer　when　the　setting　sun　could　torment　inexperienced　drivers；　but　there　was　no　glare　from　the　west　tonight。　A　bruised　wall　of　advancing　weather　shaded　the　horizon　and　cast　sooty　twilight　over　the　islands　and　the　water。　Lightning　strobed　high　in　distant　clouds　over　Florida　Bay。　Its　exquisite　sparking　was　wasted　on　Jim　Tile；　who　dourly　contemplated　the　prospect　of　hard　rain。　A　chase　was　tricky　enough　when　the　roads　were　bone　dry。
　
　On　Plantation　Key　the　highway　narrowed　again；　and　as　the　traffic　merged　to　two　lanes；　Jim　Tile　thought　he　spotted　the　black　Cherokee　not　far　ahead。　Quickly　he　turned　off　the　blue　lights。　It　had　to　be　the　same　Jeep；　the　shiny　mud　flaps　were　as　preposterous　as　Augustine　had　described　them。
　
　Four　vehicles　separated　Jim　Tile　from　the　Jeep…three　passenger　cars；　and　a　station　wagon　towing　a　fishing　boat　on　a　wobbly　trailer。　The　boat　was　tall　and　beamy　enough　to　make　it　hard　for　those　in　the　Jeep　to　see　the　marked　police　car　in　the　stacked　traffic　behind　them。　Already　the　rain　was　falling；　fat　drops　popping　sporadically　on　the　hood　of　the　Ford。　The　thickening　sky　promised　a　deluge。
　
　The　station　wagon　in　front　of　Jim　Tile　began　an　untimely；　though　predictable；　deceleration。　Bad　omens　abounded：　Michigan　license　plates　suggested　unfamiliarity　with　local　landmarks；　the　driver　and　a　female　passenger　were　gesticulating　heatedly；　indicating　a　marital…type　disagreement。　Most　distressing；　from　Jim　Tile's　point　of　view：　A　third　passenger　clearly　could　be　seen　unfolding　a　road　map　as　large　as　a　tablecloth。
　
　They're　lost；　the　trooper　thought。　Lost　in　the　Florida　Keys。　Where　there　was　only　one　way　in　and　out。　Amazing。
　
　Now　the　map　was　being　passed　to　the　front　seat；　where　the　driver　and　his　wife　pawed　at　it　petitively。　The　station　wagon　began　snaking　back　and　forth；　followed　somewhat　indecisively　by　the　boat　trailer。　Two　McDonald's　bags　flew　from　one　of　the　car's　windows；　exploding　unwanted　French　fries　and　ketchup　packets　on　the　shoulder　of　the　highway。
　
　〃Pigs；〃　Jim　Tile　said　aloud。　He　scowled　at　the　speedometer：　thirty…two　damn　miles　per　hour。　If　he　tried　to　pass；　the　guy　in　the　Jeep　might　see　him　ing。　The　trooper　boiled。　As　the　rain　fell　harder；　he　went　to　his　windshield　wipers　and　headlights。
　
　The　sluggish　station　wagon　stayed　ahead　of　him　for　the　entire　length　of　Plantation　Key；　until　its　sole　operative　brake　light　began　to　flicker。　The　rig　meandered　to　a　dead　stop。
　
　Dispiritedly；　Jim　Tile　put　the　patrol　car　in　Park；　thinking：　This　ain't　my　day。
　
　Ahead　rose　the　Snake　Creek　drawbridge。　The　black　Jeep　and　the　three　cars　behind　it　easily　crossed　before　the　warning　gates　came　down。　The　moron　in　the　station　wagon　would　have　beaten　it；　too；　had　he　ventured　to　touch　the　accelerator。
　
　Now　the　trooper　was　stuck。　The　Jeep　was　on　the　other　side　of　the　waterway；　out　of　sight。　Jim　Tile　stepped　from　his　car　and　slammed　the　door。　With　raindrops　trickling　off　the　brim　of　his　Stetson；　he　approached　the　witless　driver　of　the　station　wagon　and　asked　for　a　license；　registration　and　proof　of　insurance。　In　the　eight　minutes　that　passed　before　the　Snake　Creek　bridge　came　down；　the　trooper　managed　to　weigh　the　bewildered　tourist　with　seven　separate　traffic　citations；　at　least　three　of　which　would　inconveniently　require　a　personal　appearance　in　court。
　
　On　the　way　to　the　Torres　house；　Fred　Dove　stopped　to　buy　flowers　and　white　wine。　He　wanted　Edie　Marsh　to　know　he　was　proud　of　her　performance　as　Neria；　devoted　wife　of　Tony。
　
　When　the　insurance　man　pulled　up　to　15600　Calusa；　he　saw　that　the　Jeep　wasn't　in　the　driveway。　His　heart　quickened　at　the　possibility　that　Snapper　was　gone；　leaving　him　alone　with　Edie。　Not　that　she　was　fussy　about　privacy；　but　Fred　Dove　was。　He　couldn't　perform　at　full　throttle；　sexually；　as　long　as　a　homicidal　maniac　was　watching　TV　in　an　adjoining　room。　Snapper's　loud　and　truculent　presence　was　deflating　in　all　respects。
　
　Nobody　answered　when　the　insurance　man　rapped　on　the　wooden　doorjamb。　He　stepped　into　the　Torres　house　and　called　Edie's　name。　The　only　reply　came　from　the　two　miniature　dachshunds；　barking　in　the　backyard；　they　sounded　tired　and　hoarse。
　
　The　ugly　Na