The door flew open.
Mr. Gash beamed. “Lookie there, Fido. She loves you, too.”
The trooper got to the old bridge before he changed his mind. He whipped the cruiser around and drove back to look for his friend. Thirty minutes later he found him, naked on a dune. The governor stood with his face upturned, his arms outstretched—letting the rain and wind beat him clean.
Jim Tile honked and flashed his headlights. The man who called himself Skink peered indignantly through the slashing downpour. When he saw the Highway Patrol car, he stalked across the sand and heaved himself, dripping luxuriantly, into the front seat.
“I thought we said our good-byes,” he growled, wringing out his beard.
“I forgot to give you something.”
The man nodded absently. “FYI: Governor Dickhead was right. They sent someone after this boy. The boy with the dog.”
Jim Tile said, “He’s twenty-six years old.”
“Still a boy,” Skink said. “And he’s here on the island, like we figured. I believe I met the man they sent to kill him.”
“Then I’m glad I came back.”
“You can’t stay.”
“I know,” said the trooper.
“You’ve got Brenda to consider. Pensions and medical benefits and such. You can’t be mixed up in shit like this.”
“Nothing says I can’t take off the uniform, Governor, at least for a few minutes.”
“Nothing except for common sense.”
“Where’s your damn clothes?”
“Hung in a tree,” said Skink. “What’d you bring me, Jim?”
The trooper jerked a thumb toward the trunk of the cruiser.
“Pop it open for me, would you?” Skink got out in the rain and went to the rear of the car. He returned with the package, which Jim Tile had wrapped in butcher’s paper.
Skink smiled, hefting the item up and down in one hand. “You old rascal! I’m guessing Smith & Wesson.”
The trooper told him the gun was clean; no serial numbers. “One of my men took it off a coke mule in Okaloosa County. Very slick operation, too—eighteen-year-old Cuban kid driving a yellow Land Rover thirty-seven miles per hour at three in the morning on Interstate 10. It’s a wonder we noticed him.”
Skink borrowed a handkerchief to swipe the condensation off his glass eye. “I don’t get it. You’re the one told me not to bring the AK-47.”
“Guess I’m getting nervous in my old age,” the trooper said. “There’s something else in the glove compartment. You go ahead and take it.”
Skink opened the latch and scowled. “No, Jim, I hate these damn things.” It was a cellular phone.
“Please. As a favor,” the trooper said. “It will significantly improve my response time.”
Skink closed his palm around the phone.
“You better hit the road,” he said grumpily. “This damn car stands out like the proverbial turd in the punch bowl.”
“And you don’t?”
“I’ll be getting dressed momentarily.”
“Oh, then you’ll really blend in,” Jim Tile said.
Skink got out of the police cruiser and tucked the heavy brown package under one arm. Before closing the door, he leaned in and said, “My love to your bride.”
“Governor, I don’t hear from you in twenty-four hours,” the trooper said, “I’m coming back to this damn island.”
“You don’t hear from me in eight, don’t even bother.”
Skink gave a thumbs-up. Then he turned and began to run across the windblown dunes. It was a meandering, waggle-stepped, butt-wiggling run, and Jim Tile couldn’t help but laugh.
He watched his friend disappear into the hazy yellow-gray of the storm. Then he wheeled the car around and headed for the mainland.
caller: Help me! Help me, God, please, oh God, help…
dispatcher: What’s the problem, sir?
caller: She set fire to my hair! I’m burning up, oh God, please!
dispatcher: Hang on, sir, we’ve got a truck on the way. We’ve got help coming. Can you make it to the bathroom? Try to get to the bathroom and turn on the shower.
caller: I can’t., I can’t move… She tied me to the damn bed. She… I’m tied to the bed with, like—oh Jesus, my hair!—clothesline. Aaaggggghhhooooohhhh…
dispatcher: Can you roll over? Sir, can you turn over?
caller: Cindy, no! Cindy, don’t! CINDY!