“Promise you’ll be careful with the gun.”
“She stepped on a rusty nail and got infected.”
“Promise me you’ll take it easy.”
“OK,” said the boy. A droplet of sweat rolled down a pink, sunburned cheek. It surely tickled, but the boy never took a hand off the rifle.
Augustine waved good-bye and went on up the road. When he arrived at the house where he’d left Bonnie Lamb and the governor, he found it empty. Across the street, at 15600 Calusa, the black Jeep Cherokee was gone from the driveway. ,
TWENTY-TWO
Augustine sprinted across the street. He pulled the pistol when he reached the doorway. There was no answer when he called Bonnie’s name. Cautiously he went through the house. It was empty of life. The air was stale; mildew and sweat, except for one of the bedrooms-strong perfume and sex. A hall closet was open, revealing nothing unusual. A plaque on the living-room wall indicated the house belonged 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.