STORMY WEATHER By CARL HIAASEN

Neria fumbled in the console until she found a gnawed stub of pencil and one of the professor’s match-books, which reeked of weed. She wrote down a bogus telephone number and gave it to Matthew. “OK, then, you call me.”

He didn’t even glance at the number. “I got a better idea. Since none of us ever been to Miami before …”

Oh no! she thought. Please no.

“… we’ll just follow you down. That way, we’re sure not to get lost. And if your place needs work, we can git on it rightaways.”

Matthew’s plan was well received by his crew. Neria said, uselessly: “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“We got references.”

She was eyeing the pickup truck, wondering if there was a chance in hell that the professor’s van could outrun it.

“We kicked some ass over Charleston,” Matthew was saying, “after Hurricane Hugo.”

Neria said, “It’s getting pretty late.”

“We’ll be right behind you.”

And they were, all the way down the Turnpike.

The truck’s solitary headlight, stuck on high beam, illuminated the interior of the VW van like a TV studio. Neria stiffened in the harsh brightness, knowing that seven pairs of inbred male eyes were fixed on the back of her head. She drove ludicrously slow, hoping the rednecks would grow impatient and decide to pass. They didn’t.

All she could do was make the best of it. Even if the Neanderthals didn’t know a thing about construction, they might be helpful in tracking a thieving husband.

Max Lamb cracked the door to poke his head out. He’d never met an FBI man before. This one didn’t look like Efrem Zimbalist Jr. He wore a green Polo shirt, tan Dockers and cordovan Bass Weejuns. He also toted a bag from Ace Hardware.

When it came to name brands, Max was nothing if not observant. He believed it was part of his job, knowing who in America was buying what.

The agent said, “Is Augustine home?”

“No, he isn’t.”

“Who are you?”

“Could I see some ID?” Max asked.

The agent showed him a badge in a billfold. Max told him to come in. They sat in the living room. Max asked what was in the bag, and the agent said it was drill bits. “Storm sucked the cabinets right out of my kitchen,” he explained.

“Black and Decker?”

“Makita.”

“That’s a first-rate tool,” said Max.

The agent was exceedingly patient. “You’re a friend of Augustine’s?”

“Sort of. My name is Max Lamb.”

“Really? I’m glad to see you’re all right.”

Max’s eyebrows hopped.

“From the kidnapping,” the agent said. “You’re the one who was kidnapped, right?”

“Yes!” Max’s spirits skied, realizing that Bonnie had been so concerned that she’d called the FBI. It was proof of her devotion.

The agent said, “She played the tape for me, the message you left on the answering machine.”

“Then you heard his voice-the guy who snatched me.” Max got a Michelob from the refrigerator. The FBI man accepted a Sprite.

“Where’s your wife?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

Excitedly Max Lamb related the whole story, from his kidnapping on Calusa Drive to the midnight rescue in Stiltsville, up to Bonnie’s disappearance with Augustine and the deranged one-eyed governor. The FBI man listened with what seemed to be genuine interest, but took no notes. Max wondered if they were specially trained to remember everything they heard.

“These are dangerous men,” he told the agent, portentously.

“Was your wife taken against her will?”

“No, sir. That’s why they’re so dangerous.”

“You say he put a collar on your neck.”

“A shock collar,” Max said gravely, “the kind used to train hunting dogs.”

The FBI man asked if the kidnapper had done the same thing to Bonnie. Max said he didn’t think so. “She’s very trusting and impressionable. They took advantage of that.”

“What’s Augustine’s role in all this?”

“I believe,” said Max, “the kidnapper has brainwashed him, too.” He got another beer and tore into a bag of pretzels.

The agent said, “Prosecution won’t be easy. It’s your word against his.”

“But you believe me, don’t you?”

“Mister Lamb, it doesn’t matter what I believe. Put yourself in the jury box. This is a very weird story you’ll be asking them to swallow….”

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