Max shot to his feet. His cheeks were stuffed with pretzel fragments. “Jeshush Chritht, mahh wife’s misshing!”
“I understand. I’d be upset, too.” The FBI man was maddeningly agreeable and polite. “And I’m not trying to tell you what to do. But you need to know what you’re up against.”
Max sat down, glowering.
The agent explained that the Bureau seldom got involved unless, a ransom demand was issued. “There was none in your case. There’s been none for your wife.”
“Well, I think her life’s in danger,” Max said, “and I think you people are in deep trouble if something happens to her.”
“Believe me, Mister Lamb, I understand your frustration.”
No you don’t, Max fumed silently, or you wouldn’t talk to me like I was ten years old.
The agent said, “Have you spoken to the police?”
Max told him about the black state trooper who was acquainted with the kidnapper. “He said I was entitled to press charges. He said he’d take me down to the station.”
The FBI man nodded. “That’s the best way to go, if you’ve got your mind made up.”
Max told the agent there was something he definitely ought to see. He led him to Augustine’s guest room and showed him the wall of skulls. “Tell me honestly,” he
said to the FBI man, “wouldn’t you be worried? He juggles those damn things.”
“Augustine? Yeah.”
“You know?”
“He won’t hurt your wife, Mister Lamb.”
“Gee, I feel so much better.”
The agent seemed impervious to sarcasm. “You’ll hear from Mrs Lamb sooner or later. That’s my guess. If you don’t, call me. Or call me even if you do.” He handed his card to Max, who affected hard-bitten skepticism as he studied it. Then he walked toward the kitchen, the agent following.
“I was wondering,” the FBI man said, “did Augustine give you a key?”
Max turned. –
“To the house,” the agent said. ~ “No, sir. The sliding door was open.”
“So you just walked in. He doesn’t know you’re here?”
“Well …” It hadn’t occurred to Max Lamb that he was breaking the law. For one infuriating moment, he thought the FBI man was preparing to arrest him.
But the agent said: “That’s a swell way to get your head shot off-being in somebody’s house without them knowing. Especially here in Miami.”
Max, grinding his teeth, realized the impossibly upside-down nature of the situation. He was wasting his breath. A state trooper is friends with the kidnapper, an FBI man is friends with the skull collector.
“You know what I really want?” Max drained his beer with a flourish, set the bottle down hard on the counter. “All, I want is to find my wife, put her on a
plane and go home to New York. Forget about this fucked-up place, forget about this hurricane.”
The agent said, “That’s a damn good plan, Mister Lamb.”
TWENTY-SIX
Snapper made Edie Marsh pull over at a liquor store in Islamorada.
“Not now,” she said.
“I got to.”
“We’re almost there.”
A rumble from the back seat: “Let the man have a drink.”
She parked behind the store, away from the road. Jim Tile didn’t see the black Cherokee as he sped past. Neither did Avila, ten minutes later.
Snapper wouldn’t be talked out of his craving, and Edie was worried. She knew firsthand the folly of mixing booze with Midols. Double dosed, Snapper might hibernate for a month.
The woman named Bonnie asked for a cold Coke. “I’m burning up.”
“Welcome to Florida,” said Edie.
Snapper tossed three ten-dollar bills on her lap. “Johnnie Red,” he said.
“Bad idea when you’re full of codeines.”
“Shit, I’ve handled ten times worse. Besides, it don’t feel like codeine you gave me.”
Edie said, “Your knee quit hurting, right? The bottle said ‘codeine.'”
Snapper switched the .357 to his left hand. With his right hand he twisted Edie’s hair, as if he were uprooting a clump of weeds. When she cried out, he said: “I don’t give a fuck if the medicine bottle said turpentine. Go get my Johnnie Walker.”
Edie pulled free and jumped out of the Jeep. She flipped him the finger as she went through the door of the liquor store. Snapper said, “Stubborn bitch.”