STORMY WEATHER By CARL HIAASEN

Augustine was thinking more in terms of a B-52 raid.

“Is this your first one?” Bonnie asked.

“Technically, no.” He braked to swerve around a dead cow, bloated on the center line. “I was conceived during Donna-least that’s what my mother said. A hurricane baby. That was 1960. Betsy I can barely remember because I was only five. We lost a few lime trees, but the house held up fine.”

Bonnie said, “That’s kind of romantic. Being conceived in the middle of a hurricane.”

“My mother said it made perfect sense, considering how I turned out.”

“And how did you turn out?” Bonnie asked.

“Reports differ.”

Augustine edged the truck into a line of storm traffic crawling up the northbound ramp to the Turnpike. A rusty Ford with a crooked Georgia-license plate cut them off. The car was packed with itinerant construction workers who’d been on the road for several days straight, apparently drinking the whole time. The driver, a shaggy blond with greenish teeth, leered and yelled an obscenity up at Bonnie Lamb. With one hand Augustine reached behind his seat and got the small rifle. Bracing it against the doorpost, he fired a tranquilizer dart cleanly into the belly of the redneck driver, who yipped and pitched sideways into the lap of one of his pals.

“Manners,” said Augustine. He gunned the truck, nudging the stalled Ford off the pavement.

Bonnie Lamb thought: God, what am I doing?

They broke camp at midnight-Max Lamb, the rhesus monkey and the man who called himself Skink. Max was grateful that the man had allowed him to put on his shoes, because they walked for hours in pitch darkness through deep swamp and spiny thickets. Max’s bare legs stung from the scratches and itched from the bug bites. He was terribly hungry but didn’t complain, knowing the man had saved him the rump of the dead raccoon that was boiled for dinner. Max wanted no part of it.

They came to a canal. Skink untied Max’s hands, unbuckled the shock collar and ordered him to swim. Max was halfway across when he saw the blue-black alligator slide out of the sawgrass. Skink told him to quit whimpering and kick; he himself swam with the rejuvenated monkey perched on his head. One huge hand held Max’s precious Sony and the remote control for the dog collar high above the water.

After scrabbling ashore, Max said, “Captain, can we rest?”

“Ever seen a leech before? ‘Cause there’s a good one on your cheek.”

After Max Lamb finished flaying himself, Skink retied his wrists and refastened the dog collar. Then he sprayed him down with insect repellent. Max croaked out a thank-you.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“The Everglades,” Skink replied. “More or less.”

“You promised I could call my wife.”

“Soon.”

They headed west, trudging through palmettos and pinelands shredded by the storm. The monkey scampered ahead, foraging wild berries and fruit buds.

Max said: “Are you going to kilkne?”

Skink stopped walking. “Every time you ask that stupid question, you’re going to get it.” He set the remote on the weakest setting.

“Ready?”

Max Lamb clenched his lips. Skink stung him with a light jolt. The tourist twitched stoically. Soon they came to a Miccosukee village, which was not as badly damaged as Max Lamb would have imagined. Since the Indians were awake, cooking food, Max assumed it would soon be dawn. In open doorways the children gathered shyly to look at the two strange white men: Skink with his brambly hair, ill-fitting eye and mangy monkey, Max Lamb in his dirty underwear and dog collar.

Skink stopped at a wooden house and spoke quietly to a Miccosukee elder, who brought out a cellular phone. As he untied Max’s hands, Skink warned: “One call is all you get. He,says the battery’s running low.”

Max realized that he didn’t know how to reach his wife. He had no idea where she was. So he called their apartment in New York and spoke to the answering machine: “Honey, I’ve been kidnapped-”

“Abducted!” Skink broke in. “Kidnapping implies ransom, Max. Don’t fucking flatter yourself.”

“OK, ‘abducted.’ Honey, I’ve been abducted. I can’t say very much except I’m fine, all things considered. Please call my folks, and also call Pete up at Rodale about the Bronco billboard project. Tell him the race car should be red, not blue. The file’s on my desk… . Bonnie, I’m not sure who’s got me, or why, but I guess I’ll find out soon enough. God, I hope you pick up this message-“

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