“I wish I’d met him,” Brenda had said, in the past tense, as if Skink were dead. Because Jim Tile had, perhaps unconsciously, made it sound like he was.
Now, two years later, it seemed that Brenda’s improbable wish might come true. The governor had surfaced in the hurricane zone.
On the ride back from Card Sound, she asked: “Why would he tie himself to a bridge during a storm?” It was the logical question.
Jim Tile said, “He’s been waiting for a big one.”
“What for?”
“Brenda, I can’t explain. It only makes sense if you know him.”
She said nothing for a mile or two, then: “Why didn’t you tell me that you two still talk?”
“Because we seldom do.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course.” He pulled her close enough to steal a kiss.
She pulled away, a spark in her pale-blue eyes.
“You’re going to try to find him. Come on, Jim, be straight with me.”
“I’m afraid he’s got a loose wire. That’s not good.”
“This isn’t the first time, is it?”
“No,” said Jim Tile, “it’s not the first time.”
Brenda brought his hand to her lips and kissed his
knuckles lightly. “It’s OK, big guy. I understand about friends.”
FIVE
When they got to Augustine’s house, Bonnie Lamb called her answering machine in New York. She listened twice to Max’s message, then replayed it for Augustine.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“Not good. Is your husband worth a lot of money?”
“He does all right, but he’s no millionaire.”
“And his family?”
Bonnie said her husband’s father was quite wealthy. “But I’m sure Max wasn’t foolish enough to mention it to the kidnappers.”
Augustine made no such assumption. He heated tomato soup for Bonnie and put clean linens on the bed in the guest room. Then he went to the den and called a friend with the FBI. By the time he got off the phone, Bonnie Lamb had fallen asleep on the living-room sofa. He carried her to the spare room and tucked her under the covers. Then he went to the kitchen and fixed two large rib-eye steaks and a baked potato, which he washed down with a cold bottle of Amstel.
Later he took a long hot shower and thought about how wonderful Mrs Lamb-warm and damp from the rain and sweat-had smelled in his arms. It felt good to have a woman in the house again, even for just a night. Augustine wrapped himself in a towel and stretched out on the hardwood floor in front of the television. He flipped back and forth between local news broadcasts, hoping not to see any of his dead uncle’s wild animals running amok, or Mrs Lamb’s husband being loaded into a coroner’s wagon.
At midnight Augustine heard a cry from the guest room. He correctly surmised that Mrs Lamb had discovered his skull collection. He found her sitting up, the covers pulled to her chin. She was gazing at the wall.
“I thought it was a dream,” she said.
“Please don’t be afraid.”
“Are they real?”
“Friends send them to me,” Augustine said, “from abroad, mostly. One was a Christmas present from a fishing guide in Islamorada.” He wasn’t sure what Bonnie Lamb thought of his hobby, so he apologized for the fright. “Some people collect coins. I’m into forensic artifacts.”
“Body parts?”
“Not fresh ones-artifacts. Believe it or not, a good skull is hard to come by.”
That was the line that usually sent them bolting for the door. Bonnie didn’t move.
“Can I look?”
Augustine took one from a shelf. She inspected it casually, as if it were a cantaloupe in a grocery store. Augustine smiled; he liked this lady.
“Male or female?” Bonnie turned the skull in her hands.
“Male, late twenties, early thirties. Guyanese, circa 1940. Came from a medical school in Texas.”
Bonnie asked why the lower jaw was missing. Augustine explained that it fell off when the facial muscles
decayed. Most old skulls were found without the mandible.
Lifting it by the eye sockets, Bonnie returned the spooky relic to its place on the wall. “How many have you got up there?”
“Nineteen.”
She whistled. “And how many are women?”