STORMY WEATHER By CARL HIAASEN

He spotted Tony Torres’s Remington shotgun, broken into pieces on the driveway. Snapper thought: It’s definitely time to abort the mission. Tomorrow he’d call Avila about the roofer’s gig.

“I’ll give you a lift,” he said to Edie Marsh, “but not those damn dogs.”

“Jesus, I can’t just leave ’em here.”

“Suit yourself.” Snapper scooped three Heinekens from Tony’s ice cooler, got in the souped-up Cherokee and drove off without so much as a wave.

Edie Marsh tethered Donald and Maria to a sprinkler in the backyard. Then she entered the ruined shell of the salesman’s house, to check for items of value.

Skink ordered Max Lamb to disrobe and climb a tree. Max did as he was told. It was a leafless willow; Max sat carefully on a springy limb, his bare legs dangling. Beneath him Skink paced, fulminating. In one hand he displayed the remote-control unit for the electronic training collar.

“You people come down here-fucking yupsters with no knowledge, no appreciation, no interest in the natural

history of the place, the ancient sweep of life. Disney World-Christ, Max, that’s not Florida!” He pointed an incriminating finger at his captive. “I found the ticket stubs in your wallet, Tourist Boy.”

Max was rattled; he’d assumed everybody liked Disney World. “Please,” he said to Skink, “if you shock me now, I’ll fall.”

Skink pulled off his flowered cap and knelt by the dead embers of the campfire. Max Lamb was acutely worried. Coal-black mosquitoes swarmed his pale plump toes, but he didn’t dare slap at them. He was afraid to move a muscle.

All day the kidnapper’s spirits had seemed to improve. He’d eyen taken Max to a rest stop along the Tamiami Trail, so Max could call New York and leave Bonnie another message. While Max waited for the pay phone, Skink had dashed onto the highway to collect a fresh roadkill. His mood was loose, practically convivial. He sang during the entire airboat ride back to the cypress hammock; later he merely chided Max for not knowing that Neil Young had played guitar for Buffalo Springfield.

Max Lamb believed himself to be blessed with a winning personality, a delusion that led him to assume the kidnapper had grown fond of him. Max felt it was only a matter of time before he’d be able to shmooze his way to freedom. He put no stock in Skink’s oral biography, and regarded the man as an unbalanced but moderately intelligent derelict; in short, a confused soul who could be won over with a thoughtful, low-key approach. And wasn’t that an advertiser’s forte-winning people over? Max believed he was making progress, too, with tepid conversation, pointless anecdotes and the occasional self-deprecatory joke. Skink certainly acted calmer, if not serene. Three hours had passed since he’d last triggered the canine shock collar; an encouraging lull, from Max’s point of view.

Now, for reasons unknown, the one-eyed brute was seething again. To Max Lamb, he announced: “Pop quiz.”

“On what?”

Skink rose slowly. He tucked the remote control in a back pocket. With both hands he gathered his wild hair and knotted it on one side of his head, above the ear-a misplaced mop of a ponytail. Then he removed his glass eye and polished it with spit and a crusty bandanna. Max became further alarmed.

“Who was here first,” Skink asked, “the Seminoles or the Tequestas?”

“I, uh-I don’t know.” Max gripped the branch so hard that his knuckles turned pink.

Skink, replacing the artificial eyeball, retrieving the remote control from his pocket: “Who was Napoleon Bonaparte Broward?”

Max Lamb shook his head, helplessly. Skink shrugged. “How about Marjory Stoneman Douglas?”

“Yes, yes, wait a minute.” The willow limb quivered under Max’s nervous buttocks. “She wrote The Yearling’.”

Moments later, regaining consciousness, he found himself in a fetal ball on a mossy patch of ground. Both knees were scraped from the fall. His throat and arms still burned from the dog collar’s jolt. Opening his eyes, Max saw the toes of Skink’s boots. He heard a voice as deep as thunder: “I should kill you.”

“No, don’t-”

“The arrogance of coming to a place like this and not knowing-”

“I’m sorry, captain.”

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