Skink strolled back to the station wagon and tossed a dead opossum on the seat next to Max, who gasped and
recoiled. A few miles later, Skink added a truck-flattened coachwhip snake to the evening’s menu. Max forgot about his bladder until they made camp at an abandoned horse barn west of Krome.
The horses were gone, scattered by the storm; the owners had come by to retrieve the saddles and tack, and to scatter feed in case any of the animals returned. Max Lamb stood alone in the musky darkness and relieved himself torrentially. He considered running, but feared he wouldn’t survive a single night alone in nature. In Max’s mind, all Florida south of Orlando was an immense swamp, humidly teeming with feral beasts. Some had claws and poisonous fangs, some drove air-boats and feasted on roadkill. They were all the same to Max.
Skink appeared at his side to announce that dinner soon would be served. Max followed him into the stables. He asked if it was wise to make a campfire inside a barn. Skink replied that it was extremely dangerous, but cozy.
Max Lamb was impressed that the odor of horseshit could not be vanquished by a mere Force Four hurricane. On a positive note, the fragrance of dung completely neutralized the aroma of boiled opossum and pan-fried snake. After supper Skink stripped to his boxer shorts and did two hundred sit-ups in a cloud of ancient manure dust. Then he retrieved the large cardboard box from the car and brought it inside the barn. He asked Max if he wanted a cigaret.
“No, thanks,” Max said. “I don’t smoke.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Never have,” Max said.
“But you sell the stuff-”
“We do the advertising. That’s it.”
“Ah,” Skink said. “Just the advertising.” He picked his trousers off the floor and went through the pockets. Max Lamb thought he was looking for matches, but he wasn’t. He was looking for the remote control to the shock collar.
When Max regained his senses, he lay in wet molder-ing hay. His eyeballs were jumping in their sockets, and his neck felt tingly and hot. He sat up and said, “What’d I do?”
“Surely you believe in the products you advertise.”
“Look, I don’t smoke.”
“You could learn.” With a pocketknife, Skink opened the cardboard box. The box was full of Bronco cigarets, probably four dozen cartons. Max Lamb failed to conceal his alarm.
The kidnapper asked how he could be sure of a product until he tested it himself. Grimly Max responded: “I also do the ads for raspberry-scented douche, but I don’t use the stuff.”
“Careful,” said Skink, brightly, “or you’ll give me another brainstorm.” He opened a pack of Broncos. He tapped one out and inserted it between Max’s lips. He struck a match on the wall of the barn and lit the cigaret.
“Well?”
Max spit out the cigaret. “This is ridiculous.”
Skink retrieved the soggy Bronco and replaced it in Max’s frowning mouth. “You got two choices,” he said, fingering the remote control, “smoke or be smoked.”
Reluctantly Max Lamb took a drag on the cigaret. Immediately he began to cough. It worsened as Skink tied him upright to a post. “You people are a riddle to
me, Max. Why you come down here. Why you act the way you do. Why you live such lives.”
“For God’s sake-”
“Shut up now. Please.”
Skink dug through the backpack and took out a Walkman. He chose a damp corner of the barn and put on the headphones. He lighted what appeared to be a joint, except it didn’t smell like marijuana.
“What’s that?” Max asked.
“Toad.” Skink took a hit. After a few minutes, his good eye rolled back in his head and his neck went limp.
Max Lamb went through the Broncos like a machine. Whenever Skink opened an eye, he tapped a finger to his neck-a menacing reminder of the shock collar. Max smoked and smoked. He was finishing number twenty-three when Skink shook out of the stupor and rose.
“Damn good toad.” He plucked the Bronco from Max’s mouth.
“I feel sick, captain.”
Skink untied him and told him to rest up. “Tomorrow you’re going to leave a message for your wife. You’re going to arrange a meeting.”