Snapper promised that the crew would return in half an hour. “We’ll need to pick up some lumber. It’s a big place you’ve got here.”
Mrs Whitmark and her guard dogs accompanied Snapper to the front door. He kept both hands jammed in his pockets, in case one of the vicious bastards lunged for him. Of course, if they were trained like police K-9s, they wouldn’t bother with his hands. They’d go straight for the balls.
“Hurry,” Mrs Whitmark said, scanning the clouds with dilated pupils. “I don’t like the looks of this sky.”
Snapper walked to the truck and gave the crew the bad news. “She didn’t go for it. Says her husband’s already got a roofer lined up for the job. Some company from Palm Beach, she said.”
“Thank God,” said one of the black guys, yawning. “I’m beat, boss. How about we call it a day?”
“Fine by me,” said Snapper.
Jim Tile rewound the tape and played it again.
“Honey, I’ve been kidnapped-”
“Abducted! Kidnapping implies ransom, Max. Don’t fucking flatter yourself….”
Bonnie Lamb said, “Well?”
“It’s him,” the trooper said.
“You’re sure?”
“I love you, Bonnie. Max forgot to tell you, so I will. By enow….”
“Oh yeah,” said Jim Tile. He popped the cassette out of the tape deck.
Bonnie asked Augustine to call his agent friend at the FBI. Augustine said it wasn’t such a hot idea.
The trooper agreed. “They’ll never find him. They don’t know where to look, they don’t know how.”
“But you do?”
“What will probably happen,” Jim Tile said, “is the governor will keep your husband until he gets bored with him.”
“Then what?” Bonnie demanded. “He kills him?”
“Not unless your husband tries something stupid.”
Augustine thought: We might have a problem.
The trooper told Bonnie Lamb not to panic; the governor wasn’t irrational. There were ways to track him, make contact, engage in productive dialogue.
Bonnie excused herself and went to take some aspirin. Augustine walked outside with the trooper. “The FBI won’t touch this,” Jim Tile said, keeping his voice low. “There’s no ransom demand, no interstate travel. It’s hard for her to understand.”
Augustine observed that Max Lamb wasn’t helping matters, calling New York to check on his advertising accounts. “Not exactly your typical victim,” he said.
Jim Tile got in the car and placed his Stetson on the seat. “I’ll get back with you soon. Meanwhile go easy with the lady.”
Augustine said, “You don’t think he’s crazy, do you?”
The trooper laughed. “Son, you heard the tape.”
“Yeah. I don’t think he’s crazy, either.”
“‘Different’ is the word. Seriously different.” Jim Tile turned up the patrol car’s radio to hear the latest hurricane dementia. The Highway Patrol dispatcher was directing troopers to the intersection of U.S. 1 and Kendall Drive, where a truck loaded with ice had overturned. A disturbance had erupted, and ambulances were on the way.
“Lord,” Jim Tile said. “They’re murdering each other over ice cubes.” He sped off without saying good-bye.
Back in the house, Augustine was surprised to find Bonnie Lamb sitting next to the kitchen phone. At her elbow was a notepad upon which she had written several lines. He was struck by the elegance of her handwriting. Once, he’d dated a woman who dotted her i’s with perfect tiny circles; sometimes she drew happy faces inside the circles, sometimes she drew frowns. The woman had been a cheerleader for her college football team, and she couldn’t get it out of her system.
Bonnie Lamb’s handwriting bore no trace of retired cheerleader. “Directions,” she replied, waving the paper.
“Where?”
“To see Max and this Skink person. They left directions on my machine.”
She was excited. Augustine sat next to her. “What else did they say?”
“No police. No FBI. Max was very firm about it.”
“And?”
“Four double-A batteries and a tape of Exile on Main Street. Dolby chrome oxide, whatever that means. And a bottle of pitted green olives, no pimientos.”
“This would be the governor’s shopping list?”
“Max hates green olives.” Bonnie Lamb put her hand on Augustine’s arm. “What do we do? You want to hear the message?”
“Let’s go talk to them, if that’s what they want.”