Dove, his eyes shut tightly in concentration, said, “Don’t stop now.”
In the front doorway stood a man with a powerful flashlight.
“Candles,” he said. “That’s real fuckin’ cozy.”
Fred Dove’s chest stopped moving, and one hand fumbled for his eyeglasses. Edie Marsh got up and folded her arms across her breasts. She said, “Thanks for knocking, asshole.”
“I came back for my car.” Snapper played the light up and down her body.
“It’s in the driveway, right where you left it.” “What’s the hurry,” said Snapper, stepping into thehouse.
Bonnie Lamb went to Augustine’s room at one-thirty in the morning. She climbed under the sheets without brushing against him even slightly. It wasn’t easy, in a twin bed.
She whispered, “Are you sleeping?”
“Like a log.”
“Sorry.”
He rolled over to face her. “You need a pillow?”
“I need a hug.”
“Bad idea.”
“Why?”
“I’m slightly on the naked side. I wasn’t expecting company.”
“Apology number two,” she said.
“Close your eyes, Mrs Lamb.” He got up and pulled on a pair of loose khakis. No shirt, she observed, unalarmed. He slipped under the covers and held her.
His skin was warm and smooth against her cheek, and when he moved she felt a taut, shifting wedge of muscle. Max’s physical topography was entirely different, but Bonnie pushed the thought from her mind. It wasn’t fair to compare hugging prowess. Not now.
She asked Augustine if he’d ever been married. He said no.
“Engaged?”
“Three times.”
Bonnie raised her head. “You’re kidding.”
“Unfortunately not.” In the artificial twilight, Augustine saw she was smiling. “This amuses you?”
“Intrigues me,” she said. “Three times?”
“They all came to their senses.”
“We’re talking about three different women. No repeats?”
“Correct,” said Augustine.
“I’ve got to ask what happened. You don’t have to answer, but I’ve got to ask.”
“Well, the first one married a successful personal-injury lawyer-he’s doing class-action breast-implant litigation; the second one started an architecture firm and is currently a mistress to a Venezuelan cabinet minister; and the third one is starring on a popular Cuban soap opera-she plays Miriam, the jealous schizophrenic. So I would say,” Augustine concluded, “that each of them made a wise decision by ending our relationship.”
Bonnie Lamb said, “I bet you let them keep the engagement rings.”
“Hey, it’s only money.”
“And you still watch the soap opera, don’t you?”
“She’s quite good in it. Very convincing.”
Bonnie said, “What an unusual guy.”
“You feeling better? My personal problems always seem to cheer people up.”
She put her head down. “I’m worried about tomorrow, about seeing Max again.”
Augustine told her it was normal to be nervous. “I’m a little antsy myself.”
“Will you bring the gun?”
“Let’s play it by ear.” He seriously doubted if the governor would appear, much less deliver Bonnie’s husband.
“Are you scared?” When she spoke, he could feel her soft breath on his chest.
“Restless,” he said, “not scared.”
“Hey.”
“Hey what?”
“You getting excited?”
Augustine shifted in embarrassment. What did she expect? He said, “My turn to apologize.”
But she didn’t move. So he took a slow quiet breath and tried to focus on something else … say, Uncle Felix’s fugitive monkeys. How far had they scattered? How were they coping with freedom?
Augustine’s self-imposed pondering was interrupted when Bonnie Lamb said: “What if Max is different now? Maybe something’s happened to him.”
Augustine thought: Something’s happened, all right. You can damn sure bet on it.
But what he told Bonnie was: “Your husband’s hanging in there. You wait and see.”
TWELVE
Skink said, “Care for some toad?”
The shock collar had done its job; Max Lamb was unconditionally conditioned. If the captain wanted him to smoke toad, he would smoke toad.
“It’s an offer, not a command,” Skink said, by way of clarification.
“Then no, thanks.”
Max Lamb squinted into the warm salty night. Somewhere out there, Bonnie was searching. Max was neither as anxious nor as hopeful as he should have been, and he wondered why; his reaction to practically every circumstance was muted, as if key brain synapses had been cauterized by the ordeal of the kidnapping. For instance, he had failed to raise even a meek objection at the Key Biscayne golf course, where they’d stopped to free the Asian scorpion. Skink had tenderly deposited the venomous bug in the cup on the eighteenth green. “The mayor’s favorite course,” he’d explained. “Call me an optimist.” Max had stood by wordlessly.