Bonnie Lamb asked her husband: “What’s that on your neck?” It looked like some appalling implement of bondage; she’d seen similar items in the display windows of leather shops in Greenwich Village.
Skink came into the light. “It’s a training device. Lie down, Max.”
Bonnie Lamb studied the tall, disheveled stranger. He was all the state trooper had promised, and more. In size he appeared capable of anything, yet Bonnie felt in no way threatened.
“Max, now!” the kidnapper said to her husband.
Obediently Max Lamb lay prone on the wooden dock. When Skink told him to roll over, like a dog, he did.
Bonnie was embarrassed for her husband. The kidnapper noticed, and apologized. He instructed Max to get up.
The shopping bag contained everything Skink had demanded. Within moments the new batteries were inserted in the Walkman, and “Tumbling Dice” was spilling out of his earphones. He opened the jar of green olives and poured them into his gleaming bucket of a mouth.
Bonnie Lamb asked Max what in God’s name was going on.
“Later,” he whispered.
“Tell me now!”
“She deserves to know,” the kidnapper interjected, spraying olive juice. “She’s risking her life, being out here with a nutcase like me.”
Bonnie Lamb had dressed for a boat ride-blue slicker, jeans and deck shoes. Good stuff but practical, Skink noticed, none of that catalog nonsense from California. He pulled off the earphones and complimented Bonnie for her common sense. Then he instructed her husband to remove the shock collar and toss it in the sea.
Max’s hands quavered at his neck. Skink told him to go ahead, dammit, off with it! Max’s lips tightened in determination, but he couldn’t make himself touch it. Finally it was his wife who stepped forward, unhooked the clasp and removed the Tri-Tronics dog trainer. She examined it in the light of the lantern.
“Sick,” she said to Skink, and set the collar on the dock.
From his jacket he took a videotape cassette. He tossed it to Bonnie Lamb, who caught it with both hands. “Your hubbie’s home movies from the hurricane. Talk about sick.”
Bonnie wheeled and threw the cassette into the bay.
The girl had fire! Skink liked her already. Nervously Max lighted a cigaret.
His wife wouldn’t have been more repulsed had he jabbed a hypodermic full of heroin in his arm. She said, “Since when do you smoke?”
“If you put the collar back on him,” Skink volunteered helpfully, “I can teach him to quit.”
Max Lamb told Skink to get on with it. “You said you wanted to talk to her, so talk.”
“No, I said I wanted to spend time with her.”
Bonnie turned toward the barefoot young man at the helm of the striped speedboat. He apparently had nothing to say. His demeanor was casual, almost bored.
“Where,” Bonnie asked the kidnapper, “did you want to spend time? And doing what?”
“Not what you think,” Max Lamb cut in.
Skink put on his plastic shower cap. “The hurricane has set me on a new rhythm. I feel it ticking.”
He put his hands on Bonnie’s shoulders, gently moving her to Max’s side. From the governor’s shadow she felt his stare. He was studying them, her and Max, like they were lab rats. Then she heard him mutter: “I still don’t see how.”
Tersely Bonnie said, “Just tell us what you want.”
“Watch it,” Max advised. “He’s been smoking dope.”
Skink looked away, toward the ocean. “No offense, Mrs Lamb, but your husband has put me sorely off the , human race. A feminine counterpoint would be nice.”
Bonnie was surprised by a pleasurable shiver, goose-flesh rising on her neck. The stranger’s voice was soothing and hypnotic, a wild broad river; she could have listened to him all night. Mad is what he was, demonstr-ably mad. But his story fascinated her. Once a governor, the trooper had said. Bonnie longed to know more.
Yet here was her husband, exhausted, sunburned, emotionally sapped. She ought to tend to him. Poor Max had been through hell.
“I only want to talk,” the kidnapper said.
“All right,” Bonnie told him, “but just for a little while.”
He cupped a hand to his mouth. “You, Augustine! Take Mister Lamb to safety. He needs a shower and a