Luckily, the wood of the makeshift crucifix was soft. In less than a minute the nail pulled out, and Avila’s hand fell free, with only a modest geyser of blood. He inserted the hand forcefully between his shaking knees, and bit his lower lip to stifle a cry. The lion did not stir. The exhaust of its snore fluttered the bright remains of Ira Jackson’s sports shirt, which clung like a lobster bib to the big cat’s throat.
While the beast slept, Avila unwrapped the sticky tape from his ankles. As he furtively inched clear of the pine tree, his eyes fell on a partially masticated chunk of bone a wee remnant of the doughnut man, but a potent talisman for future santeria rites.
Avila pocketed the moist prize and stole away.
Skink chose to spend the night in the back of the pickup truck. Shortly after ten, Augustine emerged from the house with a hot Cuban sandwich and two bottles of beer. Skink winked appreciatively and sat up. He finished the sandwich in four huge bites, guzzled the beer and said: “So she stayed.”
“I don’t know why.”
“Because she’s never seen the likes of you.”
“Or you,” said Augustine.
“And because her husband behaved poorly.”
Augustine slouched against the fender. “She’s here, and I’m glad about it. Which makes me quite the model of rectitude-a woman on her honeymoon, for Christ’s sake.”
Skink arched a tangled eyebrow. “A new low?”
“Oh yes.”
“Her decision, son. Don’t beat yourself up.”
Anxiety, not guilt, gnawed at Augustine. On his present course, he would very soon fall in love with Mrs Max Lamb. How much fragrant late-night snuggling could a man endure? And Bonnie was an ardent snug-gler, even in platonic mode. Augustine was racked with worry. He had no chance whatsoever, not with her hair smelling like bougainvilleas, not with that velvet slope of neck, not with those denim-blue eyes. He couldn’t recall being with a woman who felt so right, nestled in his embrace. Even her slumbering snorts and sniffles soothed him-that’s how hard he was falling.
It’s just a kiss away. Like Mick and Keith said.
A newly married woman. Brilliant.
Unconsciously Augustine found himself gazing at the window of the guest room. Soon Bonnie’s shadow crossed behind the drapes. Then the lights went off.
Skink poked him sharply. “Settle down. Nothing’11 happen unless she wants it to.” He stood in the bed of the pickup for a series of twisting calisthenics, accompanied by preternaturally asthmatic grunts. That went on for twenty full minutes under the stars. Augustine watched without interrupting. Afterwards Skink sat down heavily, rocking the truck.
Pointing at the remaining beer, he said: “You gonna drink that?”
“Help yourself.”
“You’re a patient young man.”
“I’ve got nothing but time,” Augustine said. Why rush the guy?
Skink threw back his head and tilted the beer bottle until it was empty. Pensively he said: “You never know how these things’ll play out.”
“Doesn’t matter, captain. I’m in.”
“OK. Here.” He handed Augustine the scrap of paper that Jim Tile had given him at the hospital. On the paper, the trooper had written: black Jp. Cherokee BZQ-42F
Augustine was impressed that Brenda Rourke remembered the license tag, or anything else, after the hideous beating.
Skink said, “The plate’s stolen. No surprise there.”
“The driver?”
“White non-Latin male, late thirties. Deformed jaw, according to Trooper Rourke. Plus he wore a pinstriped suit.”
Skink returned to a sprawled position. He folded his arms under his head.
Augustine peered over the side of the truck. “Where do we start?” The man could be all the way to Atlanta by now.
“I’ve got some ideas,” said the governor.
Augustine was doubtful. “The cops’ll find him first.”
“They’re all on hurricane duty, double shifts. Even the detectives are directing traffic.” Skink chuckled quietly. “It’s not a bad time to be a fugitive.”
Augustine felt something brush his leg-a neighbor’s orange tabby. When he reached to pet it, the cat scooted beneath the pickup.
The governor said, “I’m doing this for Jim. It’s not often he asks.”
“But there’s other reasons.”
Skink nodded. “True. I’m not fond of shitheads who beat up women. And the storm has left me, well, unfulfilled….”