Bonnie said there was no point trying to analyze motivation. Both of them were rational, mature, intelligent adults. Certainly they knew what they were doing, even if they didn’t know why.
From the thicket, another penetrating wail.
Bonnie stared toward the palmettos. “I get the feeling he could take us or leave us.”
“Exactly.” Augustine came right out and asked her if she truly loved her husband.
She answered unhesitantly: “I don’t know. So there.”
Without warning, the governor crashed shirtless out of the trees. He was feverish, drenched in sweat. His good eye was as bright as a radish; the glass one was turned askew, showing yellowed bone in the socket./ Bonnie hurried to his side.
“Damn,” he wheezed, “was that some bad toad!”
Augustine doubted Skink’s technique for removing the toxin and processing it for inhalation. Based on the man’s present state, it seemed likely that he’d bungled the pharmacology.
“Sit here by the fire,” Bonnie told him.
He held out his hands, which were filled with leathery, lightly freckled eggs. Augustine counted twelve in all. Skink palmed them like golf balls.
“Supper! “he exulted.
“What are they?”
“Eggs, my boy!”
“Of what?”
“I don’t have a clue.” The governor stalked toward the laborers’ camp, returning five minutes later with a fry pan and a squeeze bottle of ketchup.
Regardless of species, the eggs tasted dandy scrambled. Augustine was impressed, watching Bonnie dig in.
When they finished eating, Skink said it was time to hit the rack. “Big day ahead. You take the sleeping bags, I’ll be in the scrub.” And he was gone.
Augustine returned the fry pan to the Ohio contingent, which was amiably drunk and nonthreatening. He and Bonnie stayed up watching the flames die, sitting close but saying little. At the first onslaught of mosquitoes, they dove into one of the sleeping bags and zipped it over their heads. Like two turtles, Bonnie said, sharing the same shell.
They hugged each other in the blackness, laughing uncontrollably. After Bonnie caught her breath, she said, “God, it’s hot in here.”
“August in Florida.”
“Well, I’m taking off my clothes.”
“You aren’t.”
“Oh yes. And you’re going to help.”
“Bonnie, we should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
“I need a big night to take my mind off it.” She got tangled while wriggling out of her top. “Give me a hand, kjnd sir.”
Augustine did as he was told. They were, after all, rational, mature, intelligent adults.
NINETEEN
The death of Tony Torres did not go unnoticed by homicide detectives, crucifixions being rare even in Miami. However, most murder investigations were stuck on hold in the frenetic days following the hurricane. With the roadways in disorder, the police department was precariously shorthanded; every available officer of every rank was put to work directing traffic, chasing looters or escorting relief convoys. In the case of Juan Doe #92-312 (the whimsical caption on Tony Torres’s homicide file), the lack of urgency to investigate was reinforced by the fact that no friends or relatives appeared to identify the corpse, which indicated to police that nobody was searching for him, which further suggested that nobody much cared he was dead.
Two days after the body was found, a fingerprint technician faxed the morgue to say that a proper name now could be attached to the crucified man: Antonio Rodrigo Guevara-Torres, age forty-five. The prints of the late Mr Torres were on file because he had, during one rocky stretch of his adult life, written thirty-seven consecutive bum checks. Had one of those checks not been made out to the Police Benevolent Association, Tony Torres likely would have escaped prosecution. To avoid jail, he pleaded guilty and swore to make full
restitution, a pledge quickly forgotten amid the pressure of his demanding new job as a junior sales associate at a trailer-home franchise called A-Plus Affordable Homes.
Because the arrest report was old, the home address and telephone number listed for Tony Torres were no good. The current yellow pages showed no listing for A-Plus Affordable. Three fruitless inquiries sufficiently discouraged the young detective to whom the case of the crucified check-kiter had been assigned. He was relieved when his lieutenant ordered him to put the homicide file aside and drive down to Cutler Ridge, where he parked squarely in the center of the intersection of Eureka Drive and 117th Avenue, in order to block traffic for the presidential motorcade.