"It's back at the house," said Augustine.
"Would you mind if I listened to it?"
Bonnie said, "This is ludicrous, what you're saying"
"Humor me," said Jim Tile.
Bonnie pushed away her plate of lasagna, half eaten. "What's your interest?"
"He's my friend. He's in trouble," the trooper said.
"All I care about is Max."
"They're both in danger."
Bonnie demanded to know about the fat man in the morgue. The trooper said he'd been strangled and impaled on a TV satellite dish. The motive didn't appear to be robbery.
"Did your 'friend' do that, too?"
"They're talking to some dumb goober from Alabama, but I don't know."
To Bonnie, it was all incredible. "You did say 'impaled'?"
"Yes, ma'am." The trooper didn't mention the mock crucifixion. Mrs. Lamb was plenty upset already.
Through clenched teeth she said, "This place is insane."
Jim Tile was in full agreement. Tiredly he looked at Augustine. "I'm just tracking down a few leads."
"Come on back to the house. We'll play that tape for you."
Ira Jackson's intention had been to kill the mobile-home salesman and then drive home to New York and arrange that came naturally. Avila had said it was important to make lots of noise, like legitimate roofers, so the black guys staged a truss-hammering contest, with the Latin guy as referee. The white crackhead was left to cut plywood for the decking.
Snapper waited in the cab of the truck, which smelled like stale Coors and marijuana. Mercifully the sky darkened after about an hour, and a hard thunderstorm broke loose. While the roofers scrambled to load the truck, Snapper told Nathaniel Lewis they'd return first thing in the morning. Lewis handed him a cashier's check for three thousand dollars. The check was made out to Fortress Roofing, Avila's bogus company. Snapper thought it was a very amusing name.
He got in the stolen Jeep Cherokee and headed south. The crew followed in the truck. Avila had advised Snapper to move around, don't stay in one area. A smart strategy, Snapper agreed. They made it to Cutler Ridge ahead of the weather. Snapper found an expensive ranch-style house sitting on two acres of pinelands. Half the roof had been torn off by the hurricane. A Land Rover and a black Infiniti were parked in the tiled driveway.
Jackpot, Snapper thought.
The lady of the house let him in. Her name was Whitmark, and she was frantic for shelter. She'd been scouting the rain clouds on the horizon, and the possibility of more flooding in the living room had sent her dashing to the medicine chest. The "roofing foreman" listened to Mrs. Whitmark's woeful story: "The pile carpet already was ruined, as was Mr. Whit-mark's state-of-the-art stereo system, and of course mildew had claimed all the drapery, the linens and half her winter evening wardrobe; the Italian leather sofa and the cherry buffet had been moved to the west wing, but"
"We can start this afternoon," Snapper cut in, "but we need a deposit."
Mrs. Whitmark asked how much. Snapper pulled a figure out of his head: seven thousand dollars.
"You take cash, I assume."
"Sure," Snapper said, trying to sound matter-of-fact, like all his customers had seven grand lying around in cookie jars.
Mrs. Whitmark left Snapper alone while she went for the money. He raised his eyes to the immense hole in the ceiling. At that moment, a sunbeam broke through the bruised clouds, flooding the house with golden light.
Snapper shielded his eyes. Was this a sign?
When Mrs. Whitmark returned, she was flanked by two blackand-silver German shepherds.
Snapper went rigid. "Mother of Christ," he murmured.
"My babies," said Mrs. Whitmark, fondly. "We don't have a problem with looters. Do we, sugars?" She stroked the larger dog under its chin. On command, both of them sat at her feet. They cocked their heads and gazed expectantly at Snapper, who felt a spasm in his colon.
His hands trembled so severely that he was barely able to write up the contract. Mrs. Whitmark asked what had happened to his face. "Did you fall off a roof?"
"No," he said curtly. "Bungee accident."
Mrs. Whitmark gave him the cash in a scented pink envelope. "How soon can you start?"
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.