She wondered what her father would think of her now, on the way to a hospital, scrunched in the front seat of a pickup truck between a one-eyed, toad-smoking kidnapper and a plane-crash survivor who juggled skulls.
Brenda Rourke's head was fractured in three places, and one of her cheeks needed reconstruction. She was bleeding under the right temporal bone, but doctors had managed to stanch it. A plastic surgeon had repaired a U-shaped gash on her forehead, stitching the loose flap above the hairline.
Bonnie Lamb had never seen such terrible wounds. Even the governor seemed shaken. Augustine fastened his eyes on his shoetops-the sounds and smells of the hospital were too familiar. He felt parched.
Jim Tile held both of Brenda's hands in one of his own. Her eyes were open but unfocused; she had no sense of anyone besides Jim at her bedside. She was trying to talk through the drugs and the pain; he leaned closer to listen.
After a while he straightened, announcing in a low, angry voice, "The bastard stole her ring. Her mother's wedding ring."
Skink slipped from the room so quietly that Bonnie and Augustine didn't notice immediately. There was no trace of him outside the door, but a rush of blue and white uniforms attracted them to the end of the hall. The governor was in the nursery, strolling among the newborns. He carried an infant in the crook of each arm. The babies slept soundly, and he studied them with profound sadness. To Bonnie Lamb he appeared harmless, despite the rebellious beard and the grubby combat pants and the army boots. A trio of husky orderlies conferred at a water fountain; apparently a negotiation had already been attempted, with poor results. Calmly Jim Tile entered the nursery and returned the infants to their glass cribs.
Nobody intervened when the trooper led Skink out of the hospital, because it looked like a routine arrest; another loony street case hauled to the stockade: Jim Tile, his arm around the madman, walking him briskly down the maze of pale-green corridors; the two of them talking intently; Bonnie and Augustine dodging wheel-chairs and gurneys and trying to keep up.
When they reached the parking lot, Jim Tile said he had to go to work. "The President's coming, and guess who gets to clear traffic."
He folded a piece of paper into Skink's hand and got into the patrol car. Wordlessly Skink settled in the bed of Augustine's pickup and lay down. His good eye was fixed on the clouds, and his arms were folded across his chest. .
Augustine asked Jim Tile: "What do we do with him?"
"That's entirely up to you." The trooper sounded exhausted.
Bonnie Lamb asked about Brenda Rourke. Jim Tile said the doctors expected her to pull through.
"What about the guy who did it?"
"They haven't caught him," the trooper replied, "and they won't." He strapped on the seat belt, locked the door, adjusted his sunglasses. "Place used to be something special," he said absently. "Long, long time ago."
A feral cry rose from the bed of the pickup truck. Jim Tile blinked over the rims of his shades. "It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Lamb. You and your husband do what's right. The captain, he'll understand."
Then the trooper drove off.
On the way to the airport hotel, where Max Lamb had reserved a day room for her, Bonnie slid across the front seat and rested her cheek on Augustine's shoulder. He was dreading this part, saying good-bye. It was always easier as a bitter cleaving, when suitcases snapped shut, doors slammed, taxis screeched out of the driveway. He checked the dashboard clock-less than three hours until her flight.
Through the back window of the truck, Bonnie saw that Skink had pulled the flowered cap over his face and drawn himself into a loose-jointed variation of a fetal curl.
She said, "I wonder what's on that piece of paper."
"My guess," said Augustine, "it's either a name or an address."
"Of what?"
"It's just a guess," he said, but he told her anyway.
That night he didn't have to say good-bye, because Bonnie Lamb didn't go home to New York. She canceled her flight and returned to Augustine's house. Her phone messages for Max were not returned until after midnight, when she was already asleep in the skull room.
Shortly after noon on August 28, the telephone in Tony Torres's kitchen started ringing.
Snapper told Edie Marsh to get it.
"You get it," she said.
"Real funny."
Snapper couldn't walk; the blow from the crowbar had messed up his right leg. He was laid out in the BarcaLounger with his knee packed in three bags of ice, which Edie had purchased for fifty dollars on Quail Roost Drive from some traveling bandit in a fish truck. The fifty bucks came out of Snapper's big score against the Whitmarks. He didn't tell Edie Marsh how much money remained in his pocket. He also didn't mention the trooper's gun in the Cherokee, in the event she blew her top again.
The phone continued ringing. "Answer it," Snapper said. "Maybe it's your Santy Claus boyfriend."
Edie picked up the phone. On the other end, a woman's voice said: "Hullo?"
Edie hung up. "It wasn't Fred," she said.
"The fuck was it?"
"I didn't ask, Snapper. We're not supposed to be here, remember?" She said it sounded like' long distance.
"What if it's the insurance company? Maybe the check's ready."
Edie said, "No. Fred would tell me."
Snapper hacked out a laugh. "Fred's gone, you dumb twat. You scared him off!"
"How much you wanna bet."
"Right, he can't stay away, you're such a fantastic piece a ass."
"You can't even imagine," Edie said, showing some tongue. Maybe she wasn't hot enough for a young Kennedy, but she was the best thing young Mr. Dove had ever seen. Besides, he couldn't back out of the deal now. He'd already put in for the phony claim.
Again the phone rang. Edie Marsh said, "Shit."
"For Christ's sake, gimme a hand." Snapper writhed irritably on the BarcaLounger. "Come on!"
Bracing a forearm on Edie's shoulder, he hobbled to the kitchen. She plucked the receiver off the hook and handed it to him.
"Yo," Snapper said.
"Hullo?" A woman. "Tony, is that you?"
"Hmmphrr," answered Snapper, cautiously.
"It's me. Neria."
Who? Frigid drops from the ice pack dripped down Snapper's injured leg. The purple kneecap felt as if it were about to burst, like a rotten mango. Edie pressed close, trying to hear what the caller was saying.