"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'll 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...."
It hadn't been the cataclysmic purgative he had hoped for and prophesied. Ideally a hurricane should drive people out, not bring people in. The high number of new arrivals to South Florida was merely depressing; the moral caliber of the fortune-seekers was appalling-low-life hustlers, slick-talking scammers and cold-blooded opportunists, not to mention pure gangsters and thugs. Precisely the kind of creeps who would cave in a lady's face.
"Do not," Skink said, "expect me to control my temper."
"Wouldn't dream of it," said Augustine.
The light in the guest bedroom went on. Augustine found Bonnie Lamb sitting up in bed. For a nightgown she wore a long white T-shirt that she'd found in a drawer: Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Augustine had purchased it at a concert at the Miami Arena. The woman whom he'd taken to the show, the psychotic doctor who later tried to filet him in the shower, had bought a black shirt to match her biker boots. At the time, Augustine had found the ensemble fetching, in a faux-trashy way.
"Max call yet?" Bonnie asked.
Augustine checked the answering machine. No messages. He returned to the bedroom and told her.
She said, "I've been married one week and a day. What's the matter with me?" She drew her knees to her chest. "I should be home."
Exactly! thought Augustine. Absolutely right!
"You think my husband's a jerk?"
"Not at all," Augustine lied, decorously.
"Then why hasn't he called." It was not a question. Bonnie Lamb said, "Come here."
She made room under the covers, but Augustine positioned himself chastely on the edge of the bed.
"You must think I'm crazy," said Bonnie.
"No."
"My heart is upside down. That's the only way to describe it."
Augustine said, "Stay as long as you want."
"I want to go along with you and ... him. The kidnapper."
"Why?"
"Oh, I don't know. Probably goes back to Max, or my dad and his model airplanes, or my wretched childhood, even though my memories are quite wonderful. It's got to be something. Happy normal little girls don't grow up to dump their husbands, do they?" Bonnie Lamb switched off the lamp. "You want to lie down?"
"Better not," said Augustine.
In the dark, her hand found his cheek. She said, "Here's my idea: I think we should sleep together."
"But we have slept together, Mrs. Lamb." That without missing a beat. Augustine commended himself-a little humor to cut the tension.
Bonnie said, "Come on. You know what I mean."
"Make love?"
"Oh, you're a quick one." She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down. His head came to rest on a pillow. Before he could get up she was on top, pinning his arms. Impishly she planted her chin on his breastbone. In the light slanting through the window, Augustine was able to see her smile, the liveliness of her eyes and-behind her-the wall of gaping skulls.