When it came to name brands, Max was nothing if not observant. He believed it was part of his job, knowing who in America was buying what.
The agent said, "Is Augustine home?"
"No, he isn't."
"Who are you?"
"Could I see some ID?" Max asked.
The agent showed him a badge in a billfold. Max told him to come in. They sat in the living room. Max asked what was in the bag, and the agent said it was drill bits. "Storm sucked the cabinets right out of my kitchen," he explained.
"Black and Decker?"
"Makita."
"That's a first-rate tool," said Max.
The agent was exceedingly patient. "You're a friend of Augustine's?"
"Sort of. My name is Max Lamb."
"Really? I'm glad to see you're all right."
Max's eyebrows hopped.
"From the kidnapping," the agent said. "You're the one who was kidnapped, right?"
"Yes!" Max's spirits skied, realizing that Bonnie had been so concerned that she'd called the FBI. It was proof of her devotion.
The agent said, "She played the tape for me, the message you left on the answering machine."
"Then you heard his voice-the guy who snatched me." Max got a Michelob from the refrigerator. The FBI man accepted a Sprite.
"Where's your wife?" he asked.
"I don't know."
Excitedly Max Lamb related the whole story, from his kidnapping on Calusa Drive to the midnight rescue in Stiltsville, up to Bonnie's disappearance with Augustine and the deranged one-eyed governor. The FBI man listened with what seemed to be genuine interest, but took no notes. Max wondered if they were specially trained to remember everything they heard.
"These are dangerous men," he told the agent, portentously.
"Was your wife taken against her will?"
"No, sir. That's why they're so dangerous."
"You say he put a collar on your neck."
"A shock collar," Max said gravely, "the kind used to train hunting dogs."
The FBI man asked if the kidnapper had done the same thing to Bonnie. Max said he didn't think so. "She's very trusting and impressionable. They took advantage of that."
"What's Augustine's role in all this?"
"I believe," said Max, "the kidnapper has brainwashed him, too." He got another beer and tore into a bag of pretzels.
The agent said, "Prosecution won't be easy. It's your word against his."
"But you believe me, don't you?"
"Mister Lamb, it doesn't matter what I believe. Put yourself in the jury box. This is a very weird story you'll be asking them to swallow...."
Max shot to his feet. His cheeks were stuffed with pretzel fragments. "Jeshush Chritht, mahh wife's misshing!"
"I understand. I'd be upset, too." The FBI man was maddeningly agreeable and polite. "And I'm not trying to tell you what to do. But you need to know what you're up against."
Max sat down, glowering.
The agent explained that the Bureau seldom got involved unless, a ransom demand was issued. "There was none in your case. There's been none for your wife."
"Well, I think her life's in danger," Max said, "and I think you people are in deep trouble if something happens to her."
"Believe me, Mister Lamb, I understand your frustration."
No you don't, Max fumed silently, or you wouldn't talk to me like I was ten years old.
The agent said, "Have you spoken to the police?"
Max told him about the black state trooper who was acquainted with the kidnapper. "He said I was entitled to press charges. He said he'd take me down to the station."
The FBI man nodded. "That's the best way to go, if you've got your mind made up."
Max told the agent there was something he definitely ought to see. He led him to Augustine's guest room and showed him the wall of skulls. "Tell me honestly," he said to the FBI man, "wouldn't you be worried? He juggles those damn things."
"Augustine? Yeah."
"You know?"
"He won't hurt your wife, Mister Lamb."
"Gee, I feel so much better."
The agent seemed impervious to sarcasm. "You'll hear from Mrs. Lamb sooner or later. That's my guess. If you don't, call me. Or call me even if you do." He handed his card to Max, who affected hard-bitten skepticism as he studied it. Then he walked toward the kitchen, the agent following.
"I was wondering," the FBI man said, "did Augustine give you a key?"
Max turned.
"To the house," the agent said. "No, sir. The sliding door was open."
"So you just walked in. He doesn't know you're here?"
"Well ..." It hadn't occurred to Max Lamb that he was breaking the law. For one infuriating moment, he thought the FBI man was preparing to arrest him.
But the agent said: "That's a swell way to get your head shot off-being in somebody's house without them knowing. Especially here in Miami."
Max, grinding his teeth, realized the impossibly upside-down nature of the situation. He was wasting his breath. A state trooper is friends with the kidnapper, an FBI man is friends with the skull collector.
"You know what I really want?" Max drained his beer with a flourish, set the bottle down hard on the counter. "All, I want is to find my wife, put her on a plane and go home to New York. Forget about this fucked-up place, forget about this hurricane."
The agent said, "That's a damn good plan, Mister Lamb."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Snapper made Edie Marsh pull over at a liquor store in Islamorada.
"Not now," she said.
"I got to."
"We're almost there."
A rumble from the back seat: "Let the man have a drink."
She parked behind the store, away from the road. Jim Tile didn't see the black Cherokee as he sped past. Neither did Avila, ten minutes later.
Snapper wouldn't be talked out of his craving, and Edie was worried. She knew firsthand the folly of mixing booze with Midols. Double dosed, Snapper might hibernate for a month.
The woman named Bonnie asked for a cold Coke. "I'm burning up."