Stormy Weather

"Oh yeah," said Jim Tile. He popped the cassette out of the tape deck.

Bo

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?" Bo

"Not unless your husband tries something stupid."

Augustine thought: We might have a problem.

The trooper told Bo

Bo

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.

"Lord," Jim Tile said. "They're murdering each other over ice cubes." He sped off without saying good-bye.

Back in the house, Augustine was surprised to find Bo

Bo

"Where?"

"To see Max and this Skink person. They left directions on my machine."

She was excited. Augustine sat next to her. "What else did they say?"

"No police. No FBI. Max was very firm about it."

"And?"

"Four double-A batteries and a tape of Exile on Main Street. Dolby chrome oxide, whatever that means. And a bottle of pitted green olives, no pimientos."

"This would be the governor's shopping list?"

"Max hates green olives." Bo

"Let's go talk to them, if that's what they want."

"Bring your gun. I'm serious." Her eyes flashed. "We can kidnap Max from the kidnapper. Why not!"

"Settle down, please. When's the meeting?"

"Midnight tomorrow."

"Where?"

When she told him, he looked discouraged. "They'll never show. Not there."

"You're wrong," Bo

Augustine went to the living room and switched on the television. He cha

Bo

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Max Lamb awoke to these words: "You need a legacy."

He and Skink had bummed a ride in the back of a U-Haul truck. They were bucking down U.S. Highway One among two thousand cans of Campbell's broccoli cheese soup, which was being donated to hurricane victims by a Baptist church in Pascagoula, Mississippi. What the shipment lacked in variety it made up for in Christian goodwill.

"This," said the kidnapper, waving at the soup boxes, "is what people do for each other in times of catastrophe. They give help. You, on the other hand—"

"I said I was sorry."

"-you, Max, arrive with a video camera."

Max Lamb lit a cigaret. The governor had been in a rotten mood all day. First his favorite Stones tape broke, then the batteries crapped out in his Walkman.

Skink said, "The people who gave this soup, they went through Camille. Please assure me you know about Camille."

"Another hurricane?"

"A magnificent shitkicker of a hurricane. Max, I believe you're making progress."

The advertising man sucked apprehensively on the Bronco. He said, "You were talking about getting a boat."

Skink said, "Everyone ought to have a legacy. Something to be remembered for. Let's hear some of your slogans."

"Not right now."

"I never see TV anymore, but some commercials I remember." The kidnapper pointed at the canyon of red-and-white soup cans. "'M'm, m'm good!' That was a classic, no?"

Unabashedly Max Lamb said, "You ever hear of Plum Crunchies? It was a breakfast cereal."

"A cereal," said Skink.

" 'You'll go plum loco for Plum Crunchies!'"

The kidnapper frowned. From his camo trousers he produced a small felt box of the type used by jewelry stores. He opened it and removed a scorpion, which he placed on his bare brown wrist. The scorpion raised its fat claws, pinching the air in confusion. Max stared incredulously. The skin on his neck heated beneath the shock collar. He drew up his legs, preparing to spring from the truck if Skink tossed the awful creature at him.

"This little sucker," Skink said, "is from Southeast Asia. Recognized him right away." With a pinkie finger, he stroked the scorpion until it arched its venomous stinger.