Stormy Weather

Bo

They stayed off Calusa and approached on a parallel street, one block north. When they got close, they cut through a yard and slipped into an abandoned house directly across from 15600. From the broken window of a front bedroom, they had a clear view of the front door, the garage, the black Cherokee and two other cars in the driveway.

Margo and David were right. Their stolen license plate had been removed from the Jeep. Skink said: "Here's what happened. After the guy beat up Brenda, he pulled the tag from the Cherokee and tossed it. What's on there now probably came off that Chevy."

The car parked nearest to the garage was a late-model Caprice. The license plate was missing. The second car was a rusty barge of an Oldsmobile with a lacerated vinyl top and no hubcaps. Augustine said it would be useful to know how many people were inside the house. Skink grunted in assent.

Bo

I should've known then and there, she thought. Bless his heart, he probably couldn't help it.

She got up to see the baby's crib. A mobile of tropical butterflies, fastened to the rail, had been snapped at the stem. The mattress was splotched with dark greenish mildew. Shiny red ants trooped across the fuzzy pink blanket. Bo

Augustine waved her back to the broken window. Heart skipping, she knelt between the two men. What am I doing? Where is this heading?

Another car drives up to 15600 Calusa. A white compact.

Man gets out. Bony and clerical-looking. Gray hair. Brown windbreaker, loose dark trousers. Reminds Bo

Standing by his car, the old man puts on a pair of reading glasses. Looks at a piece of paper, then up at the numerals painted on the house. Nods. Takes off the glasses. Tucks them in the left pocket of his windbreaker. Pats the right pocket, as if checking for something.

Awfully hot for a jacket, Bo

"Where does he fit?" said Augustine.

"Contractor. Utility worker. Something like that," Skink speculated.

Bo

Augustine said, "I thought I saw a woman."

"Yes." Skink scratched thoughtfully at his beard.

Creedlow! Bo

Augustine said, "What now, captain?"

Skink settled his bristly chin on the windowsill. "We wait."

Two hours later, the old man still hasn't come out of the house at 15600 Calusa Drive. Bo

Then another car pulls up.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Neria Torres had no desire to drive all the way to Brooklyn in search of a thieving husband.

"Then fly," suggested Celeste, the graduate student who shared the Volkswagen van with Neria and Neria's lover, the professor.

The professor's name was Charles Gabler. His field of interest was parapsychology. "Neria won't fly," he said. "She's afraid to death of airplanes."

"Wow," said Celeste, cooking on a portable stove in the back of the van. She was in charge of the macrobiotic menu.

Neria said, "It's not just the flying, it's Brooklyn. How would I find Tony in a place like that?"

"I know how," Celeste piped. "Hire a psychic."

"Great idea. We'll call Kreskin."

The professor said, "Neria, there's no need to be snide."

"Oh yes, there is."

She and Dr Gabler had been sorely low of funds when he'd proposed that young Celeste join them a week earlier as they prepared to depart Eugene, Oregon, for Miami. Young Celeste had been blessed with a comfortable trust fund, a generous heart and handsome gravity-defying breasts. Neria was under no illusions about the professor's motives, but she tried to put aside her concerns. They needed gas money, and young Celeste kept a world of credit cards in her purse. Somewhere near Salina, Kansas, Neria felt the need to inform Dr Gabler that he was paying too much attention to their travel companion, that his behavior was not only rude but disrespectful, and that the Great Plains in the heat of summer was no place to relearn the basics of hitchhiking. The professor seemed to take the warning to heart.

In truth, Neria was growing bored with Dr Gabler and his absurd blue and red crystals. Mystic healing, my ass-a box of Milk Duds starts to look pretty mystical, you smoke enough dope. Which was how the professor spent most of his waking hours, sluggishly bequeathing the driving duties to Neria and Celeste.

"I'd rather go to Miami anyway," Celeste said, measuring out two cups of brown rice. "I'd like to work in one of those tent cities. Cook for the homeless, if they need me."

The professor regarded Neria Torres through bloodshot hound-dog eyes. "Darling, it's entirely up to you. We'll go wherever you wish."

"Wow," said Neria. The mockery was lost on Celeste, who was immersed in a complex recipe. Neria declared she was going for a walk, and exited the van.

They had parked at a public campground off Interstate 20, outside Atlanta, to discuss which way to go– New York or Miami, north or south. Neria Torres replayed in her mind the upsetting conversation with the stranger who'd answered Tony's telephone. The more Neria thought about it, the more doubts she had. Not that her piggy husband wasn't capable of falling for a twenty-four-year-old blonde; rather, it was highly implausible that one would fall for him. And Brooklyn? Hardly a boomtown for the mobile-home trade. The stranger's story didn't add up.

Neria Torres had tried to confirm the lurid details with Varga, the nosy next-door neighbor, but his telephone was out of order. Neria was certain about two things: She was entitled to half the hurricane money for the house in Miami. And her estranged husband was dodging her.