Stormy Weather

The boy went on: "They got our TVs and CD player. My dad's toolbox, top. I'm 'posed to shoot the bastards they come back."

"Did you ever fire that gun before?"

"All the time." The child's hard gray-blue eyes flickered with the lie. The Mini-14 was heavy. His little arms were tired from holding it. "You better go on now," he advised.

Augustine nodded, backing away. "Just be careful, all right? You don't want to hurt the wrong person."

"My dad said he's gone booby-trap everything so's next time they'll be damn sorry. He went to the hardware store. My mom and Debbie are still up at Uncle Rick's. Debbie's my half-sister, she's seven."

"Promise you'll be careful with the gun."

"She stepped on a rusty nail and got infected."

"Promise me you'll take it easy."

"OK," said the boy. A droplet of sweat rolled down a pink, sunburned cheek. It surely tickled, but the boy never took a hand off the rifle.

Augustine waved good-bye and went on up the road. When he arrived at the house where he'd left Bo

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Augustine sprinted across the street. He pulled the pistol when he reached the doorway. There was no answer when he called Bo

He sat down in a Naugahyde recliner and tried to reconstruct what could have happened in the twenty minutes he'd been gone. Obviously something had inspired the governor to make his move. Surely he'd ordered Bo

Augustine tore through the house once more, searching for clues. In the rubble of the funky-smelling bedroom was an album of water-stained photographs: the salesman, his spouse, and a multitude of well-fed relatives. Brenda Rourke had not recalled her attacker as an overweight Hispanic male, and the pictures of Antonio Torres showed no obvious facial deformity. Augustine decided it couldn't be the same man. He moved to the kitchen.

Hidden in a large saucepan, in a cupboard over the double sink, was a woman's leather purse. Inside was a wallet containing a Florida driver's license for one Edith Deborah Marsh, white female. Date of birth: 5-7-63. The address was an apartment in West Palm Beach. The picture on the license was unusually revealing: a pretty young lady with smoky, predatory eyes. The photo tech at the driver's bureau had outdone himself. Folded neatly in the woman's purse were pink carbons of two insurance settlements from Midwest Casualty, one for $60,000 and one for $141,000. The claims were for hurricane damage to the house at 15600 Calusa, and bore signatures of Antonio and Neria Torres. Interestingly, the insurance papers were dated that very day. Augustine was intrigued that Ms Edith Marsh would have these documents in her possession, and took the liberty of transferring them to his own pocket.

It was an interesting twist, but Augustine doubted it would help him locate Bo

With every passing moment, the creep was getting farther away. Augustine experienced a flutter of panic, thinking of what might happen. It was inconceivable that the governor would be cooperative during an abduction. Resistance was in the man's blood. A .357 aimed at his forehead would only enhance the challenge. And if he screwed up, Bo

Augustine ached with dread. His impulse was to get in the truck and start driving; desperate widening grids and circles, in a wild hope of spotting the Jeep. The creep had only a short head start, but also the considerable advantage of knowing which direction he was going.

Then Augustine thought of Jim Tile, the state trooper. One shout on the police radio and every cop in South Florida would know to keep an eye open for the Cherokee. Augustine had made a point of memorizing the new tag: PPZ-350. Save the Manatee.

He picked up the kitchen phone to get the number for the Highway Patrol. That's when he noticed his old friend, the redial button.

He'd learned the trick while keeping house with the demented surgical intern, the one who ultimately knifed him in the shower. Whenever he found her gone, Augustine would touch the redial button to determine if she'd been phoning around town to score more Dilaudid, or pawn items stolen from his house. Before long he was able to recognize the voices of her various dope dealers and fences, before hanging up. In that way, the redial button had been a valuable tool for predicting his girlfriend's moods and tracing missing property.

So he punched it now, to find out the last number dialed from 15600 Calusa before Skink and Bo

Augustine hesitated. He knew of only one Paradise Palms, a seaside motel down in Islamorada. He gave it a shot. "My brother just called a little while ago. From Miami."

"Oh yes. Mister Horn's friend."

"Pardon me?"

"The owner. Mister Horn. Your brother's name is Lester?"

"Right," said Augustine, flying blind.

"He's the only Miami booking we've had today. Did he want to cancel?"

"Oh no," Augustine said. "No, I just want to make sure the reservation is all set. See, we're supposed to surprise him down there-it's his birthday tomorrow. We're going to take him deep-sea fishing."

The woman at the motel said the dolphin were hitting offshore, and advised him to try the docks at Bud 'n' Mary's to arrange a charter. "Would you like me to call over there?"

"No, that's all right."

"Does Mister Horn know?"

"Know what?" said Augustine.

"That it's Lester's birthday. He'll be so sorry he missed it-he's in Tampa on business."

"Oh, that's too bad," Augustine said. "I meant to ask-what time's my brother getting in? So we can make sure everything's arranged. You know, for the surprise party."