Stormy Weather

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The professor's VW van ran out of gas two miles shy of the Fort Drum service plaza. Neria Torres stood by the Turnpike and flagged down a truck. It was an old Chevy pickup; three men in the cab, four others sprawled in the bed. They were from Te

"Looking for work," explained the driver, a wiry, unshaven fellow with biblical tattoos on both arms. He said his first name was Matthew and his middle name was Luke.

Neria was nervous nonetheless. The men stared ravenously. "What do you guys do?" she asked.

"Construction. We're here for the hurricane." Matthew had a spare gas can. He poured four gallons into the van. Neria thanked him.

She said, "All I can give you is three bucks."

"That's fine."

"What kind of construction?"

Matthew said: "Any damn thing we can find." The other men laughed. "We do trees, also. I got chain saw experience," Matthew added.

Neria Torres didn't ask if the crew was licensed to do business in Florida. She knew the answer. The men climbed out of the truck to stretch their legs and urinate.

One of them was actually ma

Neria decided it was a good time to go. Matthew stood between her and the van. "I dint ketch your name."

"Neria."

"That's Cuban, right?"

"Yes."

"You don't talk with no accent."

She thought: Well, thank you, Gomer. "I was born in Miami," she said.

Matthew seemed pleased. "So you're on the way home-hey, how'd you make out in the big blow?"

Neria said, "I won't know till I get there."

"We do residential."

"Do you really."

"Wood or masonry, it don't matter. Also roofs. We got a helluva tar man." Matthew pointed. "That bald guy doin' his bidness in the bushes-he worked on that new Wal-Mart in Chat'nooga. My wife's cousin Chip."

Neria Torres said, "From what I understand, you won't have a bit of trouble finding jobs when you get to Dade County."

"Hey, what about your place?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen it yet."

"So it could be totaled," Matthew said, hopefully.

Slowly Neria opened the door of the van. Only when it stubbed his shoulder blades did Matthew move out of the way.

Neria got behind the wheel and revved the engine. "Tell you what. When I get home and see how the roof looks, then I'll give you a call. Where you staying?"

The other workers laughed again. "Sterno Hilton," said Matthew. "See, we're campin' out." He said they couldn't afford a motel, no way.

Neria fumbled in the console until she found a gnawed stub of pencil and one of the professor's match-books, which reeked of weed. She wrote down a bogus telephone number and gave it to Matthew. "OK, then, you call me."

He didn't even glance at the number. "I got a better idea. Since none of us ever been to Miami before ..."

Oh no! she thought. Please no.

"... we'll just follow you down. That way, we're sure not to get lost. And if your place needs work, we can git on it rightaways."

Matthew's plan was well received by his crew. Neria said, uselessly: "I don't think that's a good idea."

"We got references."

She was eyeing the pickup truck, wondering if there was a chance in hell that the professor's van could outrun it.

"We kicked some ass over Charleston," Matthew was saying, "after Hurricane Hugo."

Neria said, "It's getting pretty late."

"We'll be right behind you."

And they were, all the way down the Turnpike.

The truck's solitary headlight, stuck on high beam, illuminated the interior of the VW van like a TV studio. Neria stiffened in the harsh brightness, knowing that seven pairs of inbred male eyes were fixed on the back of her head. She drove ludicrously slow, hoping the rednecks would grow impatient and decide to pass. They didn't.

All she could do was make the best of it. Even if the Neanderthals didn't know a thing about construction, they might be helpful in tracking a thieving husband.

Max Lamb cracked the door to poke his head out. He'd never met an FBI man before. This one didn't look like Efrem Zimbalist Jr. He wore a green Polo shirt, tan Dockers and cordovan Bass Weejuns. He also toted a bag from Ace Hardware.

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 Bo

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 Bo