Stormy Weather

"Do

Jim Tile smiled. "That's something."

"Thirty-two years later: another storm, another begi

The trooper chuckled. "I think you're full of it." There was affection in the remark. "What's the story with the father?"

"Smuggler," Skink said, "and not a talented one."

Jim Tile considered that for a moment. "Well, I like the young man. He's all right."

"Yes, he is."

The trooper put on the windshield wipers. They could see-by the movement of the poncho-that Bo

"Him I don't envy," Jim Tile said.

Skink shrugged. He hadn't completely forgiven Max Lamb for bringing his Handycam to Miami. He said, "Lemme see where you got shot."

The trooper unbuttoned his shirt and peeled away the bandage. Even with the vest to stop it, the slug had raised a plum-colored bruise on Jim Tile's sternum. The governor whistled and said, "You and Brenda need a vacation."

"They say maybe ten days she'll be out of the hospital."

"Take her to the islands," Skink suggested.

"She's never been to the West. She loves horses."

"The mountains, then. Wyoming." The trooper said, "She'd go for that."

"Anywhere, Jim. Away from this place is the main thing."

"Yeah." He turned off the wipers. The heavy rain gathered like syrup on the windshield. They did not speak of Snapper.

"Which one is it?" Max Lamb asked.

He hoped it was the kidnapper, the wilder one. That would bolster his theory that his wife had lost her mind; a weather-related version of the Stockholm Syndrome. That would make it easier to accept, easier to explain to his friends and parents. Bo

Bo

When she knew it wasn't, not entirely. She'd watched him, after stepping from the police car, jump at the sight of a puny marsh rabbit as if it were a hundred-pound timber wolf.

Now he was saying, "Bo

"Nobody—"

"Did you sleep with him?"

"Who?"

"Either of them."

"No!" To cover the lie, Bo

"But you wanted to."

Max Lamb rose, raindrops beading on the plastic poncho. "You're telling me that this"-with a mordant sweep of an arm—"you prefer this to the city!"

She sighed. "I wouldn't mind seeing a baby crocodile. That's all I said." She was aware of how outrageous it must have sounded to someone like Max.

"He's got you smoking that shit, doesn't he?"

"Oh please."

Back and forth he paced. "I can't believe this is happening."

"Me, neither," she said. "I'm sorry, Max."

He squared his shoulders and spun away, toward the lakes. He was too mad to weep, too insulted to beg. Also, it had dawned on him that Bo

Turning to face her, his voice leaden with disappointment, Max said, "I thought you were more ... centered."

"Me, too." To argue would only drag things out. Bo

"Last chance," Max Lamb said. He groped under the bright poncho and pulled out a pair of airline tickets.

"I'm sorry," said Bo

"Do you love me or not?"

"Max, I don't know."

He tucked the tickets away. "This is unbelievable."

She got up and kissed him good-bye. Her eyes were rimmed with tears, though Max probably didn't notice, with all the raindrops on her face.

"Call me," he said bitterly, "when you figure yourself out."

Alone, he walked back to the patrol car. The kidnapper held the door for him.

Max was quiet on the drive back to the mainland; an accusatory silence. The state trooper was friends with the maniac who'd kidnapped Max and brainwashed his wife. The trooper had a moral and legal duty to stop the seduction, or at least try. That was Max's personal opinion.

When they got to the boarded-up McDonald's, Max told him: "You make sure that nutty one-eyed bastard takes care of her."

It was meant to carry the weight of a warning, and ordinarily Jim Tile would have been amused at Max's hubris. But he pitied him for the bad news he was about to deliver.

"She'll never see the governor again," the trooper said, "after today."

"Then—"

"I think you're confused," said the trooper. "The young fella with the skulls, that's who she fell for."

"Jesus." Max Lamb looked disgusted.

As Jim Tile drove away, he could see him in the rearview-stomping around the parking lot in the rain, kicking at puddles, flapping like a giant Day-Glo bat.

They were a mile from the road when Augustine appeared on the trail. Bo

Augustine took Bo

"Oh, you're going to read me so

"Don't be a smartass," Augustine said, mussing her hair. "Remember the first time your husband called after the kidnapping-the message he left on the answering machine?"

Bo

Augustine said, "The governor had him read something over the phone. Well, I found it." He pointed to the title on the spine of the book. Tropic of Cancer, by Henry Miller.