by Carl Hiassen
"You're crazy, that ain't possible—"
"Right behind us," Edie said.
Bonnie Lamb began to turn around, but Skink held her shoulder. The light turned green. Snapper floored the Seville, zipped smartly between the beer truck and a meandering Toyota. He said: "You crazy twat, there's only about a million goddamn black Jeeps on the road."
"Yeah?" Edie said. "With bullet holes in the roof?" She could see a bud of mushroomed steel above the passenger side.
"Jesus." Snapper used the barrel of the .357 to adjust the rearview mirror. "Jesus, you sure?"
The Cherokee was still on their bumper. Bonnie noticed the governor wore a faint smile. Edie picked up on it, too. She said, "What's going on? Who's that behind us?"
Skink shrugged. Snapper said: "How 'bout this? I don't care who's back there, because he's already one dead cocksucker. That's 'zackly how many shots I got left."
In what seemed to Bonnie as a single fluid motion, the governor reached across the seat, wrenched the .357 from Snapper's hand and fired it point-blank into the Cadillac's dashboard.
Then he dropped it on Snapper's lap and said: "Now you've got jackshit."
Snapper labored not to pile the car into a utility pole. Edie Marsh's ears rang from the gun blast, although she wasn't surprised by what had happened. It had only been a matter of time. The smiler had been humoring them.
One thought reverberated in Bonnie Lamb's head: What now? What in the world will he do next?
Snapper, straining not to appear frightened, hollering at Skink over his shoulder: "Try anything, anything, I fuckin' swear we're all going off a bridge. You unner-stand? We'll all be dead."
"Eyes on the road, chief."
"Don't touch me, goddammit!"
Skink placed his chin next to the headrest, inches from Snapper's right ear. He said, "That cop you shot, he was a friend of mine."
Edie Marsh's chin dropped. "Tell me it wasn't 'Jim.'"
"It was."
"Naturally." She sighed disconsolately.
"So what?" Snapper said. His shoulders bunched. "Like I'm supposed to know. Fucking cop's a cop."
To Bonnie, the social dynamics inside the carjacked Seville were surreal. Logically the abduction should have ended once Snapper's gun was out of bullets. Yet here they were, riding along as if nothing had changed. They might as well be on a double date. Stop for pizza and milk shakes.
She said: "Can I ask something: Where are we going? Is somebody in charge now?"
Snapper said, "I am, goddammit. Long as I'm drivin'—"
He felt Edie jab him in the side. "The Jeep," she said, pointing. "Check it out."
The black truck was in the left lane, keeping speed with the Cadillac. Snapper pressed the accelerator, but the Jeep stayed even.
"Well, shit," he grumbled. Edie was right. It was the same truck they'd abandoned ten minutes earlier. Snapper was totally baffled. Who could it be?
They watched the Cherokee's front passenger window roll down. The ghost driver steered with his left hand. His eyes were locked on the highway. In the oncoming headlights Snapper caught sight of the man's face, which he didn't recognize. He did, however, note that the stranger definitely wasn't wearing a Highway Patrol uniform. The observation gave Snapper an utterly misplaced sense of relief.
Bonnie Lamb recognized the other driver immediately. She gave a clandestine wave. So did the governor.
"What's going on!" Edie Marsh was on her knees, pointing and shouting. "What's going on! Who is that sonofabitch!"
She was more dejected than startled when the Jeep's driver one-handedly raised a rifle. By the time Snapper saw it, he'd already heard the shot.
Pfffttt. Like a kid's airgun.
Then a painful sting under one ear; liquid heat flooding down through his arms, his chest, his legs. He went slack and listed starboard, mumbling, "What the full, what the fuh—"
Skink said it was a superb time for Edie to assist at the wheel. "Take it steady," he added. "We're coasting."
Reaching across Snapper's body, she anxiously guided the Seville to the gravel shoulder of the highway. The black Jeep smoothly swung in ahead of them.
Edie bit her lip. "I can't believe this. I just can't."
"Me, neither," said Bonnie Lamb. She was out the door, running toward Augustine, before the car stopped rolling.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Jim Tile once played tight end for the University of Florida. In his junior year, during the final home game of the season, a scrawny Alabama cornerback speared his crimson helmet full tilt into Jim Tile's sternum. Jim Tile held on to the football but completely forgot how to breathe.
That's how he felt now, lying in clammy rainwater, staring up at the worried face of a platinum-haired hooker. The impact of the shot had deflated Jim Tile's lungs, which were screaming silently for air. The emergency lights of the patrol car blinked blue-white-blue in the reflection in the prostitute's eyes.
Jim Tile understood that he couldn't be dying-it only felt that way. The asshole's bullet wasn't lodged in vital bronchial tissue; it was stuck in a layer of blessedly impenetrable Du Pont Kevlar. Like most police officers, Jim Tile detested the vest, particularly in the summer– it was hot, bulky, itchy. But he wore it because he'd promised his mother, his nieces, his uncle and of course Brenda, who wore one of her own. Working for the Highway Patrol was statistically the most dangerous job in law enforcement. Naturally it also paid the worst. Only after numerous officers had been gunned down were bulletproof vests requisitioned for the state patrol, whose budget was so threadbare that the purchase was made possible only by soliciting outside donations.
Long before that, Jim Tile's loved ones had decided he shouldn't wait for the state legislature to demonstrate its heartfelt concern for police officers. The Kevlar vest was a family Christmas present. Jim Tile didn't always wear it while patrolling rural parts of the Panhandle, but in Miami he wouldn't go to church without it. He was glad he had strapped it on today.
If only he could remember how to breathe.
"Take it easy, baby," the hooker kept saying. "Take it easy. We called 911."
As Jim Tile sat upright, he emitted a sucking sound that reminded the prostitute of a broken garbage disposal. When she smacked him between the shoulders, a mashed chunk of lead fell from a dime-sized hole in Jim Tile's shirt and plopped into the puddle. He picked it up: the slug from a .357.
Jim Tile asked, "Where'd they go?" His voice was a frail rattle. With difficulty he bolstered his service revolver.
"Don't you move," said the woman.
"Did I hit him?"
"Sit still."
"Ma'am, help me up. Please."
He was shuffling for his car when the fire truck arrived. The paramedics made him lie down while they stripped off his shirt and the vest. They told him he was going to have an extremely nasty bruise. They told him he was a very lucky man.
By the time the paramedics were done, the parking lot of the Paradise Palms was clogged with curious locals, wandering tourists and motel guests, a fleet of Monroe County deputies, two TV news vans and three gleaming, undented Highway Patrol cruisers belonging to Jim Tile's supervisors. They gathered under black umbrellas to fill out their reports.
Meanwhile the shooter was speeding up Highway One with the governor and the newlywed.
A lieutenant told Jim Tile not to worry, they'd never make it out of the Keys.
"Sir, I'd like to be part of the pursuit. I feel fine."
"You're not going anywhere." The lieutenant softened the command with a fraternal chuckle. "Hell, Jimbo, we're just gettin' started."
He handed the trooper a stack of forms and a pen.
The body of Tony Torres inevitably became a subject of interest to a newspaper reporter working on hurricane-related casualties. The autopsy report did not use the term "crucifixion," but the silhouette diagram of puncture wounds told the whole grisly story. To avert embarrassing publicity, the police made a hasty effort to reignite the invest
igation, dormant since the aborted phone call from a woman claiming to be the dead man's widow. Within a day, a veteran homicide detective named Brickhouse was able to turn up a recent address for the murdered Tony Torres. This was done by tracing the victim's Carrier wristwatch to a Bal Harbour jeweler, who remembered Tony as an overbearing jerk, and kept detailed receipts of the transaction in anticipation of future disputes. The jeweler was not crestfallen at the news of Senor Torres's demise, and graciously gave the detective the address he sought. While the police department's Public Information division stalled the newspaper reporter, Brickhouse drove down to the address in Turtle Meadow.
There hefound an abandoned hurricane house with a late-model Chevrolet and a clunker Oldsmobile parked in front. The Chevy's license plate had been removed, but the VIN number came back to Antonio Rodrigo Guevara-Torres, the victim. The tag on the rusty Olds was registered to one Lester Maddox Parsons. Brick-house radioed for a criminal history, which might or might not be ready when he got back to the office in the morning; the hurricane had unleashed electronic gremlins inside the computers.
The detective's natural impulse was to enter the house, which would have been fairly easy in the absence of doors. The problem wasn't so much that Brickhouse didn't have a warrant; it was the old man next door, watching curiously from the timber shell of his front porch. He would be the defense lawyer's first witness at a suppression hearing, if an unlawful search of the victim's residence turned up evidence.
So Brickhouse stayed in the yard, peeking through broken windows and busted doorways. He noted a gas-powered generator in the garage, wine and flowers in the dining room, a woman's purse, half-melted candles, an Igloo cooler positioned next to a BarcaLounger– definitive signs of post-hurricane habitation. Everything else was standard storm debris. Brickhouse saw no obvious bloodstains, which fit his original theory that the mobile-home salesman had been taken elsewhere to be crucified.
The detective strolled over to chat with the snoopy neighbor, who gave his name as Leonel Varga. He told a jumbled but colorful yarn about sinister-looking visitors, mysterious leggy women and insufferable barking dogs. Brickhouse took notes courteously. Varga said Mr. and Mrs. Torres were separated, although she'd recently phoned to say she was coming home.
"But it's a secret," he added.
"You bet," Brickhouse said. Before knocking off for the evening, he tacked his card to the doorjamb at 15600 Calusa.
That's where Neria Torres found it at dawn.
Matthew's pickup truck had followed her all the way from Fort Drum to the house at Turtle Meadow. The seven Tennesseeans swarmed the battered building in orgiastic wonderment at the employment opportunity that God had wrought. Matthew dramatically announced they should commence repairs immediately.
Neria said, "Not just yet. You help me find my husband, then I'll let you do some work on the house."
"I guess, sure. Where's he at?"
"First I've got to make some calls."
"Sure," Matthew said. "Meantime we should get a jump on things." He asked Neria's permission to borrow some tools from the garage.
"Just hold on," she told him.
But they were already ascending the roof and rafters, like a troop of hairless chimpanzees. Neria let it go. The sight of the place disturbed her more than she had anticipated. She'd seen the hurricane destruction on CNN, but standing ankle-deep in it was different; overwhelming, if the debris once was your home. The sight of her mildewed wedding pictures in the wreckage brought a sentimental pang, but it was quickly deadened by the discovery of flowers and a bottle of wine in the dining room. Neria Torres assumed Tony had bought them for a bimbo.
She fingered the detective's card. She hoped it meant that the cops had tossed her asshole husband in jail, leaving her a clear path toward reclaiming half the marital property. Or possibly more.
She heard a mechanical roar from the garage; the resourceful Tennesseeans had found fuel for the generator. A bare lightbulb flickered on and off in the living room.
Leonel Varga, still in his bathrobe, came over to say hello. He assured her that the police detective was a nice man.
"What did he want? Is it abput Tony?"
"I think so. He didn't say." Mr. Varga stared up at the busy figures of the men on the roof beams, backlit by the molten sunrise. "You found some roofers?"
Neria Torres said, "Oh, I seriously doubt it."
She dialed the private number that Detective Brick-house had penciled on the back of the business card. He answered the phone like a man accustomed to being awakened by strangers. He said, "I'm glad you called."
"Is it about Tony?"
"Yeah, I'm afraid it is."
"Don't tell me he's in jail," said Neria, hoping dearly that Brickhouse would tell her precisely that.
"No," the detective said. "Mrs. Torres, your husband's dead."
"Oh God. Oh God. Oh God." Neria's mind was skipping like a flat rock on a river.
"I'm sorry—"
"You sure?" she asked. "Are you sure it's Antonio?"
"We should take a ride up to the morgue. You're home now?"
"Yes. Yes, I'm back."
Brickhouse said, "I've got to be in court this morning. How about if I swing by around noon? We'll go together. Give us some time to chat."
"About what?"
"It looks like Antonio was murdered."
"How? Murdered?"
"We'll talk later, Mrs. Torres. Get some rest now."
Neria didn't know what she felt, or what she ought to feel. The corpse in the morgue was the man she'd married. A corpulent creep, to be sure, but still the husband she had once believed she loved. Shock was natural. Curiosity. A selfish stab of fear. Maybe even sorrow. Tony had his piggish side, but even so ...
Her gaze settled for the first time on the purse. A woman's purse, opened, on the kitchen counter. On top was a note printed in block letters and signed with the initials "F.D." The note said the author was keeping the dogs at the motel. The note began with "My Sexy Darling" and ended with "Love Always."
Dogs? Neria Torres thought.
She wondered if Tony was the same man as "F.D." and, if so, what insipid nickname the initials stood for. Fat Dipshit?
Curiously she went through the contents of the purse. A driver's license identified the owner as Edith Deborah Marsh. Neria noted the date of birth, working the arithmetic in her head. Twenty-nine years old, this one.
Tony, you dirty old pen.
Neria appraised the face in the photograph. A ball-buster; Tony must've had his fat hands full. Neria took unaccountable satisfaction from the fact that young Edith was a dagger-eyed brunette, not some dippy blonde.
From behind her came the sound of roupy breathing. Neria wheeled, to find Matthew looming at her shoulder.
"Christ!"
"I dint mean to scare ya."
"What is it? What do you want?"
"It's started up to rain."
"I noticed."
"Seemed like a good spot for a break. We was headed to a hardware store for some roof paper, nails, wood– stuff like that."
"Lumber," Neria Torres said archly. "In the construction business, it's called 'lumber.' Not wood."
"Sure." He was scratching at his Old Testament tattoos.
She said, "So go already."
"Yeah, well, we need some money. For the lumber."
"Matthew, there's something I've got to tell you."
"Sure."
"My husband's been murdered. A police detective is coming out here soon."
Matthew took a step back and said, "Sweet Jesus, I'm so sorry." He began to improvise a prayer, but Neria cut him off.
"You and your crew," she said, "you are licensed in Dade County, aren't you? I mean, there won't be any problem if the detective wants to ask some questions ... ?"
The Tennesseeans were packed and gone within fifteen minutes. Neria found the solitude relaxing: a light whisper of rain, the occasional whine of a mosquito. She thought of Tony, w
ondered whom he'd pissed off to get himself killed-maybe tough young Edith! Neria thought of the professor, too, wondered how he and his Earth Mother blow-job artist were getting along with no wheels.
She also thought of the many things she didn't want to do, such as move back into the gutted husk at 15600 Calusa. Or be interviewed by a homicide detective. Or go to the morgue to view her estranged husband's body.
Money was the immediate problem. Neria wondered if careless Tony had left her name on any of the bank accounts, and what (if anything) remained in them. The most valuable item at the house was his car, untouched by the hurricane. Neria located the spare key in the garage, but the engine wouldn't turn over.
