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ged to a salesman； Antonio Torres。 The hurricane had done quite a number on the place。 In the backyard Augustine saw two miniature dachshunds tied to a sprinkler。 They barked excitedly when they spotted him。
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 Bonnie to wait across the street； but she'd probably followed him just the same。 Augustine had to assume they were now in the Jeep with the bad guy； headed for an unknown destination。
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 Bonnie and the governor。 The key to the mystery was the creep with the crooked jaw。 He'd be the one carrying Brenda Rourke's service revolver。 He'd be the one at the wheel of the Cherokee。 Yet the house yielded no traceable signs。
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； Bonnie Lamb would be lost。
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 Bonnie disappeared。 After three rings； a friendly female voice answered： 〃Paradise Palms。 Can I help you？〃
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。〃
〃Of course。 He told us to expect him late this afternoon。〃
〃That's perfect。〃
〃And don't you worry。 I won't say a word to spoil it。〃
Augustine said； 〃Ma'am； I cannot thank you enough。〃
After a day of inept drinking and arduous self…pity； Max Lamb took a flight from Guadalajara to Miami。 There he intended to quit smoking； reclaim his brainwashed spouse and reconstruct his life。 Another honeymoon was essential…but； this time； someplace far from Florida。
Hawaii； Max thought。 Maybe even Australia。
His head was a cinder block。 The tequila hangover fueled vivid； horrific dreams on the plane。 Once he awakened clawing at an invisible shock collar； his neck on fire。 In the nightmare it was Bonnie and not the kidnapper wielding the Tri…Tronics remote control； diabolically pushing the buttons。 An hour later came another dream； again his wife。 This time they were making love on the deck of an airboat； skimming across the Everglades under a blue porcelain sky。 Bonnie was on top of him with her eyes half open； the sawgrass whipping her cheeks。 Clinging to her bare shoulder was a monkey…the same psoriatic pest that Max had videotaped after the hurricane！ In the dream； Max couldn't see the face of the airboat driver； but believed it was the quiet young man who juggled skulls。 As Bonnie bucked her hips； the vile monkey hung on like a tiny wrangler。 Suddenly it rose on its hind legs to display a miniature pink erection。 That's when Max screamed and woke up。 He was wide…eyed but calmer by the time the plane landed。
Then； at the Miami airport； his tequila phantasms were reignited by a newspaper headline：
Remains in Fox Hollow Identified as Mob Figure； Believed Mauled； Devoured by Escaped Cat。
Max bought the paper and read the story in horror。 A gangster named Ira Jackson had been gobbled by a wild lion that broke out of a wildlife farm during the storm。 The gruesome details heightened the urgency of Max's mission。
He arrived at Augustine's home with a prepared speech and； if necessary； a legal threat。 The lights were off。 Nobody answered the door。 In the absence of confrontation； Max was emboldened to slip around to the backyard。
The sliding glass door on the porch was unlocked。 Inside the house； it was stuffy and warm。 Max started the air conditioner and turned on every lamp he could find。 He wanted to advertise his presence； he didn't want to be found creeping through the halls in darkness； like a mon burglar。
Thrilled by his own daring； Max bed the place for signs of his wife。 Hanging in a closet was the outfit she'd worn on the day he was kidnapped。 Since the rental car had been looted of their belongings； Max reasoned that Bonnie must now be wearing somebody else's clothes； or her folks had wired some cash…or perhaps Augustine had bought her an expensive new wardrobe。 Wasn't that what wife…stealers did？
Max Lamb forced himself to enter the guest room。 He purposely avoided the wall of skulls； but shuddered anyway under the dissipated stares。 He was pleased to find the bed linens rumpled exclusively on the left side… Bonnie's favorite。 A depression in the lone pillow seemed； upon inspection； to match the shape of a young woman's head。 The bed showed no manifest evidence of male visitation。
An oak dresser yielded an assortment of female clothing； from bras to blue jeans； in an intriguing range of sizes。 Relics of Augustine's ex…girlfriends； Max assumed。 One of them must have stood six feet two； judging by the Amazonian cut of her black exercise leggings。 Max located several petite items that would have fit his wife； including a pair of powder…blue sweat socks in a tidy mound on the hardwood floor。 His outlook improved； at least she was wearing borrowed clothes。
He steeled himself for the next survey： Augustine's room。
The man's bed looked like a grenade had been set off under the sheets。 Max Lamb thought： He's either having fantastic sex or horrible nightmares。 The disarray made it impossible to determi