Free Stormy Weather by Carl Hiaasen Page B

and toots that Max Lamb assumed to be either wild bird calls or a fearsome attack of sinusitis. He was afraid to inquire.
    At noon they stopped at a dry hammock, its once-lush branches now skeletal from the storm. Skink tied the airboat to a knuckled stand of roots. Evidence of previous campfires reassured Max Lamb that other humans had been there before. The kidnapper didn’t bother to tie him; there was no place to run. With Skink’s permission, Max put on his clothes to protect himself from the horseflies and mosquitoes. When he complained of being thirsty, Skink offered his own canteen. Max took a tentative swallow.
    “Coconut milk?” he asked, hopefully.
    “Something like that.”
    Max suggested that wearing the shock collar was no longer necessary. Skink whipped out the remote control, pushed the red button and said: “If you’ve got to ask, then it’s still necessary.”
    Max jerked wordlessly on the damp ground until the pain stopped. Skink caught a mud turtle and made soup for lunch. Tending the fire, he said, “Max, I’ll take three questions.”
    “Three?”
    “For now. Let’s see how it goes.”
    Max warily eyed the remote. Skink promised there would be no electronic penalty for dumb queries. “So fire away.”
    Max Lamb said, “All right. Who are you?”
    “My name is Tyree. I served in the Vietnam conflict, and later as a governor of this fair state. I resigned because of disturbing moral and philosophical conflicts. The details would mean nothing to you.”
    Max Lamb failed to mask his disbelief. “You were governor? Come off it.”
    “Is that question number two?”
    Impatiently, Max fingered the dog collar. “No, the second question is: Why me?”
    “Because you made a splendid target of yourself. You with your video camera, desecrating the habitat.”
    Max Lamb got defensive. “I wasn’t the only one taking pictures. I wasn’t the only tourist out there.”
    “But you were the one I saw first.” Skink poured hot soup into a tin cup and handed it to his sulking prisoner. “A hurricane is a holy thing,” he said, “but you treated it as an amusement. Pissed me off, Max.”
    Skink lifted the pot off the hot coals and tipped it to his lips. Steam wisped from his mouth, fogging his glass eye. He put the pot down and wiped the turtle drippings from his chin. “I was tied up on a bridge,” he said, “watching the storm roll out of the ocean. God, what a thing!”
    He stepped toward Max Lamb and lifted him by the shirt, causing Max to drop the soup he had not touched.
    Skink hoisted him to eye level and said: “Twenty years I waited for that storm. We were so close, so goddamn close. Two or three degrees to the north, and we’re in business.…”
    Max Lamb dangled in the stranger’s iron clasp. Skink’s good eye glistened with a furious, dreamy passion. “You’re down to one question,” he said, returning Max to his feet.
    After settling himself, Max asked: “What happens now?”
    Skink’s stormy expression dissolved into a smile. “What happens now, Max, is that we travel together, sharing life’s lessons.”
    “Oh.” Max’s eyes cut anxiously to the airboat.
    The governor barked a laugh that scattered a flock of snowy egrets. He tousled his prisoner’s hair and said, “We go with the tides!”
    But a despairing Max Lamb couldn’t face the prospect of true adventure. Now that it seemed he would not be murdered, he was burdened by another primal concern:
If I don’t get back to New York, I’m going to lose my job
.
    Edie Marsh was daydreaming about teak sailboats and handsome young Kennedys when she felt the moist hand of Tony Torres settle on her left breast. She cracked an eyelid and sighed.
    “Quit squeezing. It’s not a tomato.”
    “Can I see?” Tony asked.
    “Absolutely not.” But she heard the squeaky shift of weight as the salesman edged the chaise closer.
    “Nobody’s around,” he said, fumbling with her buttons. Then an oily laugh: “I mean,