alligator slide out of the sawgrass. Skink told him to quit whimpering and kick; he himself swam with the rejuvenated monkey perched on his head. One huge hand held Max’s precious Sony and the remote control for the dog collar high above the water.
After scrabbling ashore, Max said, “Captain, can we rest?”
“Ever seen a leech before? ’Cause there’s a good one on your cheek.”
After Max Lamb finished flaying himself, Skink retied his wrists and refastened the dog collar. Then he sprayed him down with insect repellent. Max croaked out a thank-you.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“The Everglades,” Skink replied. “More or less.”
“You promised I could call my wife.”
“Soon.”
They headed west, trudging through palmettos and pinelands shredded by the storm. The monkey scampered ahead, foraging wild berries and fruit buds.
Max said: “Are you going to kill me?”
Skink stopped walking. “Every time you ask that stupid question, you’re going to get it.” He set the remote on the weakest setting. “Ready?”
Max Lamb clenched his lips. Skink stung him with a light jolt. The tourist twitched stoically. Soon they came to a Miccosukee village, which was not as badly damaged as Max Lamb would have imagined. Since the Indians were awake, cooking food, Max assumed it would soon be dawn. In open doorways the children gathered shyly to look at the two strange white men: Skink with his brambly hair, ill-fitting eye and mangy monkey, Max Lamb in his dirty underwear and dog collar.
Skink stopped at a wooden house and spoke quietly to a Miccosukee elder, who brought out a cellular phone. As he untied Max’shands, Skink warned: “One call is all you get. He says the battery’s running low.”
Max realized that he didn’t know how to reach his wife. He had no idea where she was. So he called their apartment in New York and spoke to the answering machine: “Honey, I’ve been kidnapped—”
“Abducted!” Skink broke in. “Kidnapping implies ransom, Max. Don’t fucking flatter yourself.”
“OK, ‘abducted.’ Honey, I’ve been abducted. I can’t say very much except I’m fine, all things considered. Please call my folks, and also call Pete up at Rodale about the Bronco billboard project. Tell him the race car should be red, not blue. The file’s on my desk.… Bonnie, I’m not sure who’s got me, or why, but I guess I’ll find out soon enough. God, I hope you pick up this message—”
Skink snatched the phone. “I love you, Bonnie,” he said. “Max forgot to tell you, so I will. Bye now.”
They ate with the Miccosukees, who declined Skink’s offer of boiled coon but generously shared helpings of fried panfish, yams, cornmeal muffins and citrus juice. Max Lamb ate heartily but, mindful of the electric dog collar, said little. After breakfast, Skink tied him to a cypress post and disappeared with several men of the tribe. When he returned, he declared it was time to leave.
Max said, “Where’s my stuff?” He was worried about his billfold and clothes.
“Right here.” Skink jerked a thumb toward his backpack.
“And my Sony?”
“Gave it to the old man. He’s got seven grandchildren, so he’ll have a ball.”
“What about my tapes?”
Skink laughed. “He loved ’em. That monkey attack was something special. Max, lift your arms.” He spritzed the prisoner with more bug juice.
Max Lamb, somberly: “That Handycam retails for about nine hundred bucks.”
“It’s not like I gave it away. I traded.”
“For what?”
Skink chucked him on the shoulder. “I’ll bet you’ve never been on an airboat.”
“Oh no. Please.”
“Hey, you wanted to see Florida.”
• • •
It wasn’t easy being a black Highway Patrol trooper in Florida. It was even harder if you were involved intimately with a white trooper, the way Jim Tile was involved with Brenda Rourke.
They’d met at a training seminar about the newest gadgets for clocking speeders. In the
After scrabbling ashore, Max said, “Captain, can we rest?”
“Ever seen a leech before? ’Cause there’s a good one on your cheek.”
After Max Lamb finished flaying himself, Skink retied his wrists and refastened the dog collar. Then he sprayed him down with insect repellent. Max croaked out a thank-you.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“The Everglades,” Skink replied. “More or less.”
“You promised I could call my wife.”
“Soon.”
They headed west, trudging through palmettos and pinelands shredded by the storm. The monkey scampered ahead, foraging wild berries and fruit buds.
Max said: “Are you going to kill me?”
Skink stopped walking. “Every time you ask that stupid question, you’re going to get it.” He set the remote on the weakest setting. “Ready?”
Max Lamb clenched his lips. Skink stung him with a light jolt. The tourist twitched stoically. Soon they came to a Miccosukee village, which was not as badly damaged as Max Lamb would have imagined. Since the Indians were awake, cooking food, Max assumed it would soon be dawn. In open doorways the children gathered shyly to look at the two strange white men: Skink with his brambly hair, ill-fitting eye and mangy monkey, Max Lamb in his dirty underwear and dog collar.
Skink stopped at a wooden house and spoke quietly to a Miccosukee elder, who brought out a cellular phone. As he untied Max’shands, Skink warned: “One call is all you get. He says the battery’s running low.”
Max realized that he didn’t know how to reach his wife. He had no idea where she was. So he called their apartment in New York and spoke to the answering machine: “Honey, I’ve been kidnapped—”
“Abducted!” Skink broke in. “Kidnapping implies ransom, Max. Don’t fucking flatter yourself.”
“OK, ‘abducted.’ Honey, I’ve been abducted. I can’t say very much except I’m fine, all things considered. Please call my folks, and also call Pete up at Rodale about the Bronco billboard project. Tell him the race car should be red, not blue. The file’s on my desk.… Bonnie, I’m not sure who’s got me, or why, but I guess I’ll find out soon enough. God, I hope you pick up this message—”
Skink snatched the phone. “I love you, Bonnie,” he said. “Max forgot to tell you, so I will. Bye now.”
They ate with the Miccosukees, who declined Skink’s offer of boiled coon but generously shared helpings of fried panfish, yams, cornmeal muffins and citrus juice. Max Lamb ate heartily but, mindful of the electric dog collar, said little. After breakfast, Skink tied him to a cypress post and disappeared with several men of the tribe. When he returned, he declared it was time to leave.
Max said, “Where’s my stuff?” He was worried about his billfold and clothes.
“Right here.” Skink jerked a thumb toward his backpack.
“And my Sony?”
“Gave it to the old man. He’s got seven grandchildren, so he’ll have a ball.”
“What about my tapes?”
Skink laughed. “He loved ’em. That monkey attack was something special. Max, lift your arms.” He spritzed the prisoner with more bug juice.
Max Lamb, somberly: “That Handycam retails for about nine hundred bucks.”
“It’s not like I gave it away. I traded.”
“For what?”
Skink chucked him on the shoulder. “I’ll bet you’ve never been on an airboat.”
“Oh no. Please.”
“Hey, you wanted to see Florida.”
• • •
It wasn’t easy being a black Highway Patrol trooper in Florida. It was even harder if you were involved intimately with a white trooper, the way Jim Tile was involved with Brenda Rourke.
They’d met at a training seminar about the newest gadgets for clocking speeders. In the
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