chiaasen.stormyweather-第73部分

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　〃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　oning　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　pletely　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　mand　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　investigation；　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　puters。
　
　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　sta