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Then； on the other side of the door； a gun went off； the dachshunds bayed and Snapper bellowed profanely。
〃Jesus！〃 Edie exclaimed。
The insurance man burrowed in her cleavage。 〃What're we going to do？〃 he asked； desolately。
Avila thought： I'm either dead or dreaming。
Because it should hurt worse than this； being nailed to a cross。 Even if it's only one hand； it should hurt like a mother。 I ought to be screaming at the top of my lungs； instead of just hanging here with a dull ache。 Hanging like a wet flag and staring at。。。
It must be a dream。
Because they don't have lions in Florida。 And that's what that monster is； a full…grown African lion。 King of the motherfucking jungle。 So real you can see the red…brown stains on its mouth。 So real you can smell its piss。 So real you can hear the dead man's spine dear God Almighty being crunched in its fangs。
The lion was eating the doughnut man。
Avila was frozen in the pose of a scarecrow。 He was afraid to blink。 Between bites； the big cat would glance up； yawn； lick its paws； shake the gnats off its mane。 Avila noticed a blue tag fastened to one of its ears； but that wasn't important。
The important thing was： He definitely wasn't dreaming。 The lion was real。 Clearly it was sent to save his life。
And not by the Catholic God…Catholics had no expertise in the summoning of demonic jungle beasts。 No； it was a funkier； more mystical deity who had answered Avila's plea from the cross。
Gracias； Change！ Muchas gracias。
When I get home； Avila promised his santeria guardian； I shall make an offering worthy of royalty。 Chickens； rabbits。 Perhaps I'll even spring for a goat。
In the meantime； Avila implored； please make the lion go away so I can get this fucking nail out of my hand！
The big cat dined leisurely； no more than fifteen yards from the pine tree。 Ira Jackson's hammer lay where he'd dropped it； at Avila's feet。 From marks on the ground； it appeared that the doughnut man had been jumped from behind； swiftly done in； and dragged to the dry weedy patch where the lion now sat； possessively attending the disemboweled； disarticulated corpse。 Ira Jackson's gold chain dangled like spaghetti from the cat's whiskered maw。 It disappeared with a flick of the tongue。
Avila's knowledge of lion eating habits was sketchy； but he couldn't believe the animal could still be hungry after devouring the substantial Mr。 Jackson。 Despite the worsening pain in his hand； Avila remained rock steady against the cross until the lion quit munching and nodded off。
Slowly Avila turned his head to examine the nasty puncture。 His palm was striped with congealed blood。 The nail had penetrated the tough fleshy web between the second and third fingers； which wiggled feebly at Avila's silent bidding。 A moral victory； of sorts…Ira Jackson had failed to break any major bones。
Keeping a close watch on the snoozing lion； and moving with glacial deliberation； Avila tugged his good hand free of the duct tape。 Slowly he reached across and began to work the nail loose from the punctured palm。 The undertaking caused less agony than he'd anticipated； perhaps Chango had anesthetized him as well。
Luckily； the wood of the makeshift crucifix was soft。 In less than a minute the nail pulled out； and Avila's hand fell free； with only a modest geyser of blood。 He inserted the hand forcefully between his shaking knees； and bit his lower lip to stifle a cry。 The lion did not stir。 The exhaust of its snore fluttered the bright remains of Ira Jackson's sports shirt； which clung like a lobster bib to the big cat's throat。
While the beast slept； Avila unwrapped the sticky tape from his ankles。 As he furtively inched clear of the pine tree； his eyes fell on a partially masticated chunk of bone a wee remnant of the doughnut man； but a potent talisman for future santeria rites。
Avila pocketed the moist prize and stole away。
Skink chose to spend the night in the back of the pickup truck。 Shortly after ten； Augustine emerged from the house with a hot Cuban sandwich and two bottles of beer。 Skink winked appreciatively and sat up。 He finished the sandwich in four huge bites； guzzled the beer and said： 〃So she stayed。〃
〃I don't know why。〃
〃Because she's never seen the likes of you。〃
〃Or you；〃 said Augustine。
〃And because her husband behaved poorly。〃
Augustine slouched against the fender。 〃She's here； and I'm glad about it。 Which makes me quite the model of rectitude…a woman on her honeymoon； for Christ's sake。〃
Skink arched a tangled eyebrow。 〃A new low？〃
〃Oh yes。〃
〃Her decision； son。 Don't beat yourself up。〃
Anxiety； not guilt； gnawed at Augustine。 On his present course； he would very soon fall in love with Mrs。 Max Lamb。 How much fragrant late…night snuggling could a man endure？ And Bonnie was an ardent snug…gler； even in platonic mode。 Augustine was racked with worry。 He had no chance whatsoever； not with her hair smelling like bougainvilleas； not with that velvet slope of neck； not with those denim…blue eyes。 He couldn't recall being with a woman who felt so right； nestled in his embrace。 Even her slumbering snorts and sniffles soothed him…that's how hard he was falling。
It's just a kiss away。 Like Mick and Keith said。
A newly married woman。 Brilliant。
Unconsciously Augustine found himself gazing at the window of the guest room。 Soon Bonnie's shadow crossed behind the drapes。 Then the lights went off。
Skink poked him sharply。 〃Settle down。 Nothing'll happen unless she wants it to。〃 He stood in the bed of the pickup for a series of twisting calisthenics； acpanied by preternaturally asthmatic grunts。 That went on for twenty full minutes under the stars。 Augustine watched without interrupting。 Afterwards Skink sat down heavily； rocking the truck。
Pointing at the remaining beer； he said： 〃You gonna drink that？〃
〃Help yourself。〃
〃You're a patient young man。〃
〃I've got nothing but time；〃 Augustine said。 Why rush the guy？
Skink threw back his head and tilted the beer bottle until it was empty。 Pensively he said： 〃You never know how these things'll play out。〃
〃Doesn't matter； captain。 I'm in。〃
〃OK。 Here。〃 He handed Augustine the scrap of paper that Jim Tile had given him at the hospital。 On the paper； the trooper had written： black Jp。 Cherokee BZQ…42F。
Augustine was impressed that Brenda Rourke remembered the license tag； or anything else； after the hideous beating。
Skink said； 〃The plate's stolen。 No surprise there。〃
〃The driver？〃
〃White non…Latin male； late thirties。 Deformed jaw； according to Trooper Rourke。 Plus he wore a pinstriped suit。〃
Skink returned to a sprawled position。 He folded his arms under his head。
Augustine peered over the side of the truck。 〃Where do we start？〃 The man could be all the way to Atlanta by now。
〃I've got some ideas；〃 said the governor。
Augustine was doubtful。 〃The cops'll find him first。〃
〃They're all on hurricane duty； double shifts。 Even the detectives are directing traffic。〃 Skink chuc