"Don't you dare." Edie was woozy, but sharply she dug both elbows into Fred Dove's ribs.
"I'm waiting," said Snapper.
Edie felt the insurance man stiffen against the ropes. Then she heard him say: "A hundred forty-one thousand dollars."
"Moron! "Edie hissed.
"But you won't get a dime," Fred Dove warned Snapper, "without me and Edie."
"That a fact?"
"Yes, sir."
"Not a goddamn cent," Edie agreed, "because guess who's getting the settlement check. Missus Neria Torres. Me."
Snapper aimed the flashlight on Edie's face, which bore a puffy salmon imprint of his shoe. "Sweetie," he said, "it's hard to sign a check if you're in a body cast. Understand?"
She turned away from the harsh light and silently cursed her lousy taste in convicts.
Fred Dove said to Snapper: "You ought to untie us."
"Well, listen to Santy Claus!"
Edie's pulse jackhammered in her temples. "You know what it is, Fred? Snapper's jealous. See, it's not about the insurance money. It's that I was going to make love to you—"
"Haw!" Snapper exclaimed.
"-and he knows," Edie went on, "he knows I wouldn't do it with him for all the money in Fort Knox!"
Snapper laughed. Nudging Fred Dove with a toe, he said, "Don't kid yourself, bubba. She'd fuck a syphilitic porky-pine, she thought there was a dollar in it."
"Nice talk," Edie said. God Almighty, her head hurt.
The insurance man fought to steady his nerves. He was flabbergasted to find himself in the middle of something so ugly, complicated and dangerous. Only hours ago the arrangement seemed foolproof and exciting: a modestly fraudulent claim, a beautiful and uninhibited co-conspirator, a wild fling in an abandoned hurricane house.
A bright-red condom seemed appropriate.
Then out of nowhere appeared this Snapper person, a hard-looking sort and an authentic criminal, judging by what Fred Dove had seen and heard. The insurance man didn't want such a violent character for a third partner. On the other hand, he didn't want to die or be harmed seriously enough to require hospitalization. Blue Cross would demand facts, as would Fred Dove's wife.
So he offered Snapper forty-seven thousand dollars. "That's how it splits three ways."
Snapper swung the flashlight to Fred Dove's face. He said, "You figured that up in your head? No pencil and paper, that's pretty good."
Yeah, thought Edie Marsh. Thank you, Dr Einstein.
Fred Dove said to Snapper: "Do we have a deal?"
"Fair is fair." He rose from the BarcaLounger and made his way to the garage. Within moments the portable generator belched to life. Snapper returned to the living room and turned on the solitary lightbulb. Then, kneeling beside Fred Dove and Edie Marsh, he cut the curtain sash off their wrists.
"Let's go eat," he said. "I'm fuckin' starved."
Fred Dove rose shakily. He modestly locked his hands in front of his crotch. "I'm taking this thing off," he declared.
"The rubber?" Snapper gave him a thumbs-up. "You do that." He glanced at Edie, who made no effort to cover her breasts or anything else. She eyed Snapper in a dark poisonous way.
He said, "That's how you goin' to Denny's? Fine by me. Maybe we'll get a free pie."
Wordlessly Edie walked behind the Naugahyde recli-ner, picked up the crowbar she'd left there, took two steps toward Snapper, and swung at him with all her strength. He went down squalling.
Weapon in hand, Edie Marsh straddled him. Her damp and tangled hair had fallen to cover the bruised half of her face. To Fred Dove, she looked untamed and dazzling and alarmingly capable-of homicide. He feared' he was about to witness his first.
Edie inserted the sharp end of the crowbar between Snapper's deviated jawbones, pinning his bloodless tongue to his teeth.
"Kick me again," she said, "and I'll have your balls in a blender."
Fred Dove snatched his pants and his briefcase, and ran.
They returned the borrowed speedboat to the marina and went back to Coral Gables. With great effort they carried the man known as Skink into Augustine's house.
Max Lamb was unnerved by the wall of grinning skulls, but said nothing as he made his way down the hall to the shower. Augustine got on the telephone to sort out what had happened with his dead uncle's Cape buffalo. Bonnie fixed a pot of coffee and took it to the guest room, where the governor was recovering from the animal dart. He and Jim Tile were talking when Bonnie walked in. She wanted to stay and listen to this improbable stranger, but she felt she was intruding. The men's conversation was serious, held in low tones. She heard Skink say: "Brenda's a strong one. She'll make it."
Then, Jim Tile: "I've tried every prayer I know."
As Bonnie slipped out the door, she encountered Max, sucking on a cigaret as he emerged from the bathroom. She resolved to be forbearing about her husband's odious new habit, which he blamed on the battlefield stress of the abduction.
She followed him to the living room and sat beside him on the sofa. There, in sensational detail, he described the torture he'd received at the hands of the one-eyed misfit.
"The dog collar," Bonnie Lamb said.
"That's right. Look at my neck." Max opened the top buttons of his shirt, which he'd borrowed from Augustine. "See the burns? See?"
Bonnie didn't notice any marks, but nodded sympathetically. "So you definitely want to prosecute."
"Absolutely!" Max Lamb detected doubt in his wife's voice. "Christ, Bonnie, he could've murdered me."
She squeezed his hand. "I still don't understand why-why he did it in the first place."
"With a fruitcake like that, who knows." Max Lamb purposely didn't mention Skink's disgust with the hurricane videos; he remembered that Bonnie felt the same way.
She said, "I think he needs professional help."
"No, sweetheart, he needs a professional jail." Max lifted his chin and blew smoke at the ceiling.
"Honey, let's think about this—"
But he pulled away from her, bolting for the phone, which Augustine had just hung up. "I'd better call Pete Archibald," Max Lamb said over his shoulder, "let everyone at Rodale know I'm OK."
Bonnie Lamb got up and went to the guest room. The governor was sitting upright in bed, but his eyes were half shut. His ragged beard was finely crusted with ocean salt. Jim Tile, his Stetson tucked under one arm, stood near the window.