"Shock collar," the kidnapper explained, unnecessarily. "The TriTronics 200. Three levels of stimulation. Range of one mile. Rechargeable nickel-cadmium batteries. Three-year warranty."
Max felt it now, stiff leather against the soft skin of his throat.
"State of the art," said the stranger. "You a bird hunter?"
Max mouthed the word "no."
"Well, trust me. Field trainers swear by these gizmos. Dogs get the message real quick, even Labs." The stranger twirled the remote control like a baton. "Me, I couldn't put one of these on an animal. Fact, I couldn't even try it on you without testing it myself. That's what a big old softy I am."
The kidnapper scratched the crown of the monkey's head. The monkey hopped back and bared its tiny teeth, which were flecked black with Oreo crumbs. The kidnapper laughed.
Max Lamb, quavering: "Keep it away from me!"
"Not an animal person, huh?"
"What is it you want?"
The stranger turned toward the fire.
Max said, "Is it money? Just take whatever I've got."
"Jesus, you're thick." The stranger pushed the red button, and Max Lamb thrashed briefly against his ropes. The monkey skittered away, out of the firelight.
Max looked up to see the psycho, taping him with the video camera! "Say cheese," the stranger said, aiming the Handycam with his good eye.
Max Lamb reddened. He felt spindly and pale in his underwear.
The man said, "I might send this up to Rodale and Burns. What d'you think-for the office Christmas bash? 'How I Spent My Florida Vacation,' starring Max Leo Lamb."
Max sagged. Rodale and Burns was the Madison Avenue advertising agency where he worked. The lunatic had been through his billfold.
"They call me Skink," the kidnapper said. He turned off the Handycam and carefully capped the lens. "But I prefer 'captain.'"
"Captain what?"
"Obviously you were impressed by the hurricane." The stranger packed the video camera in a canvas sleeve. "Myself, I was disappointed. I was hoping for something more ... well, biblical."
Max Lamb said, as respectfully as possible: "It looked pretty bad to me."
"You hungry?" The kidnapper brought a burlap sack to the tree where his prisoner was tied.
"Oh God," said Max Lamb, staring inside the bag. "You can't be serious."
CHAPTER FOUR
Filling the BarcaLounger like a stuffed tuna, Tony Torres encouraged Edie Marsh and Snapper to reveal the details of their aborted scam. Facing a loaded shotgun, they complied.
Snapper gestured sourly toward Edie, who said: "Simple. I fake a fall in your driveway. My 'brother' here threatens to sue. You freak out and offer us money."
"Because you guys know," Tony said, slapping a mosquito on his blubbery neck, "I'll be getting quite a wad of dough on account of the hurricane. Insurance dough."
"Exactly," Edie Marsh said. "Your place is wrecked, last thing you need is a lawsuit. So Snapper says here's an idea: Soon as your hurricane money comes in, cut us a piece and we call it even."
Tony Torres sucked his teeth in amusement. "How big a piece, darling?"
"Whatever we could take you for."
"Ah," said Tony.
"We figured you'd just factor us in the insurance claim. Jack up your losses by a few grand, who'd ever know?"
"Beautiful," Tony said.
"Oh yeah," said Snapper, "fucking genius. Look how good it worked."
He and Edie sat with their backs to the living-room wall; Snapper with his long legs drawn up, Edie's straight out, kneecaps pressed together. A picture of innocence, Tony Torres thought. The runs in her stockings were a nifty touch.
The carpet was sodden from the storm, but Edie Marsh didn't complain. Snapper felt the wetness creeping through the seat of his dress trousers-the annoyance was sufficient that he might kill Tony Torres, if the opportunity presented itself.
Deep in thought, the salesman slurped at a sweaty bottle of imported beer. He'd offered his captives a quart of warm Gatorade, which they'd refused without comment. A humid breeze blew through the fractures in the walls and rocked the bare sixty-watt bulb on its beam. Edie Marsh tilted her head and saw a spray of stars where Tony's ceiling had once been. The noise from the portable generator gave Snapper an oppressive headache.
Eventually, Tony Torres said: "You understand there's no law to speak of. The world's upside down, for the time being."
"You could kill us and get clean away with it. That's what you mean," Snapper said.
Edie looked at him. "You're a tremendous help."
Tony indicated that he preferred not to shoot them. "But here's my thinking," he said. "Tomorrow, maybe the day after, somebody from Midwest Casualty will come see about the house. I expect he'll say it's a total loss, unless he's blind as a bat. Anyway, the good news: I happen to own the place free and clear. Paid it off last March." Tony paused to stifle a burp. "I was having a good run at the office, so what the hell. I paid the mortgage off."
Edie Marsh said: "Salesman of the Year." She had noticed the plaque.
"Mister," Snapper interjected, "you got somethin' I can put under my ass? The rug's all wet. A newspaper maybe?"
"Oh, I think you'll live," said the salesman. "Anyhow, since the bank don't own the house, all the insurance comes to me. As I say, there's the good news. The bad news is, half belongs to my wife. Her name's on the deed."
Snapper asked where she was. Tony Torres said she'd run off three months ago with a parapsychology professor from the university. He said they'd gotten into crystal healing and moved to Eugene, Oregon.
"In a VW van!" he scoffed. "But she'll be back for her cut. Of that there's no doubt. Neria will return. See where I'm headed?"
"Yeah," said Snapper. "You want us to kill your wife."
"Jesus, what a one-track mind you got. No, I don't want you to kill my wife." The salesman appealed to Edie Marsh. "You get it, don't you? Before they cut a check, the insurance company is gonna need both signatures. Me and the missus. And I also believe the adjuster might want to chat face-to-face. What'd you say your name was?"