Fred Dove saw her purse on the kitchen counter. Her wallet lay open on top. Inside he found twenty-two dollars and a Visa card. Fred Dove was relieved; at least the house hadn’t been robbed. He held Edie’s driver’s license under the flashlight; her expression in the photograph spooked him. It was not a portrait of pure trustworthiness and devotion.
Oh well, he thought, lots of girls look like Lizzie Borden on their driver’s license.
The insurance man returned to the living room, lit a candle and sat in the recliner. He wondered where Edie had gone and why she’d left her purse when she knew the streets were crawling with looters. It seemed like she’d departed in a hurry, probably in the Jeep with Snapper.
Fred Dove settled in for a wait. The candle smelled of vanilla. The cozy way it lighted the walls reminded him of the night they nearly made love on the floor, the night Snapper barged in. The humiliation of that moment still stung; it had invested Snapper with indomitable power over the insurance man. That, plus the loaded gun. Fred Dove could hardly wait until the psycho thug was paid off. Then he and Edie would be free of him.
Every so often the insurance man switched on the flashlight and reexamined Edie’s picture on the driver’s license. The vulturine eyes did not soften. Fred Dove wondered if it was her deviousness that he found so arousing. The notion disturbed him, so he retreated to innocuous diversions. He hadn’t known, for example, that her middle name was Deborah. It was a name he liked: plucky, Midwestern and reliable-sounding. He was ‘willing to bet that if you went through every women’s prison in America, you wouldn’t find a half-dozen Deborahs. Perhaps the name had been taken from one of Edie’s grandmothers, or that of a special aunt. In any event, he regarded it as a positive sign.
He wondered, too, about the apartment listed as her address in West Palm: what kind of art Edie had hung, on the walls, what color towels were folded in the bathroom, what sort of homey magnets were stuck on her refrigerator door. Linus and Snoopy? Garfield the Cat? If only, Fred Dove thought. He thought about Edie’s bed, too. He hoped it was king-sized, brass or a big wooden four-poster-anything but a water bed, which negatively affected his thrusting techniques. Fred Dove hoped the sheets on Edie’s bed were imported silk, and that one day she would invite him to lie down on them.
The insurance man stayed in the recliner for more than two hours, long after the neighborhood chain saws and hammers had fallen silent. He finally arose to take a position near a windowpane, in glum preparation to witness the vandalism of his rental car by a group of swaggering, loud-talking teenagers. Mercifully they ignored Fred Dove’s drab sedan, but minutes after they passed the house he heard a pop-pop that could have been the backfire of an automobile, or gunshots. In the backyard Donald and Maria dissolved in frenzy, striking up an irksome chorus with half a dozen other vigilant dogs on the block. Fred Dove’s nerves were fraying fast. He returned Edie’s driver’s license to the purse. Hurriedly he arranged the flowers in a vase and placed it next to the unopened wine on the dining-room table. Then he blew out the candle and went outside to check on the dachshunds.
Tangled impressively in their leashes, the animals whimpered out of hunger, loneliness and general anxiety. Their low-density memories still twitched from the near-fatal encounter with the prowling bear. The moment Fred Dove set them free, the dachshunds clambered up his lap and licked his chin shamelessly. He was suckered into giving them a short walk.
Admiring the unfettered mirth with which Donald and Maria pranced and peed, the insurance man was bothered by the idea that they might spend the whole night outdoors and unattended. He wrote Edie a note and folded it on top of her purse. Then he led the two wiener dogs to his rented sedan, drove back to the motel and smuggled them in a laundry bag up to his room. It was marginally better than all-night movies on cable.