The house he and Edie Marsh had chosen wasn’t empty, dark or quiet. A bare light bulb had been strung from the skeletal remains of the roof, and the gray-blue glow of a television set pulsed against the plaster. These luxuries were explained by the rumble of a portable generator. Edie and Snapper had seen a fat man gassing it up earlier in the day.
The street was either Turtle Meadow Lane or Calusa Drive, depending on which of the fallen street signs was accurate. The number “15600” was sprayed in red paint
on an outside wall of the house, as was the name of the insurance company: “Midwest Casualty.”
A big outfit, Edie noted. She’d seen the commercials on television; the company’s symbol was a badger.
“A badger?” Snapper frowned. “The fuck does a badger have to do with insurance?”
“I dunno.” Edie’s mouth was dry. She felt sleepy. “What does a cougar have to do with cars? It’s just advertising is all.”
Snapper said, “The only thing I know about badgers is they’re stubborn. And the last goddamn thing we need’s a stubborn insurance company.”
Edie said, “For heaven’s sake-”
“Let’s find another house.”
“No!” Weaving slightly, she crossed the street toward 15600.
“You hear me?” Snapper called, then started after her.
Edie wheeled in the driveway. “Let’s do it!” she said. “Right now, while it’s quiet.”
Snapper hesitated, working his jaw like a dazed boxer.
“Come on!” Edie tugged her hair out of the bun and mussed it into a nest in front of her face. Then she hitched her dress and raked her fingernails up both thighs, tearing tracks in her nylons.
Snapper checked to make sure none of the neighborhood vigilantes were watching. Edie picked a place on the driveway and stretched out, facedown. Using two broken roof trusses, Snapper did a superb job setting the scene. Edie was pinned.
From under the debris, she said, “Blood would help.”
Snapper kicked a nail toward her left hand. “Take it easy.”
Edie Marsh held her breath and scratched the point of the nail from her elbow to her wrist. It hurt like a bitch. She wiped her arm across one cheek to smear the blood for dramatic effect. On cue, Snapper began shouting for help. Edie was impressed; he sounded damn near sincere.
Max Lamb congratulated himself for stocking up on video supplies before they drove down from Orlando. Other tourists had not come so prepared for the hurricane and could be seen foraging through luggage in a manic search for spare tapes and batteries. Meanwhile, pausing only to reload, Max Lamb was compiling dramatic footage of a historic natural disaster. Even if C-SPAN wasn’t interested, his friends in New York would be. Max was a junior account executive at a medium-sized advertising firm, and there were many persons whom he yearned to impress. Max was handy with the Sony, but it wouldn’t hurt to seek professional assistance; he knew of a place on East Fiftieth Street that edited home videos and, for a small extra charge, added titles and credits. It would be perfect! Once Bonnie settled down, Max Lamb would ask her about throwing a cocktail party where they could screen the hurricane tapes for his clients and his colleagues at the agency.
Max trotted with predatory energy from one wrecked homestead to another, the video camera purring in his hand. He was so absorbed in recording the tragedy that he forgot about his wife, who had stopped following three blocks ago. Max had wanted to show Bonnie how to use the camera so he could pose amid hurricane debris; she’d told him she would rather swallow a gallon of lye.
For editing purposes, Max Lamb kept a mental inventory of his best shots. He had plenty of rubble scenes, and felt the need to temper the visual shock with moments of poignancy-vignettes that would capture the human toll, spiritual as well as physical.
A mangled bicycle grabbed Max’s attention. The hurricane had wrapped it, as snug as a wedding band, around the trunk of a coconut palm. A boy no older than eight was trying to remove the bike. Max dropped to one knee and zoomed in on the youngster’s face as he tugged grimly on the bent handlebars. The boy’s expression was dull and cold, his lips pressed tight in concentration.