Max thought: He’s in shock. Doesn’t even know I’m here.
The youngster didn’t seem to care that his bicycle was destroyed beyond repair. He simply wanted the tree to give it back. He pulled and pulled with all his might. The empty eyes showed no sign of frustration.
Amazing, Max Lamb thought as he peered through the viewfinder. Amazing.
Something jostled his right arm, and the boy’s image in the viewfinder shook. A hand tugged at Max’s sleeve. Cursing, he looked up from the Handycam.
It was a monkey.
Max Lamb pivoted on one heel and aimed the camera at the scrawny animal. Through the viewfinder he saw that the monkey had come through the storm in miserable shape. Its auburn fur was matted and crusty. A bruise as plump as a radish rose from the bridge of its broad velvet nose. The shoe-button eyes were squinty and ringed with milky ooze.
Swaying on its haunches, the monkey bared its gums in a woozy yawn. Listlessly it began to paw at its tail.
“See what we have here-a wild monkey!” Max narrated, for the benefit of future viewers. “Just look at this poor little fella….”
From behind him, a flat voice: “Better watch it, mister.” It was the boy with the broken bicycle.
Max, the Handycam still at his eye, said, “What’s the matter, son?”
“Better watch out for that thing. My dad, he had to shoot one last night.”
“Is that right?” Max smiled to himself. Why would anyone shoot a monkey?
“They’re real sick. That’s what my dad said.”
“Well, I’ll certainly be careful,” said Max Lamb. He heard footsteps as the strange boy ran off.
Through the viewfinder, Max noticed the monkey’s brow was twitching oddly. Suddenly it was airborne. Max lowered the camera just as the animal struck his face, knocking him backward. Miniature rubbery fingers dug at Max’s nostrils and eyes. He cried out fearfully. The monkey’s damp fur smelled awful.
Max Lamb began rolling in the dirt as if he were on fire. Screeching, the wiry little creature let go. Max sat up, scrubbing his face with the sleeves of his shirt. The stinging told him he’d been scratched. For starters he would require a tetanus booster, and then something more potent to counteract the monkey germs.
As he rose to his feet, Max heard chittering behind the palm tree. He was poised to run, until he spotted the monkey loping with an addled gait in the opposite direction. It was dragging something by a strap.
Max Lamb was enraged. The damn thing was stealing his Handycam! Idiotically he gave pursuit.
An hour later, when Bonnie Lamb went looking for her husband, he was gone.
Two uniformed Highway Patrol troopers stood in the rain at the top of the bridge. One was a tall, powerfully built black man. The other officer was a woman of milky smooth complexion and medium height, with a bun of reddish-brown hair. Together they leaned against the concrete rail and stared down a long length of broken rope, dangling in the breeze over the choppy brown water.
Five motorists had phoned on their cellulars to report that a crazy man was tied to the Card Sound Bridge. That was only hours before the hurricane, when every police officer within fifty miles had been busy evacuating the sane. Nobody had time for jumpers, so nobody checked the bridge.
The black trooper had been sent to Miami all the way from Liberty County, in northern Florida, to help clear traffic for the rescue convoys. At the command center he’d caught a glimpse of the incident notation in the dispatch log-“White male, 40-50 yrs old, 190-220 Ibs, gray hair/beard, possible psych, case”-and decided to sneak down to North Key Largo for a look. Technically he was assigned to Homestead, but in the post-storm chaos it was easy to roam and not be missed. He had asked the other trooper to ride with him, and even though she was off duty she’d said yes.
Now motorists crossing the steetj bridge braked in curiosity at the sight of the two troopers at the top. What’re they looking at, Mom? Is there a dead body in the water?