chiaasen.stormyweather-第20部分

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ll　dent。　Otherwise　the　eight…foot　satellite　receiver　was　in　top　condition。
　
　Gil　Peck　grinned　and　thought：　Man；　I　must　be　living　right。　A　dish　that　big　was　worth　a　couple…grand；　easy。　Gil　Peck　thought　it　might　fit　nicely　in　his　own　backyard；　behind　the　chicken　coops。　He　envisioned　free　HBO　for　the　rest　of　his　natural　life。
　
　He　walked　around　to　the　other　side　to　make　sure　there　was　no　additional　damage。　He　was　shocked　by　what　his　flashlight　revealed：　Inside　the　TV　dish　was　a　dead　man；　splayed　and　mounted　like　a　butterfly。
　
　The　dead　man　was　impaled　on　the　cone　of　the　receiver　pipe；　but　it　wasn't　the　evil　work　of　the　hurricane。　His　hands　and　feet　had　been　meticulously　bound　to　the　gridwork　in　a　pose　of　crucifixion。　The　dead　man　himself　was　obese　and　balding；　and　bore　no　resemblance　to　the　Jesus　Christ　of　Gil　Peck's　strict　Baptist　upbringing。　Nonetheless；　the　sight　unnerved　the　bogus　mason　to　the　point　of　whimpering。
　
　He　switched　off　the　flashlight　and　sat　on　the　shuffle…board　court　to　steady　himself。　Stealing　the　TV　saucer　obviously　was　out　of　the　question；　Gil　Peck　was　working　up　the　nerve　to　swipe　the　expensive　watch　he'd　spotted　on　the　crucified　guy's　left　wrist。
　
　Except　for　kissing　his　grandmother　in　her　casket；　Gil　Peck　had　never　touched　a　corpse　before。　Thank　God；　he　thought；　the　guy's　eyes　are　closed。　Gingerly　Gil　Peck　climbed　into　the　satellite　dish；　which　rocked　under　the　added　weight。　Holding　the　flashlight　in　his　mouth；　he　aimed　the　beam　at　the　dead　man's　gold　Cartier。
　
　The　clasp　on　the　watchband　was　a　bitch。　Rigor　mortis　contributed　to　the　difficulty　of　Gil　Peck's　task；　the　crucified　guy　refused　to　surrender　the　timepiece。　The　more　Gil　Peck　struggled　with　the　corpse；　the　more　the　TV　saucer　rolled　back　and　forth　on　its　axis；　like　a　top。　Gil　Peck　was　getting　dizzy　and　mad。　Just　as　he　managed　to　slip　a　penknife　between　the　taut　skin　and　the　watch…band；　the　dead　man　expelled　an　audible　blast　of　postmortem　flatulence。　The　detonation　sent　Gil　Peck　diving　in　terror　from　the　satellite　dish。
　
　Edie　Marsh　paid　a　neighbor　kid　to　siphon　gas　from　Snapper's　abandoned　car　and　crank　up　Tony　Torres's　portable　generator。　Edie　gave　the　kid　a　five…dollar　bill　that　she'd　found　hidden　with　five　others　inside　a　toolbox　in　the　salesman's　garage。　It　was　a　pitiful　excuse　for　a　stash；　Edie　was　sure　there　had　to　be　more。
　
　At　dusk　she　gave　up　the　search　and　planted　herself　in　Tony's　BarcaLounger；　a　crowbar　at　her　side。　She　turned　up　the　volume　of　the　television　as　loudly　as　she　could　stand；　to　block　out　the　rustles　and　whispers　of　the　night。　Without　doors；　windows　or　a　roof；　the　Torres　house　was　basically　an　open　campsite。　Outside　was　black　and　creepy；　people　wandered　like　spirits　through　the　unlit　streets。　Edie　Marsh　had　the　jitters；　being　alone。　She　gladly　would　have　fled　in　Tony's　huge　boat　of　a　Chevrolet；　if　it　hadn't　been　blocked　in　the　driveway　by　Snapper's　car；　which　Edie　would　have　gladly　swiped　if　only　Snapper　hadn't　taken　the　damn　keys　with　him。　So　she　was　stuck　at　the　Torres　house　until　daybreak；　when　it　might　be　safe　for　a　woman　to　travel　on　foot　with　two　miniature　dachshunds。
　
　She　planned　to　get　out　of　Dade　County　before　anything　else　went　wrong。　The　expedition　was　a　disaster；　and　Edie　blamed　no　one　but　herself。　Nothing　in　her　modest　criminal　past　had　prepared　her　for　the　hazy　and　menacing　vibe　of　the　hurricane　zone。　Everyone　was　on　edge；　evil；　violence　and　paranoia　ripened　in　the　shadows。　Edie　Marsh　was　out　of　her　league　here。　Tomorrow　she'd　hitch　a　ride　to　West　Palm　and　close　up　the　apartment。　Then　she'd　take　the　Amtrak　home　to　Jacksonville；　and　try　to　make　up　with　her　boyfriend。　She　estimated　that　reconciliation　would　require　at　least　a　week's　worth　of　blow　jobs；　considering　how　much　she'd　stolen　from　his　checking　account。　But　eventually　he'd　take　her　back。　They　always　did。
　
　Edie　Marsh　was　suffering　through　a　TV　quiz　show　when　she　heard　a　man's　voice　calling　from　the　front　doorway。　She　thought：　Tony！　The　pig　is　back。
　
　She　grabbed　the　crowbar　and　sprung　from　the　chair。　The　man　at　the　door　raised　his　arms。　〃Easy；〃　he　said。
　
　It　wasn't　Tony　Torres。　This　person　was　a　slender　blond　with　round　eyeglasses　and　a　tan　briefcase　and　matching　Hush　Puppy　shoes。　In　one　hand　he　carried　a　manila　file　folder。
　
　〃What　do　you　want？〃　Edie　held　the　crowbar　casually；　as　if　she　carried　it　at　all　times。
　
　〃Didn't　mean　to　scare　you；〃　the　man　said。　〃My　name　is　Fred　Dove。　I'm　with　Midwest　Casualty。〃
　
　〃Oh。〃　Edie　Marsh　felt　a　pleasant　tingle。　Like　the　first　time　she'd　met　one　of　the　young　Kennedys。
　
　With　a　glance　at　the　file；　Fred　Dove　said；　〃Maybe　I've　got　the　wrong　street。　This　is　15600　Calusa？〃
　
　〃That's　correct。〃
　
　〃And　you're　Mrs。　Torres？〃
　
　Edie　smiled。　〃Please；〃　she　said；　〃call　me　Neria。〃
　
　
　
　CHAPTER　EIGHT
　
　
　Bonnie　and　Augustine　were　cutting　a　pizza　when　Augustine's　FBI　friend　stopped　by　to　pick　up　the　tape　of　Max　Lamb's　latest　message。　He　listened　to　it　several　times　on　the　cassette　player　in　Augustine's　living　room。　Bonnie　studied　the　FBI　man's　expression；　which　remained　intently　neutral。　She　supposed　it　was　something　they　worked　on　at　the　academy。
　
　When　he　finished　playing　the　tape；　the　FBI　agent　turned　to　Augustine　and　said；　〃I've　read　it　somewhere。　That　'creaking　machinery　of　humanity。'〃
　
　〃Me；　too。　I've　been　racking　my　brain。〃
　
　〃God；　I　can　just　see　'em　up　in　Washington；　giving　it　to　a　crack　team　of　shrinks…〃
　
　〃Or　cryptographers；〃　Augustine　said。
　
　The　FBI　man　smiled。　〃Exactly。〃　He　accepted　a　hot　slice　of　pepperoni　for　the　road；　and　said　good　night。
　
　Augustine　asked　Bonnie　a　question　at　which　the　agent　had　only　hinted：　Was　it　conceivable　that　Max　Lamb　could　have　written　something　like　that　himself？
　
　〃Never；〃　she　said。　Her　husband　was　into　ditties　and　jingles；　not　metaphysics。　〃And　he　doesn't　read　much；〃　she　added。　〃The　last　book　he　finished　was　one　of　Trump's　autobiographies。〃
　
　It　was　enough　to　convince　Augustine　that　Max　Lamb　wasn't　being　coy　on　the　phone；　the　mystery　man　was　feeding　him　lines。　Augustine　didn't　know　why。　The　situation　was　exceedingly　strange。
　
　Bonnie　took　a　shower。　She　came　out　wearing　a　baby…blue　flannel　nightshirt　that　Augustine　recognized　from　a　long…ago　relationship。　Bonnie　had　found　it　hanging　in　a　closet。
　
　〃Is　there　a　story　to　go　with　it？〃　she　asked。
　
　〃A　torrid　one。〃
　
　〃Really？〃　Bonnie　sat　beside　him　on　the　sofa；　at　a　purely　friendly　distance。　〃Let　me　guess：　Flight　attendant？〃
　
　Augustine　said；　〃Letterman's　a　rerun。〃
　
　〃Cocktail　waitress？　Fashion　model？〃
　
　〃I'm　beat。〃　Augustine　picked　up　a　book；　a　biography　of　Lech　Walesa；　and　flipped　it　open　to　the　middle。
　
　〃Aerobics　instructor？　Legal　secretary？〃
　
　〃Surgical　intern；〃　Augustine　said。　〃She　tried　to　cut　out　my　kidneys　one　night　in　the　shower。〃
　
　〃That's　the　scar　on　your　back？　The　Y。〃
　
　〃At　least　she　wasn't　a　urologist。〃　He　closed　the　book　and　picked　up　the　channel　changer　for　the　television。
　
　Bonnie　said；　〃You　cheated　on　her。〃
　
　〃Nope；　but　she　thought　I　did。　She　also　thought　the　bathtub　was　full　of　centipedes；　Cuban　spies　were　spiking　her　lemonade；　and　Richard　Nixon　was　working　the　night　shift　at　the　Farm　Store　on　Bird　Road。〃
　
　〃　Drug　problem　？〃
　
　〃Evidently。〃　Augustine　found　a　Dodgers　game　on　ESPN　and　tried　to　appear　engrossed。
　
　Bonnie　Lamb　asked　to　see　the　scar　closely；　but　he　declined。　〃The　lady　had　poor　technique；〃　he　said。
　
　〃She　use　a　real　scalpel？〃
　
　〃No；　a　corkscrew。〃
　
　〃My　God。〃
　
　〃What　is　it　with　women　and　scars？〃
　
　Bonnie　said；　〃I　knew　it。　You've　been　asked　before。〃
　
　Was　she　flirting？　Augustine　wasn't　sure。　He　had　no　point　of　reference　when　it　came　to　married　women　whose　husbands　recently　had　disappeared。
　
　〃How's　this；〃　he　said。　〃You　tell　me　all　about　your　husband；　and　maybe　I'll　show　you　the　damn　scar。〃
　
　〃Deal；〃　said　Bonnie　Lamb；　tugging　the　nightshirt　down　to　cover　her　knees。
　
　Max　Lamb　met　and　fell　in　love　with　Bonnie　Brooks　when　she　was　an　assistant　publicist　for　Crespo　Mills　Internationale；　a　leading　producer　of　snack　and　breakfast　foods。　Rodale　&　Burns　had　won　the　lu