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y acted calmer； if not serene。 Three hours had passed since he'd last triggered the canine shock collar； an encouraging lull； from Max's point of view。
Now； for reasons unknown； the one…eyed brute was seething again。 To Max Lamb； he announced： 〃Pop quiz。〃
〃On what？〃
Skink rose slowly。 He tucked the remote control in a back pocket。 With both hands he gathered his wild hair and knotted it on one side of his head； above the ear…a misplaced mop of a ponytail。 Then he removed his glass eye and polished it with spit and a crusty bandanna。 Max became further alarmed。
〃Who was here first；〃 Skink asked； 〃the Seminoles or the Tequestas？〃
〃I； uh…I don't know。〃 Max gripped the branch so hard that his knuckles turned pink。
Skink； replacing the artificial eyeball； retrieving the remote control from his pocket： 〃Who was Napoleon Bonaparte Broward？〃
Max Lamb shook his head； helplessly。 Skink shrugged。 〃How about Marjory Stoneman Douglas？〃
〃Yes； yes； wait a minute。〃 The willow limb quivered under Max's nervous buttocks。 〃She wrote The Yearling'。〃
Moments later； regaining consciousness； he found himself in a fetal ball on a mossy patch of ground。 Both knees were scraped from the fall。 His throat and arms still burned from the dog collar's jolt。 Opening his eyes； Max saw the toes of Skink's boots。 He heard a voice as deep as thunder： 〃I should kill you。〃
〃No； don't…〃
〃The arrogance of ing to a place like this and not knowing…〃
〃I'm sorry； captain。〃
〃…not caring to learn…〃
〃I told you； I'm in advertising。〃
Skink slipped a hand under Max Lamb's chin。 〃What do you believe in？〃
〃For God's sake； it's my honeymoon。〃 Max was on the slippery ledge of panic。
〃What do you stand for？ Tell me that； sir。〃
Max Lamb cringed。 〃I can't。〃
Skink chuckled bitterly。 〃For future reference； you got your Marjories mixed up。 Rawlings wrote The Yearling； Douglas wrote River of Grass。 I got a hunch you won't forget。〃
He cleaned the bloody scrapes on Max's legs and told him to put on his clothes。 His confidence fractured； Max dressed in arthritic slow motion。 〃Are you ever going to let me go？〃
Skink seemed not to have heard the question。 〃Know what I'd really like；〃 he said； stoking a new fire。 〃I'd like to meet this bride of yours。〃
〃That's impossible；〃 Max said； hoarsely。
〃Oh； nothing's impossible。〃
Among the stream of outlaws who raced south in the feverish hours following the hurricane was a man named Gil Peck。 His plan was to pass himself off as an experienced mason； steal what he could in the way of advance deposits； then haul ass back to Alabama。 The scam had worked flawlessly against victims of Hurricane Hugo in South Carolina； and Gil Peck was confident it would work in Miami； too。
He arrived in a four…ton flatbed carrying a small but authentic…looking load of red bricks； which he'd ripped off from an unguarded construction site in Mobile…a new cancer wing for a pediatric hospital。 Gil Peck had caught the festive groundbreaking on TV。 That afternoon he'd backed up the flatbed； helped himself to the bricks and driven nonstop to South Florida。
So far； business was booming。 Gil Peck had collected almost twenty…six hundred dollars in cash from half a dozen desperate home owners； all of whom expected him to return the following Saturday morning with his truckload of bricks。 By then； of course； Gil Peck would be northbound and gone。
By day he worked the hustle； by night he scavenged hurricane debris。 The big flatbed conveyed an air of authority； and no one questioned its presence。 Even after curfew； the National Guardsmen waved him through the flashing barricades。
Many valuables had survived the storm's thrashing； and Gil Peck became an expert at mining rubble。 An inventory of his two…day bounty included： a bagel toaster； a Stairmaster； a silver tea set； three offbrand assault rifles； a Panasonic cellular telephone； two pairs of men's golf spikes； a waterproof kilogram package of hashish； a brass chandelier； a scuba tank； a gold class ring from the University of Miami （1979）； a set of police handcuffs； a collection of rare Finnish pornography； a Michael Jackson hand puppet； an unopened bottle of 100…milligram Darvocets； a boxed set of Willie Nelson albums； a Loomis fly rod； a birdcage and twenty…one pairs of women's bikini…style panties。
Exploring the demolished remains of a mobile…home park； Gil Peck was a happy fellow。 There was a bounce to his step as he followed the yellow beam of the flashlight from one ruin to another。 Thanks to the Guard； the Highway Patrol and the Dade County police； Gil Peck was pletely alone and unmolested in the summer night； free to plunder。
And what he spied in the middle of a shuffleboard court made his greedy heart flutter with joy： a jumbo TV dish。 The hurricane undoubtedly had uprooted it from some millionaire's estate and tossed it here； for Gil Peck to salvage。 With the flashlight he traced the outer parabola and found one small 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 c