Nature Girl

Sixteen

The vice mayor of Everglades City borrowed from his neighbor a skiff rigged with a 35-horsepower outboard and an eighteen-foot graphite pole for pushing across the shallows. Perry Skinner brought a cooler of water and food, a spotlight, two bedrolls and the.45 semiautomatic. Fry, who was still hammered from the pain medicine, dozed in the bow for an hour while his father poked around Chokoloskee Bay. There was no sign of Honey and her guests, or of Louis Piejack’s johnboat.

Fry awoke as the sun was setting.

“What now?” he asked his father.

“We keep lookin’.”

“Can I take off this helmet? I feel okay.”

“You lie.” Perry Skinner knew that Honey would blame him if anything happened to the boy. She would, in fact, go berserk.

Fry felt his ribs and grimaced. “It’s gettin’ dark,” he said.

“Better for us.”

“But they’ll hear us coming a mile away.”

“Give me some credit, son.”

Perry Skinner hadn’t forgotten the art of night running, which was essential to prospering as a pot smuggler in the islands. He had never been busted on the water because the feds couldn’t find him, much less catch him. They’d arrested him on dry land at daybreak, along with half the male population of Everglades City. Five DEA guys had come crashing through the screen door, Honey half-naked and hurling a fondue pot at the lead agent, who’d been too entertained to book her.

During his outlaw career Skinner had been exceptionally cautious and discreet. His only mistake was trusting a man he’d known since kindergarten. To save his own hide, the friend had ratted out both Perry and Perry’s brother, betrayal being the boilerplate denouement of most drug-running enterprises. Skinner only fleetingly had contemplated revenge against the person who’d turned him in. It was, after all, his first cousin.

The shit had gone down before Fry was born, and he wouldn’t have been born at all if Honey Santana hadn’t been waiting for Skinner when he got out of prison; waiting in a lemon-colored sundress and white sandals. It was a total surprise, especially the smile. She’d mailed 147 letters to Skinner while he was locked up; few were conciliatory and none were forgiving. Yet there she’d been, all dressed up and glowing in the Pensacola sunshine when he’d stepped through the gates at Eglin. The first words from her mouth were: “If you ever run another load of weed, I’m gonna cut off your pecker and grind it into snapper chum.”

Perry Skinner had resumed a life of honest crabbing, and things at home had been good, for a while.

“You gave the GPS to your mom?” he asked Fry.

“Yep.”

“And showed her how to use it?”

“I tried,” Fry said.

“What are the odds?”

“Fifty-fifty. She still can’t figure out the cruise control on her car.”

Nothing ever changes, Skinner thought. “How are you feelin’? And tell the truth.”

“Shitty.”

“That’s more like it.” Skinner was still worried about bringing Fry. He was not a fan of hospitals, and leaving the boy with strangers in the emergency room had seemed unthinkable at the time.

“You gonna shoot him, Dad?”

“Piejack? If it comes to that, yeah.”

“But what if we’re too late? What if he already did something bad to Mom?”

“Then he dies for sure,” Skinner said.

Fry nodded. It was the answer he’d expected.

Louis Piejack hadn’t heard anyone sneak up behind him. The blow had caught him at the base of the skull and he was out cold before he hit the cactus patch.

At dusk he regained consciousness, roused by an onslaught of medieval pain. He thrashed free of the clinging limbs, lost his balance and skidded backward into a ravine full of Busch beer cans. His landing sounded like a Krome Avenue head-on.

In the twilight, the prone and panting Piejack surveyed upon his fishy clothing and sunburned flesh a bristle of fine needles. Incessant stinging enabled him to map mentally a pattern of perforation extending from his forehead to his shins. Miraculously spared from puncture were the tender digits protruding from the grubby gauze on his left hand. Unfortunately, because of the surgical bungling, his forefinger and thumb were now situated so far apart and at such inopportune angles as to render impossible the simplest of tweezing motions. Consequently Piejack had to rely on his weaker and less facile right hand to pluck at the tiny cactus spines, the number of which he calculated to exceed one hundred.

A less inspired degenerate might have been laid low by such a handicap, but Piejack quickly collected himself. He didn’t much care who’d clobbered him, or why. He wasn’t overly concerned about losing his shotgun, or forgetting where he’d beached the johnboat. Nor did he feel especially motivated to hunt down his former captive, the fatass suit with the video camera, before the law came looking.

Louis Piejack had only one thing on his mind: Honey Santana.

He was fixated in the twitchy, pathological style of true-blue stalkers, and as he lay throbbing among the rusted beer cans he found himself deliciously reliving the single lightning-quick grope that had catapulted him toward this adventure; a deftly aimed hand, snaking out to cup Honey’s magnificent right breast as she’d unsuspectingly leaned over the display cooler to set on chipped ice a tray of fresh wahoo steaks. That she’d been wearing a bra had in no way diminished Piejack’s thrill; if anything, the intimate crinkle of fingertip upon fabric had only heightened his arousal.

Honey’s retaliatory malleting had caught him off guard, yet he’d experienced only the slightest ebb of lust as his nuts swelled to the size of Brazilian limes. Soon thereafter Piejack had been abducted by the Miami thugs and subjected to the sadistic stone-crab torture.

In fact, his whole existence had been a scroll of searing agony since he’d fondled Honey Santana, yet he desired her more avidly than ever. He’d come to believe that she secretly felt the same way, a pathetic delusion fueled by Honey’s surprise visit to his house. It was true that she’d hastily fled, but Piejack had chosen to interpret her apparent revulsion to his overtures as a tease.

Possessing Honey would be a triumph-and also a dagger in the soul of her ex-husband, the man who Piejack believed was responsible for the mutilation of his hand. He could hardly wait to be seen, arm in arm with his new mate, strolling the waterfront of Everglades City.

Piejack had no particular plan for capturing Honey; lust alone was his co-pilot. Even after the cacti encounter his focus remained singular and unbreakable, for his pain was so intense as to erase such primal distractions as thirst, hunger and exhaustion.

Under a rising moon he emerged from the pile of cans and on pricked knees began to ascend the shell mound from which he’d earlier fallen. After reaching the top he wilted feverishly, hurt pulsing in every pore. Feminine voices rose from the campsite below, and Piejack rallied with the hope that one of them belonged to Honey. He thought about the other woman in the group-the big blonde who’d gone topless in the kayak-and he fantasized for himself a star role in a writhing, glistening three-some. He recalled that the male camper was of lumpy build and not much good with a paddle, and from him Piejack foresaw minimal resistance. The man would either flee on impulse or be hurled into the creek.

Like a rheumatic old crocodile, Piejack began his long crawl, guided by the soft voices and a reddish smudge of flame at the edge of his vision.

Dear Geenie,

Last night in my truck was magikal and prefect. I never had such amayzing you-no-what!

Truly I believe we’re destinationed to be together for eternalty, and I will do everthing in my par to make it happen!!! I am a man of my werd, as soon you’ll find out.

Yours fourever,

V. Bonneville

What a fucking Neanderthal, thought Boyd Shreave. The woman’s obviously got a thing for primitive hunks.

“What are you doing down there with the flashlight?” Eugenie Fonda inquired. “Or maybe I don’t want to know.”

“Just reading,” Shreave replied crossly.

“Right. Under a blanket in the woods.”

“I’m not up for socializing. Sorry.”

She said, “I’m not askin’ you to square-dance, Boyd, I just want to know how you’re feeling.”

“How do you think I feel? I Tasered myself in the schlong.”

“Did it get burned?”

“Don’t pretend like you care.”

“Let me see.”

“No thanks,” Shreave said, too emphatically. Quickly he added, “Not right now,” on the chance that Eugenie might later choose to demonstrate her concern in a more generous way.

“Why don’t you come out and join us by the fire?” she asked.

“In a minute.”

Even more punishing than the fifty thousand volts was the withering embarrassment. Once the convulsions had ceased, Shreave had staggered to his feet, removed the now-broken stun gun from his pocket and mutely gimped away. He’d been sulking shamelessly ever since, certain that the two women had nothing more interesting than him to talk about.

Eugenie said, “So, what’re you reading down there?”

“A book.” He was strongly tempted to show her the front jacket of Storm Ghoul, just to get a rise.

“Must be a good one,” she said.

“Not really. It’s pretty dull.”

Reading the tree trimmer’s love letter depressed Boyd Shreave, although not because of the kindergarten spelling or even the leering allusion to Eugenie’s seismic sexual energy. Shreave was bummed because the note was a black-and-white reminder that Van Bonneville was all about action. The guy had made good on his written vow, however crudely expressed. He’d actually gone out and killed his wife, in order to spend the rest of his life with the woman of his dreams.

Sure, he was a moron, but he wasn’t a bullshitter. He was a man of his “werd.”

Which was more than Shreave could say for himself.

He dimmed the flashlight and threw off the woolen blanket and followed Eugenie Fonda back to the campsite, where he surreptitiously re-stashed her memoir in the Orvis bag. The space case named Honey was heating a kettle over the fire.

“Green tea?” she offered.

Shreave sneered. “I don’t think so.”

“There was a raccoon over in the beer cans,” Eugenie reported, pointing up the hill. “A big sucker, too, it sounded like.”

“Maybe that’s who stole our kayaks,” Shreave said caustically.

“Honey also thought she heard a guitar.”

“A guitar, huh?” Shreave tossed a broken oyster shell into the flames. “Sure it wasn’t a harp? Maybe we’re all dead and this is Heaven. That’d be my luck.”

Honey handed a steaming cup to Eugenie. “Boyd’s right, it probably wasn’t anything. It was just in my head,” she said quietly.

Eugenie asked about panthers. Honey told her there were wild ones on the mainland. “But only a few. They’re almost extinct.”

“What a tragedy that would be,” Shreave muttered.

“They don’t eat people, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

Shreave laughed thinly. “The only thing I’m afraid of is getting bored out of my skull. I don’t suppose you two came up with a game plan.”

Eugenie said, “We sure did. Our plan is to ignore all your dumbass comments.”

Honey raised a hand. “Shhhh. Hear that?”

“Don’t pay attention to her,” Shreave told Eugenie. “She’s a complete nut job, in case you didn’t notice.”

Honey remarked upon how different Boyd had sounded when he’d phoned to sell her a cheap piece of Gilchrist County. “You’ve got a wonderful voice when you’re lying,” she said. “The rest of the time you’re just a whiny old douchebag.”

Eugenie laughed so hard that green tea jetted through her front teeth. Shreave was furious but low on options. Honey emptied the kettle over the fire and said it was time to hit the sack.

“Big day tomorrow,” she added. “We’re gonna search the whole island ’til we find those kayaks.”

“What if they’re not here?” Genie asked.

“Then I guess we start swimming. Either way, you’ll need a good night’s rest.”

Once it became clear that Eugenie had no intention of ministering to his wounded member, Shreave dragged his bedding out of the pup tent and relocated closer to the fire. He’d been camping only once, twenty years earlier, during a brief hitch with the Boy Scouts. His mother had signed him up as part of an ongoing (and ultimately futile) campaign to imbue her only male child with character. Almost immediately young Boyd had alienated the other Scouts with his nettlesome commentary and disdain for physical labor. By the time the troop made its first overnight expedition, Shreave had been accurately pegged as the resident slacker. Soon after midnight a prankster had opened his sleeping bag and set loose a juvenile armadillo, which innocently began to explore Shreave’s armpits for grubs. The unhappy camper had reacted by clubbing the bewildered creature to death with his boom box, a second-degree misdemeanor resulting in the troop’s ejection from the Lady Bird Johnson State Floral Gardens and Nature Preserve, and of course in Shreave’s lifetime banishment from the Scouts.

Now, lying in the moonlight, Shreave tensely attuned himelf to the many sounds of the night. He felt foolishly exposed and defenseless against feral predators. What did that goofball Honey know about panthers? The hairs on his arms prickled when he heard an animal with heft-surely no raccoon-scraping slowly through the trees. Shreave groped around for a rock or a sturdy stick, but all he came up with was a handful of oyster shards.

“I smell fish.” It was Honey’s voice.

“From the campers before us,” said Shreave. Secretly he was glad to know that someone else was awake.

“Not cooked fish. Raw fish,” she said. “I swear I know that smell.”

Trying to be casual, Shreave said, “I hear that critter you guys were talkin’ about.”

“Sounds substantial, doesn’t it?”

“For sure.”

“So go check it out,” Honey suggested. “Don’t forget your flashlight.”

Shreave rolled over, thinking: She’s quite the comedienne.

“Nighty-night, Boyd.”

“Go to hell.”

After a while the noise in the trees stopped, and one of the women began to snore softly. Shreave had to piss like a fountain, but he was reluctant to venture out among the nocturnal fauna. Besides, the painful Taser mishap temporarily had taken the pleasure out of urination.

With no success he slapped at some gnats that had developed a fondness for his hair. Minute by wretched minute, the mystique of Florida was bleeding away. Bitterly Shreave reappraised his grandiose dream of launching a new life with Eugenie Fonda. If the trip continued on its present downward trajectory, the dimension of this particular failure would dwarf all the others in Shreave’s lackluster past. As usual he deflected both blame and responsibility; cruel chance had imbedded him here-stranded on a scraggly island with a psychotic divorcee, an increasingly unresponsive girlfriend and a half-barbecued cock.

Lulled by the hiss of the dying campfire, Shreave was surprised when his thoughts turned to Lily back in Fort Worth. His longing was characteristically base and unsentimental; the memory stirring him was that of his heiress wife clad in those red thong panties, dry-humping his lap on the living room sofa. Shreave regretted not having taken advantage of that extraordinary interlude, for Lily-who by now must have figured out that he’d flown the coop-was lost to him forever.

He would have been shocked to know that he wasn’t the only man on Dismal Key thinking about her.

The Indian had slipped away, leaving the young woman named Gillian to supervise Dealey. The investigator knew he was in trouble when she said, “I think I’d make a good TV weather personality. They don’t call ’em weathermen anymore-they’re ‘weather personalities.’ Forget the hurricanes and tornadoes, but I’d love to do the winter ski reports. You ever been to Aspen?”

Dealey shook his head.

“Me neither. Park City?”

“I really need to sleep,” Dealey said.

“Let’s make a demo tape.”

At first Dealey refused, but then the girl jabbed his gut with the sawed-off shotgun, a weapon with which she was clearly, and harrowingly, unfamiliar. So he took out the video camera and taped her holding the gun while she pretended to do a television weather report. When he replayed it for her to see, she said, “Jesus, my hair’s a wreck. Did you bring some conditioner?”

“Oh sure. And rose-petal bath crystals.”

Gillian said, “Maybe I’ll switch my major to communications. I can’t see myself in a classroom full of third graders.”

“It’s a stretch,” Dealey agreed.

“Or maybe I won’t go back to college at all. I’ll just stay here on the island with you and Thlocko.”

“Look, I need a favor. I want to call home and let my wife know I’m okay.”

Gillian looked more amused than sympathetic. “You got a cell phone, Lester?” She’d decided he looked like a Lester and to address him that way.

“Two minutes is all I need. She’s probably worried to death,” Dealey said.

“Where’s your wedding ring?”

Dealey hesitated a half second too long while making up an answer. Gillian wagged a finger. “You think just ’cause I’m young I can’t tell when a guy’s lying his balls off? I’m an expert, Lester, so you’d better watch out. I’m like a human polygraph!”

“Can I make the call or not?”

“To who?” Gillian was sighting the sawed-off through her toes.

Dealey said, “I need to speak with the lady who hired me. I’m a private investigator.”

“For real? How cool is that!”

“At the moment, not cool at all.”

“By the way, I know how to use this,” Gillian said, hoisting the shotgun. “Thlocko told me it was okay to blast away if you try anything funny. He told me to aim for the legs, in case you’re really alive and not a spirit.”

“Mighty white of him,” Dealey said.

“So tell me your story, Lester, and stick to the truth.”

“Sure,” said Dealey, and he did.

Gillian thought it was fantastic. “She’s paying you twenty-five grand to tape her old man boning some bimbo! That’s awesome, L-man.”

Dealey said, “I won’t see a dime, because I’ll never get the triple-X shot that my client wants. She’s a total kink.”

“And these are the kayak people we’re talkin’ about, right? The same ones camping near Beer Can Gulch.”

“The Yuppie couple from Texas, yeah. The trailer-park woman, she’s not involved.”

Gillian was so delighted to learn some juicy details about the mysterious intruders that she gave Dealey permission to call his client.

“But first, my turn.” She motioned for the cell phone.

Dealey removed it from an inside pocket of his suit jacket and handed it to her. Gillian punched the number and waited.

“My mother,” she said to Dealey.

“Save me some battery.”

Gillian nodded and whispered, “It’s her machine, thank God.”

Dealey could hear the beep on the other end.

“Hey, Mom, just me,” said Gillian brightly. “My cell’s not workin’ and I didn’t want you guys to worry. Everything’s awesome except I’m takin’ some extra vacation. I broke up with Ethan, which you predicted of course, but now I met this new guy-he’s real real different, and I bet you’ll like him. Give my love to Dad, and I’ll try again in a few days.”

She tossed the phone to Dealey and said, “Whew! That’s a load off. You want some privacy?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“I’ll be in the ladies’ room.” She pointed toward a thicket at the edge of the clearing.

Dealey waited until she was out of sight. By moonlight he fished through his wallet for the scrap of paper upon which Lily Shreave had written her mobile number. She answered on the first ring.

“I hope this is good news, Mr. Dealey.”

“Yes and no,” he said.

“Uh-oh. Here we go.”

“The good part is, I got what you asked for.” He knew Boyd Shreave’s wife would believe it.

“Penetration? You got penetration?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“On the beach, right? And she was on top, wasn’t she?”

“Big-time,” said Dealey. He had no intention of ripping Lily Shreave off, but a lie was still a lie. He might have felt worse about it, if she weren’t such a perv.

“So what’s the bad news?” she asked.

“I’m trapped. I can’t get outta this fuckin’ place.”

“And where exactly would you be?”

“I got no earthly idea, Mrs. Shreave. There’s ten thousand goddamn islands out here, and I’m stuck on one of ’em.”

“With my twenty-five-thousand-dollar sex tape.”

“Correct,” Dealey said.

“May I ask how you got there?”

“At gunpoint.”

“Holy Christ,” said Lily Shreave. “It wasn’t Boyd, was it?”

“Get serious.”

“Please don’t tell me you were kidnapped.”

“Twice,” Dealey said.

“But somehow you escaped.”

“Negative. Not by a long shot.”

“So who’s got you now?” Lily Shreave demanded.

“Not important.” Dealey saw no benefit to admitting that he was the prisoner of a guitar-toting Seminole Indian and a college sorority girl.

“Here’s what I need you to do,” he said to Mrs. Shreave, and he told her.

“I like it,” she said. “You’re a smart fella, Mr. Dealey. I’ll call first thing in the morning.”

He held no illusion that she cared whether he lived or died. Getting her mitts on the video was all that mattered to her.

Dealey heard a rustling and Gillian stepped from the thicket. He said into the phone, “I’ve gotta go.”

“Wait! One more question.”

“What?”

“The tape-how’d it turn out? Can you see…everything?”

“The works,” Dealey said.

“Wow.”

“More like double wow.”

“I can’t wait,” said Boyd Shreave’s wife.

“Oh, you’ll be surprised,” Dealey told her, and hung up.

Seventeen

Cecil McQueen died in a chokehold at a nightclub called Le Lube, where he and six friends had gone for a bachelor party. The branch supervisor of the trucking firm was being married the next day to his ex-wife’s divorce accountant, and his buddies couldn’t decide if it was a masterstroke or an act of self-destruction.

At the strip joint the men drank festively but set no records. Normally a shy person, Cecil McQueen surprised his companions when he bounded into the mud-wrestling pit to take on a dancer known as Big Satin, who outweighed him by fifty-three pounds and was unaware (as was Cecil) of his obstructed cardiac arteries. Afterward Big Satin felt terrible. So did Cecil’s co-workers and supervisor, although the wedding went on as scheduled.

The police ruled the death as accidental, but nonetheless it dominated the TV news, which is how the victim’s only son-then addressed as Chad-learned that his father had not perished while rescuing a vanload of orphans from a flooded drainage canal. That was the yarn his stepmother had cooked up.

Years later Sammy Tigertail often thought about his dad, a cheery and harmless soul who believed that the three essential ingredients of contentment were classic rock, Krispy Kreme doughnuts and a hot tub. It was the music that had cheered young Chad, even after he’d moved out to the Big Cypress and shed his name and turned forever away from white people (except for one). His affinity for rock was what had led to the foolish, soul-bruising lapse with Cindy, whom he’d met at a Stones concert in Lauderdale. Within ten seconds Sammy Tigertail had known she was poison, yet he’d willingly opened his veins.

And learned nothing from the ordeal, because the same thing seemed to be happening with Gillian.

“I’m gettin’ a complex,” she told him. “Why aren’t you trying to do me?”

“You asked to be the hostage.”

“So?”

“Hostages don’t get laid.”

“Who made up that stupid rule? Besides, I can tell you’ve been thinkin’ about it.”

“Bull,” Sammy Tigertail said.

She rose on her tiptoes and tried to peck him on the chin. He dodged sideways and said, “You don’t understand.”

“About being nervous? I do so.”

He grabbed the rifle from the crook of a tree, and nodded toward Dealey. “Keep an eye on Mr. Camera Man,” he told Gillian. “I won’t be long.”

“What if he tries somethin’? Like, jumps me and rips off my clothes?”

“Then shoot him. The shotgun’s over there,” the Indian said.

“Okeydoke.”

“But aim low, in case he turns out to be real. I don’t need to hassle with another dead body.”

“When you say low-”

“The legs.”

“Gotcha,” said Gillian.

On a rash impulse Sammy Tigertail leaned forward and kissed the top of her head, then he quickly moved into the night. The sky held enough moon that he was able to make headway without using a flashlight, though his sense of direction was as unreliable as ever. Fortunately, the island was small enough that it was difficult to stay lost. The Seminole eventually located the old oyster mound and took a position overlooking the campsite and the cistern. Embers from the fire glowed faintly, and Sammy Tigertail could make out the steepled shapes of two tents, and one bundled form on the ground.

He crept down the midden and, except for tripping once and dropping the rifle, his approach was practically furtive. Hearing snores, he assumed that all the kayakers were asleep. Quickly he padded into the clearing and snatched up a large duffel bag.

That’s when a head poked out from one of the tents. Sammy Tigertail saw the movement and whirled, waving the rifle. His heart hammered.

“Easy, big guy,” the woman whispered.

“We need water!”

“Like we don’t?”

“But I got the gun!” said Sammy Tigertail. “Now, shut up.”

“Did you steal our kayaks?” The woman had a mild southern accent and light hair, but the angles of her face were obscured by a shadow. “Hold on,” she said, squirming from the sleeping bag.

“What are you doin’?”

“Comin’ with you.”

“No fucking way. Not again,” the Seminole said angrily.

The woman stood up and stepped into her shoes, some sort of rubberized Yuppie sneakers. She was a tall one.

“You’ve got the boats, and now the last of our water-I’ll be damned if I’m stayin’ out here to die,” she said.

A breeze stirred the mangroves and riffled the leaves of the big poinciana. The woman folded her arms against the chill and said, “Well?”

Sammy Tigertail knew that if he left her behind, she would awaken the others, and they’d contact the authorities to report that a thieving redskin was loose on the island.

She said, “I’ll do whatever you want. And I mean whatever.”

The Seminole raised his eyes to the leering moon. The spirits seemed to be punishing him. He suspected it had something to do with Wilson, the dead tourist.

“You’ll do anything?” he asked the woman.

She nodded.

“Then carry this bag.”

“Yes, bwana.”

“And be quiet,” said the Indian, “or I’ll cut off your tongue.”

The woman stuck it out for him to see, the pearl stud burnished by the moonlight. Sammy Tigertail frowned.

“Oh well. Some guys dig it,” she said.

“My girlfriend had one attached somewhere else. It didn’t feel so good.”

The Indian turned and darted into the trees. He heard the woman trailing behind him, breathing fast under the weight of the duffel. He expected her to start chattering like a crow, but she didn’t. It was a nice surprise.

Thirty years in the seafood business combined with grossly irregular bathing habits had cloaked upon Louis Piejack a distinct and inconquerable funk. Were it cologne, the essence would have included the skin of Spanish mackerel, the roe of black mullet, the guts of gag grouper, the wrung-out brains of spiny lobster and the milky seepage of raw oysters. The musk emanated most pungently from Piejack’s neck and arms, which had acquired a greenish yellow sheen under a daily basting of gill slime and fish shit. Nothing milder than industrial lye could have cleansed the man.

He stunk like a bucket of bait.

Honey Santana eventually would have pinpointed the smell-and the danger-were it not for an untimely pollen allergy that kept her clogged and sniffling. No sooner had she dozed off than Louis Piejack hoisted himself, with a hellish groan, into the old cistern. Woozy with pain, the spine-covered stalker was spying through a gap in the cinder blocks when Eugenie Fonda departed stealthily with a dark-skinned young gunman. Piejack felt no curiosity about the peculiar event; Honey was his only concern.

The person who would have been least surprised by the fishmonger’s felonious pursuit was his wife, who two decades earlier had been the object of a more subtle courtship. At the time, Louis Piejack had been smoother and more attentive to hygiene, and in the meager male talent pool of rural Collier County he’d sparkled like a gem. After the wedding he’d gone downhill fast, and when his wife had threatened to leave he torched her mother’s minivan and warned that it was only the beginning. Even when her family moved away to the Redlands, Becky Piejack remained with Louis out of sheer cold dread.

So awful was the marriage that she hadn’t been entirely dismayed to learn she had cancer-anything to get out of the house. There were no chemotherapy facilities in Everglades City, so Becky looked forward to the twice-monthly trips to Gainesville as furloughs from her deviant and disgusting spouse. When after three years the oncologists pronounced her disease-free, Becky withheld the news from Louis and continued to travel every other week. On those long drives she often brought a young orchid collector named Armando and a box of Berlitz language tapes, with which she schooled herself in French and Portuguese. Becky Piejack was gearing up for the day when she’d gather the courage to leave her husband, which she assumed would require fleeing the continental United States. Either Paris or Rio sounded good.

In truth, it had been a long while since Louis Piejack had thought of his wife in a criminally possessive way. Except when inconvenienced by her illness, he seldom thought of her at all. Now, shivering on the concrete slab of the cistern, Piejack went about planning a new life of passion with Honey Santana. Once they returned to the mainland, he would immediately evict Becky and her hospital bed, along with the wicker furniture that he so detested. He might allow Honey to repaint the living area but not the bedroom, which would remain black with red crown molding. For a moving-in gift he’d buy his sex angel a set of new cookware, including a kettledrum fryer for wild boar and turkey. Then he’d put her back to work at the fish market, peeling shrimp or running the cash register, so that he could keep an eye on her. As for Honey’s teenaged son, the smartass punk could go live with his old man.

At some point in his ruminations Louis Piejack experienced a new and unfamiliar pain-a hot welter of stings on the palm of his left hand, a location he could not access without gnawing through the surgical dressing. In the darkness Piejack hadn’t seen the platoons of fire ants march the length of his aching arm and disappear through one of the ragged finger holes into the moist cocoon of dirty gauze and sticky tape. He didn’t cry out, or even whimper. Stoically he ground his molars while the little red demons tore divots in his flesh.

He consoled himself with dream visions of his breathtaking goddess, who in real life lay snoring like a stevedore less than fifty feet away. To Louis Piejack, scorching physical agony seemed a small price to pay for the midlife companionship of a woman such as Honey Santana. He was morbidly amused to realize that the extremity now being devoured by insects was the same one that had touched her illicitly that tumultuous day at the market.

Go ahead and eat me, he mocked the ants. See if I give a fuck.

Perry Skinner followed Sandfly Pass to the Gulf and slowly headed up the coast, scouting the outermost islands for signs of campers. The wind had stiffened, pushing a troublesome chop that slapped the hull of the skiff and made silent running impossible. Another problem was debris in the water; the previous summer’s hurricanes had uprooted scores of old mangroves and strewn their knobby skeletons throughout the shallow banks and creeks. To avoid an accident, Skinner was forced to use the spotlight continually, though it risked betraying their approach.

As the skiff entered a deeper bay, the waves kicked higher, misting salt spray. From the bow Fry shouted, “Dad, you see that?”

Skinner had already spotted it-the flicker of fire on a nearby shore. He cut the engine and dimmed the spotlight.

“Is it them?” Fry asked anxiously.

“Son, I don’t know.”

The breeze and the tide were at odds, foiling his drift and nudging the boat onto the flats. Skinner tilted the engine and picked up the long graphite pole. Fry watched him scale a wobbly platform above the outboard motor and said, “You’re kidding me.”

It took Skinner a few moments to steady himself. “The water’s only twelve inches deep. You got a better idea?”

He planted the double-pronged foot of the pole in the mud and, with slow tentative strokes, began pushing the skiff across the bank toward the island where the campfire burned. Backcountry guides made it look easy, but Skinner felt awkward and tense, rocking on the thin wafer of molded plastic. One slip and he’d tumble into the water or, worse, fall backward and crack his skull on the propeller.

Fry said, “You’re the one who needs a football helmet.”

Skinner gently poked him with the dry end of the pole. “Keep your eyes peeled, ace. We don’t need a welcome party.”

“Where’s the gun anyway?”

“Just relax,” said Skinner.

Fry felt like hurling, he was so anxious. He kept flashing back to the moment when Louis Piejack’s pickup had nearly run him down at the trailer park, and he wondered what he could have done to stop the guy from pursuing his mother. Fry had hated Mr. Piejack for groping her at the fish market, but he’d pegged him as just some twisted old turd-not a mad stalker.

The boy drummed his fingers on the gunwale and thought: Relax? No way.

“I hear somethin’,” his father said from the back of the skiff.

Fry stopped tapping and listened. “Sounds like…like a funeral or somethin’. People cryin’.”

“Where’s it coming from? Can you make out anything?”

“Just shadows.” Fry balled his fists to keep from shaking.

By now his dad had pushed the skiff close enough for them to see the orange flames dancing and to smell the woody smoke. At first the shapes around the fire had looked like small pines, bowing and shaking in the breeze. Now Fry wasn’t so certain. The moaning chorus swelled and faded, making him shudder. His father poled faster.

“We’ll go ashore here,” Skinner announced, angling toward the beach. Four long strokes and the hull scraped up on the sand.

Fry hopped out and was beset with dizziness. “It’s gettin’ cold,” he murmured to himself.

His father jumped down and with both hands hauled the skiff farther up on land, so that the rising tide wouldn’t carry it away. Then he tossed Fry a sweatshirt, which the boy absentmindedly attempted to put on without removing his bulbous helmet.

“Dad, I’m stuck,” he said sheepishly.

Once extricated, he jogged after his father as they hurried away from the shoreline, into the trees. He felt like he was five years old again.

Skinner said, “If I tell you to run for it, you damn well run.”

“Yeah, but where?”

“The other way, son. Opposite of me.”

“But-”

“Don’t be lookin’ back, either-I’ll come find you later.”

“I can’t go fast with this stupid thing on my head.”

“Pretend you’re Mercury Morris.”

“Who?”

“Pitiful.” Skinner pretended to kick him in the pants. “Come on, let’s do it.”

Watchfully they moved through the scraggle and scrub, keeping parallel to the beach. The eerie keening sounds grew louder as they neared the campfire. Skinner dropped to a crouch and motioned for his son to do the same. They crossed a sandy clearing in a faint circle of moonlight and took cover in a stand of Australian pines.

Fry counted five hooded shapes twirling and dipping around a crudely dug fire pit. They wore white robes and weren’t actually crying; it was a strident, wailing chant, with no discernible melody. A tall wooden cross had been planted on a dune overlooking the campsite.

“It’s the Klan!” Fry whispered.

“They’re a long way from home,” said Skinner.

Fry saw him reach beneath his sweatshirt and adjust a gun-shaped bulge in his waistband. It was possible he clicked off the safety.

“What’re you gonna do, Dad?”

“Be my usual charming self.”

Nervously Fry followed him out of the pines. Skinner walked with casual purpose as he approached the moaners, who one by one stopped dancing and fell silent.

“Howdy,” Skinner said.

“Who are you, brother?” It was the tallest one; a man’s voice.

“State wildlife commission. I’m lookin’ for a man named Louis Piejack-he’s wanted for poachin’ shellfish.”

“Don’t know the sinner,” said the tallest moaner. The others closed ranks behind him.

“How ’bout losin’ those hoods?” Skinner asked genially.

The hoods turned out to be part of their white robes, each of which bore a breast emblem that read FOUR SEASONS-MAUI.

Definitely not the KKK, thought Fry with relief.

“We’ve nothing to hide,” the tallest moaner declared. He and the others obligingly revealed their faces. There were two men and three women, all shiny-cheeked and well fed. Neither Fry nor his father recognized them from Everglades City.

“I’m Brother Manuel,” the tall one volunteered, “of the First Resurrectionist Maritime Assembly for God. We believe that Jesus our Savior has returned and is sailing the seven seas”-he paused to acknowledge the lapping surf-“preparing to come ashore in all His glory and inspire the worldly to repent. We will welcome Him with prayer and rejoicing.”

Skinner nodded impatiently. “Where you from, Manny?”

“Zolfo Springs, sir, and we’re up to no mischief. We’re here upon this blessed shore to baptize our newest sister, Miss Shirelle.”

She identified herself with a perky wave.

“You folks been drinkin’?” Skinner inquired.

Brother Manuel bridled. “Wine only, sir. I can show you the passage in the Scriptures.”

“I’m certain you can. See anything strange out here tonight? We believe Mr. Louis Piejack is in the vicinity.”

One of the female moaners asked, “How might we know this man?”

“One of his hands is taped,” Skinner said, “like a mummy’s.”

“Ah!”

“Plus he stinks like dead mudfish,” Fry added, quoting his mother.

One of the male celebrants revealed that they’d heard gunshots earlier in the evening. “From over there,” he said, pointing across the waves.

“How many shots?” Skinner asked. He avoided eye contact with Fry, whom he knew would be alarmed. He purposely had not told his son about the shotgun that he’d seen in Piejack’s johnboat on the river.

“Two rounds,” the man said.

“Sure it was gunfire? Sometimes campers bring fireworks.”

“Brother Darius is a deer hunter,” Brother Manuel explained. “God’s bounty, you understand.”

Sister Shirelle, the stoutest of the moaners, asked, “May we invite you to stay for the baptism? Join us in the divine waters where our Savior sails.”

“Some other time,” Skinner said tightly.

Another woman called out, “Sir, may I inquire about the boy?”

“That’s my son.”

“I couldn’t help but take note of the headpiece. Is he afflicted in some way?”

“Yeah, he’s afflicted with one motherfucker of a migraine. He crashed his skateboard into a truck.”

Brother Manuel clasped his hands. “Then let us pray for the youngster’s healing. Come, brothers and sisters!”

The moaners re-hooded and commenced a new chant, as dissonant as the others. Sister Shirelle, dauntingly braless, led the group in improvisational writhing.

Fry jerked his father’s sleeve and whispered, “You think they really heard a gun?”

“Vamos ahora,” Skinner said.

They’d gone about fifty yards down the beach when Brother Manuel broke from the dance ring and barreled after them, yelling, “Friends, wait! Whoa there!”

Away from the firelight, Fry could no longer see his father’s expression. Not that he needed to.

“A-hole,” he heard him mutter.

“Should we run?” the boy asked hopefully. He was aware of Skinner’s low opinion of preachers and zealots. One time his dad had turned a fire hose on a roving quartet of Jehovah’s Witnesses who’d accosted him at the crab docks.

“See, this is the problem with religion, son. They can’t keep it among themselves, they gotta cram it down everyone else’s throat.” He’d hurried his pace, but the long-legged moaner was gaining on them. “It’s been a long time since I looked at the Bible, but I don’t recall Jesus makin’ a damn nuisance of Himself.”

“He’s almost here, Dad.”

“Yeah, I know.” Perry Skinner stopped and whirled around.

Huffing and sweaty, the tall moaner advanced with the grinning, witless confidence of the self-righteous. From his purloined hotel robe he produced a folded pamphlet, which he held out to Skinner as if it were a deed to a gold mine.

“No offense, sir, but by your coarse language I could tell it’s been awhile since you brought your soul to church. Here, please take the Word.”

Fry held his breath. Slowly his father drew the.45 and placed the barrel upon the florid tip of Brother Manuel’s nose.

“Manny,” Skinner said, “I got my own word: Semiautomatic.”

The leaflet fluttered from the moaner’s fingers. “Easy, dog,” he said.

“This is my church,” Skinner went on, “this island out here and all the others-so many islands that nobody’s counted ’em all. And the sky and the Gulf and the rivers that roll out of the ’glades, all of it’s my church. And you know what? God Almighty or whatever His name might be, I believe He’d approve.”

Fry said, “Come on. Let’s go find Mom.”

The boy was more worried than before. Learning of the gunshots plainly had set his father on edge, too.

“Manny, I’m gonna ask you a personal question and I expect an honest, upright Christian answer,” Skinner said. “You’re fornicatin’ with Sister Shirelle, aren’t you? You already baptized that young lady in your own special way, am I right? Told her to close her eyes and get down on her knees and wait for sweet salvation.”

Half-lit by the moon, Brother Manuel blinked once in slow motion, like an anemic tortoise.

“Thought so,” Skinner said. “Look-me and my son are gonna leave now, and you’re gonna go back to your people and boogie for Christ and forget you ever laid your sorry heathen eyes on me. Got it?” Skinner lowered the.45.

“Amen,” said the moaner and ran away, his white robe flapping like a shredded sail.

Eighteen

Boyd Shreave dreamed he was working at Relentless, phoning suckers at dinnertime. He was trying to sell residential lots on a sodded landfill in a future housing development called Lesion Hills. To the east was a pig farm and to the west was a dioxin factory; upwind, a crematorium. All unsavory details were perversely included in the telephone script, and elucidated with appalling candor to prospective customers.

It was a nightmare. Everyone whom Shreave called would insult him savagely then hang up. When he turned to commiserate with Eugenie Fonda, he was aghast to find her cubicle occupied by his wife, who menaced him crudely with a Taser. And the dream got worse: Shreave neglected to observe that the last number on his call sheet belonged to one D. Landry, a disaster compounded by his failure to recognize his own mother’s voice until he was midway through the sales pitch, when he heard a string of witheringly familiar debasements that culminated with the phrase “worthless pile of muskrat shit.”

Shreave awoke in a sweat. He remembered where he was, though it gave him no comfort. His wristwatch showed 3:46 a.m. He called out Genie’s name but didn’t get a response. With larval contortions he shed his sleeping bag.

The stars were gold and the temperature was falling and the campfire was dead. In such a setting it seemed reasonable for a man to seek a snuggle with his girlfriend. Through the shadows Shreave crawled toward the tent that held Eugenie, only to find it empty.

“She hit the bricks,” Honey Santana said, startling him.

“Not funny.”

Honey’s head popped out of the other tent. “She ran off with an Indian. I peeked.”

“You can do better than that,” said Shreave.

“Some big Indian with a gun. I know what I saw.”

“Just tell me where she is.”

Honey said, “This is hopeless,” and closed the flap.

Shreave shouted for Genie again and again. He grabbed his flashlight and went stomping into the trees, a decision quickly reconsidered and reversed. Angrily he stood outside Honey’s tent and commanded her to reveal what had really happened.

“I told you already,” she said.

Shreave foolishly reached inside, snatched the end of the sleeping bag and attempted to shake her out. Honey’s second kick landed flush on his chin, causing him to buckle. Through a starburst of pain he fumbled to realign his lower jaw with the rest of his face.

She said, “I’m nominating you for the Dickhead Hall of Fame. Seriously.”

Once again, assertiveness had brought pain and indignity to Shreave. It seemed doubtful that he’d ever transform himself into the sort of physical beast that aroused women such as Eugenie Fonda. His only consolation was that she hadn’t been there to witness him getting kicked in the kisser.

“This is all on you,” he whined at Honey, “for scamming us into this trip. It’s your fault she got kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped? That Indian was ripping off our supplies when your girlfriend begged to sneak away with him. She practically offered to ball him on the spot.”

“Liar!”

“She moves fast, Boyd.” Honey emerged from her tent and started to build a new fire. “I pretended to snore so he’d think I was sleeping.”

“Why the hell didn’t you do something?”

“Gosh, I don’t know. Because he was holding a rifle?” She set a match to the tinder and watched it flare. “Anyway, we’re alone now, so let’s have a talk.”

“What about?”

“You,” Honey said.

The subject appealed immensely to Shreave.

“Tell me an enthralling life story,” she said, “so I can understand you better.”

“Not a problem.” Shreave misread her interest in the predictable way. His jaw was throbbing but if she wanted to talk, he’d talk. Whatever floated her boat.

Honey said, “First, you should get up off your knees-no, never mind. That’ll work.”

Turning away, she opened the remaining duffel and removed some items out of Shreave’s sight. She asked him to shut his eyes and, idiotically, he complied. His dismay over Eugenie’s defection was rapidly evaporating at the prospect of intimacy with another handsome woman, even if she happened to be wacko.

The campfire was blazing again. The heat felt good on Shreave’s face. He heard Honey stepping across the broken oyster shells and then moving about the bushes. He hoped that she’d snuck off to get undressed.

Moments later she was standing behind him, whispering: “Give me your hands, Boyd.”

He was delighted to oblige. She smelled wonderful, and he noticed he was getting hard-a marvelous development in the wake of the stun-gun accident. Not even the sound of duct tape being ripped from a roll crimped Shreave’s rising anticipation.

When he turned to peek, Honey thumped him smartly on the head. Thinking only of his erection and the daring ways it might be gratified, he obediently remained motionless while she taped his wrists and ankles behind him. Then something as light as a lei, though more coarsely textured, settled around his neck.

“Don’t dare move,” Honey said.

Again she slipped away. Soon there was a slight noise behind him.

“What’re you up to now?” Those were Shreave’s final words before the rope drew snug around his throat.

His eyes popped open and Honey reappeared, divinely backlit by the fire glow. Shreave was disappointed to observe that she was fully clothed. She informed him that he was attached to a noose looped over a poinciana bough. If he attempted to pull free, she said, the slipknot at the base of his neck would come tight and possibly strangle him.

Shreave believed her, although he clung like an ape to his carnal ambitions. He’d watched a cable documentary about asphyxiating sexual practices, and he speculated that Honey was seeking to initiate him. Spurred by Eugenie’s drop-of-a-hat betrayal, he’d decided to let himself be seduced no matter what the dangers might be.

Honey said, “Sorry about this contraption, but you already assaulted me twice.”

Shreave grunted an objection but said nothing. He feared that even the smallest muscle twitch required for speech might cause the rope to cinch down a crucial millimeter or two.

“Go ahead and talk. It’s really not that tight,” Honey said.

Kneeling ramrod-straight, he wheezed, “I didn’t ‘assault’ you, I just tackled you.”

“You’d be in jail if you tried that on Biscayne Boulevard.”

“And that business with the sleeping bag, I’m the one who got hurt!”

“The veins in your neck are bulging.”

“Whatever. Can we hurry up and get on with this?”

“Certainly, Boyd.”

“Well…? You gonna strip me or spank me, or what?”

Honey looked perplexed. “It hadn’t crossed my mind.”

“Oh, come on.”

She shrugged. Gloomily Shreave realized she was telling the truth.

“Goddammit,” he said. It was impossible to envision a brute like Van Bonneville being tricked and tied up by a deranged single mom.

Honey sat cross-legged by the fire and brushed her hair; short, emphatic strokes. “What’d you do before you became a telephone solicitor?” she asked.

“Sales.”

“What did you sell?”

“My knees hurt.”

For padding, Honey folded a woolen blanket and scrunched it beneath him.

“So, what did you sell?” she asked again.

“The usual shit,” he muttered.

“Tell me all about it.”

“Genie’s in on this, isn’t she? You and her cooked up this sick little scene just for giggles.”

Honey laughed. “You think very highly of yourself, Boyd. I’m sure Genie’s got bigger fish to fry.”

He felt his ears get hot.

“Ever sell cars?” she asked.

“Sure. Buicks and Saabs.”

“What else?”

“TV sets,” he said. “Pet supplies. Orthotics.”

“Oh my God, that’s a riot!”

She has a great smile, Shreave thought bitterly, for a psycho. “I’m glad one of us is having fun,” he said.

Honey scooted closer. She repositioned the rope above his Adam’s apple and smoothed the collar of his ripening Tommy Bahama shirt.

“Don’t worry, there’s a point to all this,” she told him.

“I can’t wait.”

What are the odds? he wondered. One sales call out of thousands-and some crazed bitch freaks out, tracks me down, lures me into a swamp and makes me her prisoner.

“You have kids?” Honey asked.

“Not me. Not for all the gold in Fort Knox.”

“Being a parent is no picnic, that’s for sure. Good luck trying to raise a kid with a positive outlook. Face it, we live in a stinking shit-wash of cruelty and greed and rotten manners. Look at you, Boyd. You’re a classic specimen.”

“Not this again,” he sighed.

“Yes, this again! My one and only son is growing up in a culture where the values are so warped that a creep like yourself can masquerade as a respectable citizen.”

Shreave bridled and said, “I never hurt anybody.”

“So, talk to me. Help me figure out what makes your engine run,” Honey said.

“First let’s go look for Genie. What if she’s in trouble?”

“We’re all in trouble, Boyd. For heaven’s sake, don’t you read the papers-”

They were interrupted by a single gunshot, the brittle echo soaring away on the wind. A scream followed.

Honey jumped up. “That’s not poachers. It’s the Indian, I bet.”

And away she ran, Shreave hollering after her: “Don’t leave me here! Don’t you fucking leave me all alone!”

In his agitation he toppled sideways, the rope rubbing into the loose folds of his neck. It hurt, yet he seemed able to breathe without difficulty.

Until a voice at the edge of the shadows hissed, “Don’t be scared, asswipe. You ain’t alone.”

Sammy Tigertail ordered his latest voluntary hostage to sit with Gillian and the white man who might or might not be a death spirit. The Indian kept for himself one jug of water and two power bars, and he strictly rationed to the others what remained in the stolen duffel bag. He hadn’t meant to take all the kayakers’ food, but there had been no time to sort the contents.

Alone he receded to the far end of the clearing and hunkered down with the Gibson. He was struggling to pick out the opening notes of “Tunnel of Love” when his spectral nemesis, Wilson, lurched out of the woods. It was the first time that the deceased tourist had appeared while Sammy Tigertail was wide awake, and it caught the young Seminole off guard. He’d been hoping that he had seen the last of the carping corpse.

Wilson looked worse than ever. His sodden clothing was rotting to rags, and the scavengers had made a grisly patchwork of his flesh.

“I asked you to move my body somewhere warm,” he said reproachfully.

“Beat it,” said the Indian.

“That goddamn river is colder than a witch’s titty. And look here what the crabs and snappers did-” Wilson displayed the most gruesome of his recent mutilations. “It’s lonely out there, man.”

“I can’t help you.” Sammy Tigertail had never felt so low. He was failing as a hermit, and failing as the great-great-great-grandson of a Seminole chief. His mission to isolate himself from the corrupt white world had backfired completely; he was now besieged by white people, dead and alive. He’d even kissed one.

“Nice ax.” Wilson nodded admiringly toward the guitar.

“Don’t touch.”

“Can you play ‘Folsom Prison Blues’?”

“Never heard of it.” Sammy Tigertail thought a jolt of pain might expunge the nagging apparition, so he scratched his own forehead with the broken oyster shell that he’d been using for a pick.

The dead tourist did not disappear. “That was really stupid. Now you’re bleeding,” he said. “Actually, I’m jealous.”

“Hey, don’t blame me ’cause your heart gave out. Maybe you should’ve laid off the booze and french fries.” Sammy Tigertail felt a tickle of warmth roll down his nose.

Wilson said, “What about Garth Brooks? You know his stuff, right? I’ll sing one, so you can figure out the chords.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” said the Indian.

Wilson waved him off and began crooning mercilessly about a girl in Louisiana. The lyrics made Sammy Tigertail remember the way he’d felt after his first night with Cindy, before learning of her problems with homemade methamphetamines, check kiting and serial infidelity. He expected he would be no less smitten by Gillian once he slept with her, and no less shattered when her true dysfunctional self emerged. Each new verse of the country song deepened the Indian’s melancholy.

When the white man finished, he said, “Well-can you play it?”

Sammy Tigertail noticed that blood from his self-inflicted laceration was dripping onto the neck of the Gibson. He hurriedly wiped off the frets and braced the instrument upright between his knees. Then he reached for his rifle.

Wilson chuckled. “Don’t waste your bullets, bro.”

With one arm the Seminole aimed the barrel at Wilson’s algae-bearded face. “Worth a try,” he grumbled, and squeezed the trigger.

Wilson didn’t flinch, but on the other side of the clearing one of the women hostages shrieked. Sammy Tigertail felt sick.

“Now you done it,” said the dead tourist, dissolving to fog.

For Dealey, dawn couldn’t come soon enough. After the Seminole had shown up with Boyd Shreave’s girlfriend, Gillian promptly had ratted out the private investigator.

Eugenie Fonda confronted him as if he were a common restroom peeper: “This is for real? Boyd’s wife is paying you to spy on me and him?”

“And take dirty movies,” Gillian interjected helpfully.

“Pitiful.”

Dealey said, “It’s my job. No lectures, please.”

They were sitting in a semicircle sharing dried pineapple chunks and passing a jug of water. Sammy Tigertail sat off by himself, morosely picking at his guitar. There was a consensus that he ought to be left unbothered.

“That’s some scummy job you’ve got,” Eugenie said to Dealey.

“The truth can be scummy merchandise, Miss Fonda. Which, by the way, is a totally bogus name. Your real one is Hill.”

Eugenie nipped her lower lip. “I suppose I should be impressed.”

“Believe me,” Dealey said, “I wish I hadn’t touched this goddamn case-I’ve never run up against so many card-carryin’ fruit-balls in all my life.”

Gillian said, “Tell her how much the guy’s old lady was gonna pay for the money shot! Go on, Lester, she won’t believe it.”

“My name’s not Lester.”

“The what shot?” Eugenie asked.

“Mrs. Shreave happens to be a kink,” Dealey said. “I got all the stills and video she’d ever need, but she wanted more.”

“Needed for what-a divorce? Oh please,” Eugenie said.

Dealey raised his hands. “Why do you think wives hire me?”

Gillian couldn’t restrain herself. “Twenty-five thousand bucks! That’s what she was gonna pay for a triple-X shot of you and your boyfriend. That’s why Lester came all this way.”

“Twenty-five grand?” Eugenie had to laugh.

Dealey said, “For what it’s worth, nobody’s seen the other tapes or pictures except me and my client.”

Which was untrue. However, Dealey felt no need to enlighten Eugenie about the on-line popularity of her stellar blow job at the delicatessen. After all, he’d scrupulously doctored the photograph to obscure her face.

He was surprised to hear her say, “Show me what you got, Lester. I’m curious.”

Gillian piped up eagerly, “Me too. Let’s see.”

“Sorry. It’s all in a lockbox back in Fort Worth.” The investigator thought: What is it with these women?

Gillian colorfully shared the tale of her sorority sister turning up on a Girls Gone Wild video, then she asked Dealey, “What’s the all-time freakiest thing you ever got on tape?”

“That’s easy,” he said. “Threesome in River Oaks-the two guys wore Road Runner masks and the woman was Wile E. Coyote.”

Gillian clapped. “Tell me you didn’t make copies of that one!”

Eugenie steered the conversation back to Lily Shreave’s twenty-five-thousand-dollar offer. “Now, what exactly did she want you to get?”

“The impossible,” Dealey said.

“Nothing’s impossible.”

“She’s got a thing for close-ups. Let’s leave it at that.”

Eugenie smiled cheerlessly. “If I’d known Boyd and I were on camera, I would’ve kicked it up a notch or two.”

“You did just fine,” Dealey said.

Gillian confessed that she’d seen only one porn film, at a fraternity-house party. “The Fellatio Alger Story. It was so boring I fell asleep.”

“Boring wouldn’t be bad after the last two days I’ve had. Boring would be a treat,” the private investigator said.

Eugenie was pacing. “How the hell do we get out of here?”

“Talk to him.” Gillian jerked a thumb across the clearing toward Sammy Tigertail, who appeared to have lapsed into a trance while playing his guitar.

Dealey helped himself to another chunk of pineapple. “Well, I’m gettin’ rescued tomorrow,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re both welcome to hitch a ride-in fact, I’d strongly recommend it.”

“Done,” said Eugenie.

Gillian declined. “I’m totally stayin’. He kissed me tonight.”

“The Indian?” Dealey smiled wearily, thinking: True love in the mangroves.

“He’s an Indian? But his eyes are blue,” Eugenie said.

“A Seminole, most definitely,” Gillian reported. “I’m still waitin’ to get the full story.” She turned to Dealey. “So, Lester. Who’s comin’ to rescue you?”

The investigator said it wasn’t important. “I’m goin’ home to Texas in one piece, that’s all that matters.”

“Without the money shot,” Eugenie reminded him. “Boyd’s wife will be seriously bummed.”

“Ask me if I give a shit.” Dealey took a swig from the water bottle. “Something real bad’s going to happen on this island, and I don’t want to be here when it does.”

“Me neither,” said Eugenie, a millisecond before the blue-eyed Seminole’s rifle went off and Gillian screamed and Dealey dropped like a moose.