Skinny Dip

Thirty-two

Maureen smiled fondly when she saw Tool hobble out of the barn. He opened the door of the truck and arranged himself behind the steering wheel.

"Well?" She held out one hand.

He dropped two misshapen kernels of lead into her palm. "The rusty one is what come outta you-know-where," he said. "The shiny one's from under my arm."

After examining the slugs, Maureen said, "I'm proud of you, Earl. That must've stung like the dickens."

He said the pain wasn't so bad. "Guy's a real pro."

"His specialty being… cattle?"

"Livestock in general." Tool had explained to Maureen that a medical doctor would be required by law to notify authorities if a patient turned up with a gunshot wound. A veterinarian had no such obligation.

"The important thing is, you're finally free of the burden," Maureen told him. "No more needless suffering."

"Yeah. Now it's your turn."

"I'm doing all right, Earl."

"Tell the truth," he said.

"The truth is, I'm absolutely elated to be outdoors in the fresh air."

"Wait'll we get clear of this pasture."

"No, it's all glorious," said Maureen, "even the cow poop. Thank you, Earl."

"For what?"

"My freedom. Being my Sir Galahad. Rescuing me from Elysian Manor!"

She tugged him closer and bussed his cheek.

"That's enough a that." Tool felt himself redden.

Nobody had uttered a word of objection when he carried Maureen out of the convalescent home. Nobody had dared to get in his way.

She'd already been awake for hours, sitting upright in bed, waiting with her handbag on her lap.

Pulled the intravenous tube from her arm and got herself to the bathroom. Ditched the hospital gown in favor of a light cotton shift, periwinkle blue. Fixed her hair, put on some lipstick, brushed a little color into her face. Dashed off a note to each of her daughters, telling them not to worry.

At breakfast time the nurse from hell had stalked in, eyeing Maureen as if she were a nutcase; humoring her, telling her how cute and pretty she looked, fluffing her pillows, all the time trying to con her into lying still so they could jab her with another needle.

But Maureen had resisted fiercely, forcing the nurse to call for backup. Eventually two lumpish, pimply orderlies had shown up; the lumpier of the two seizing Maureen's arms while the other attempted to pin her legs-the nurse hovering with a gangrenous smirk; uncapping a loaded syringe and lining up her shot.

That's when Tool had appeared, shiny with sweat, a mammoth miasmal presence blocking the doorway. His work boots were crusty and the overalls hung crookedly off his shoulders, exposing a crude mummy wrap of soiled tape. His arms and neck were damply matted, jet-black curls that at a distance could have been mistaken for an ornate body tattoo.

"Git away from her," he'd said without a flicker of emotion.

Instantly the orderlies had released Maureen and stepped away. "It's all right, Polly," she'd told the quaking nurse. "He's my nephew, from the Netherlands. The one I told you about."

Tool had stomped in and gathered Maureen from the bed, carrying her out of the room, down the hall, past the front desk, through the double doors and into the circular driveway, where he had parked the apple-red F-150 supercab pickup, purchased the day before with $33,641 cash.

Leaving, by Tool's arduous calculation, more than $465,000 in the Samsonite.

With plenty of room for the thirty-one fentanyl patches he had burglarized from a discount pharmacy in Boynton Beach-the medicine meant for Maureen, not for himself.

"It's a beauty!" she'd exclaimed upon seeing the new truck. "But I may need a stepladder."

"Naw," Tool had said, and lifted her royally into the passenger seat. The pickup had leather-trimmed captain's chairs, loads of leg-room, a crackerjack air conditioning system and a cargo bed deep enough to accommodate Tool's entire crop of highway crosses, which he had carefully uprooted one at a time from behind his trailer. The task had taken most of the night.

Appalled by the ratty condition of his bandages, Maureen had insisted that Tool seek out a doctor. For miles she'd begged, until he reluctantly had pulled off the turnpike near Kissimmee and made his way to the cattle ranch on the river. His veterinarian pal had agreed, at Maureen's urging, to extract both of the bullets.

"Soon you'll feel like a new man," Maureen proclaimed, dropping the slugs into her handbag. "Did he give you something for pain?"

"Whatever they use on bulls," Tool said. Truth was, he felt pretty darn fine. "So, where you wanna go?" "Earl, may I ask a personal question?"

"Sure." They were bouncing along a narrow dirt track, heading off the ranch. Tool turned down the radio, some sappy song about loneliness and heartbreak on the road.

"Now, it's none of my business," Maureen said, "but I'm curious how you can afford a chariot like this on a bodyguard's income."

Tool thought about his answer while he took a long draw of lukewarm Mountain Dew. "Well, you gotta unnerstand," he said, "some cases pay better'n others."

"This turned out to be a good one, then?"

"I'd have to say yeah, all things considered," he said. "So, now it's my turn for askin' a question, 'kay?"

"Fair enough."

"What's your all-time fantasy vacation?" "You mean, if we could go anywhere in the world?" "That's what I'm tryin' to tell you," Tool said. "We can go anywheres. You just name the place."

Maureen gazed out the window. Her hair seemed thinner and grayer in the direct sunlight, though her eyes were as blue and bright as the sea. Tool could easily picture her as a young woman, not from her features so much as from her open, untroubled expression.

She said, "It's still springtime, isn't it?"

"April, yes, ma'am. Goin' on May."

"I was thinking of those pelicans. They'll be heading north, I suppose."

"All the way to Canada is what it said on that TV show."

"Yes, to Canada. I remember," Maureen said. "Isn't that just remarkable?"

"Must be one helluva thing, thousands a huge white birds comin' down from the sky all together. Flyin' home," Tool said. "I'd sure like to see that operation."

"Me, too, Earl."

"It's a mighty long haul. Sure you're up for it?"

She leaned across and boxed him on the ear. "Don't worry about me, buster. You just drive."

"Yes, ma'am." Tool was beaming as he reached for the radio. "How 'bout some music?"

Karl Rolvaag had a dream that he was being strangled very slowly with a pale silken noose. He woke up clutching at his throat and discovered it snugly enwrapped by a sinewy albino tail. After a few interesting moments the detective managed to extricate himself and turn on the lamp. He trailed the departing length of python across the sheets, beneath the bed and into a ragged hole in the box spring. When Rolvaag cut the ticking away, he found not one but both of his absent companions, balled together in platonic contentment. Upon inspection neither of them manifested any doggy- or kitty-size lumps. To the contrary, the snakes appeared taut and hungry.

Rolvaag was relieved, though not entirely surprised, as the pets missing from Sawgrass Grove had earlier turned up unharmed. Pin-chot, the geriatic Pomeranian, had been located at the county pound, where it had been quarantined after nipping a slow-footed Jehovah's Witness. Pandora, the lost Siamese, had been ransomed back to the Mankiewicz family by neighborhood hooligans in exchange for a case of malt liquor.

The detective felt vindicated, but one piece of unfinished business remained. He removed the muscular animals from their box-spring hideaway and draped them carefully over his shoulders; a colorful, though hefty, adornment. He crossed the hallway to Mrs. Shulman's apartment and knocked three times. It was a blessing that she was too short for her security peephole, for otherwise she never would have opened the door.

"Nellie, you owe us an apology," Rolvaag said.

Mrs. Shulman shrank away in revulsion. "You degenerate monster! Get away from me with those slimy things!"

"Not until you say you're sorry."

"The only thing I'm sorry about is not getting you into court, you twisted freak. Now go!"

By now the pythons had taken notice of little Petunia, hopping madly at Mrs. Shulman's slippered feet. The reptiles raised their milky heads and feathered their rosy tongues, tasting the air. Rolvaag could feel their coils tightening in expectation.

"Easy, fellas," he whispered.

Nellie Shulman's pinched, mean eyes widened to fearful bulges when she saw the snakes begin to twitch.

"You sick perverted bastard!" she cried, and slammed the door.

When the detective returned to his apartment, the phone was ringing. He let the machine pick up.

"Karl, get your ass in here pronto." It was Captain Gallo. "We're going on a helicopter ride. There's another situation."

"What a surprise," Rolvaag murmured to himself.

In a way he felt sorry for his boss, who was a smart cop but sometimes oblivious to the laws of the jungle. Gallo had been genuinely flabbergasted only the day before, when the sheriff had called to report that the body of Samuel Johnson Hammernut had been discovered along Route 441 in western Palm Beach County.

It was a most unnatural death, Mr. Hammernut having been fatally impaled on a roadside cross bearing the name of Pablo Humberto Duarte, a prominent podiatrist who had died in a car crash at that location. One rainy evening, Duarte's Mini Cooper had been creamed by a hit-and-run driver who was never apprehended. And while the seatbelt reminder stenciled on the memorial marker was a commendable gesture, no mere safety harness would have saved the doctor's life, the Mini Cooper having been reduced on impact to the approximate size of a bagel toaster.

Because of the ritualistic appearance of the Hammernut homicide, Palm Beach detectives were sniffing for a connection between the farm tycoon and the podiatrist. One theory: Duarte's family had somehow identified Hammernut as the fugitive hit-and-run driver, setting the stage for a macabre act of vengeance.

Rolvaag had gotten a chuckle out of that one. Gallo had not. It made him nervous that a wealthy and influential citizen interviewed by one of his detectives had turned up murdered ten days later.

"Look on the bright side," Rolvaag had told him. "It's out of our jurisdiction."

The captain's mood had failed to improve overnight. When Rolvaag arrived at headquarters, Gallo pulled him into his office and shut the door.

"We're flying out to the Everglades," he said momentously.

"Okay."

"You aren't going to ask why?"

"I can probably guess," the detective said.

Looking uncharacteristically harried, Gallo gnawed rather savagely on his lower lip.

He said, "Karl, I need some friendly guidance here."

"What do you want to know?"

"That's my question: What do I want to know?" The captain tried to wink, but it came off as a tic. "If you were me, Karl, in my position, would you really want to dive into this Perrone mess? Give it some thought, okay?"

As they waited to board the helicopter, Gallo asked Rolvaag what he was carrying. It was a large Rubbermaid container with air holes punched in the lid.

"My snakes," Rolvaag said. He had not come to his decision lightly.

Gallo looked appalled. "Are you fucking serious? What if the damn things get loose?"

"Just don't tell the pilot."

Rolvaag enjoyed the flight, which took them over Fort Lauderdale and across the western suburbs, then north along the Sawgrass Expressway into Palm Beach County. It was boggling to realize that an elevated ribbon of dirt was essentially all that separated 5 million raucous, distracted human beings from the prehistoric solitude of the Everglades. The detective regretted that during his hitch in South Florida he hadn't spent more time on the other side of the levee; the sane and peaceful side.

"The Palm Beach S.O. invited us out of courtesy," Gallo was explaining, still eyeing the box of pythons. "Whatever they feel like sharing is up to them. It's their case."

"Thank goodness," Rolvaag said.

Against the tans and greens of the savanna, Charles Perrone's Humvee appeared first as a metallic twinkle and then as a bright yellow beacon. As the helicopter drew closer, Rolvaag could make out a couple of squad cars parked on the dike, along with a four-wheel drive that he assumed belonged to the feds. A Loxahatchee park ranger had been first on the scene.

As soon as they landed, Rolvaag and Gallo were greeted by a young Palm Beach sheriff's detective named Ogden. He showed them the suicide note that had been found in the Hummer.

" 'Swan costume'?" Gallo flicked at the paper. "What the fuck is that all about?"

Ogden shrugged.

"Did you find a body?" Rolvaag asked.

"Not yet. We're still looking," Ogden said.

The search airboat could be heard roaring in zigzags through the tall grass. Rolvaag would not have been surprised if the remains of Joey Perrone's husband were recovered, but he would have been astonished if the death turned out to be a true suicide.

Ogden said, "I understand you interviewed the subject several times after his wife's accident. Did he seem depressed enough to do something like this?"

"Actually, he didn't seem depressed at all," Rolvaag said. "He seemed like an insensitive jerk."

Gallo felt professionally obliged to elaborate. "Karl had some theories about Mr. Perrone's possible involvement in his wife's disappearance. Nothing ever panned out."

"Unfortunately," said Rolvaag, thinking: Try to make a murder case in two lousy weeks with no corpse.

"When's the last time you saw him?" Ogden asked.

"A few days ago, at a church service for Mrs. Perrone."

"Was he upset?"

"Not particularly. He was hitting on his wife's best friend."

"Nice guy," Ogden said.

"A real prince. Good luck," Rolvaag told him.

"What's in the box?"

"You don't want to know."

Rolvaag picked up the heavy Rubbermaid tub and trekked down the levee. Once safely out of view, he angled down the embankment and set the container on the ground. It wasn't an ideal solution, Rolvaag knew. As an imported species the pythons didn't belong in Florida but, unfortunately, their native India did not figure in the detective's immediate travel plans. At least here the snakes would be warm and relatively safe, as they were too large and powerful to be bothered by hawks, raccoons or otters. Rolvaag was more worried about the dangers from pesticides and other chemicals, recalling the grossly deformed baby snake that he'd found at Hammernut Farms. All he could do was pray that the water here in Loxahatchee was cleaner.

He popped the lid off the plastic box and waited for the pythons to stir in the sunlight. First one and then the other tentatively rose and poked a blunt nose over the rim. Rolvaag marveled as he often did at their sinuous grace. They were the purest of predators, alluring yet devoid of emotion; a brain stem with a tail.

"So long, guys. Do your best," Rolvaag said.

Trudging back toward the police cars, he couldn't help but observe that the vivid hue of Chaz Perrone's Hummer matched almost exactly that of the crime-scene tape surrounding it. It was Rolvaag's belief that Red Hammernut had eliminated Perrone out of fear that the biologist might reveal their corrupt covenant. Another possibility was that Chaz foolishly had tried to shake the farmer down for more money. Regarding the grisly fate of Mr. Hammernut himself, Rolvaag surmised that he had succumbed during some sort of disagreement with Earl Edward O'Toole. The hired brute collected highway crosses just like the one upon which the tycoon farmer was kabobed.

Under ordinary circumstances Rolvaag would have shared all he knew and suspected with young Detective Ogden. Not today, though, for Rolvaag was impatient to get home and pack. Anyway, what would be accomplished by bringing the kid up to speed? His boss probably wouldn't give him enough time to put a dent in the case.

Later, as Ogden walked them to the helicopter, he said, "We'll call you when we find the body."

"If he's wearing a swan suit," said Gallo, "I want to see a picture."

On the chopper ride back to Fort Lauderdale, Gallo hunched close and growled, "I need an answer, Karl. Right now."

"All right. Here it is," Rolvaag said. "If I were you, I definitely would not want to know what I know."

Gallo looked relieved, then wary. "You're not just saying that because you think I'm too dense to sort it out?"

"Of course not."

"You believe Perrone is dead?"

"You betcha," the detective said.

"But what if you're wrong?"

"Then I'll fly back for the trial."

"What trial, goddammit? The only witness was the victim."

Rolvaag touched a finger to his lips. "You don't want to know. Remember?"

Gallo lowered his voice. "You couldn't have picked a worse fucking time to bail out on me," he said, "or a worse case."

"It's just about over. Trust me on this."

"Trust you? Karl, I can't even follow you."

When they got back to the office, Rolvaag noticed that the place was as hushed as an art gallery. All the male detectives were pretending to study case files while they ogled Rose Jewell, who was sitting at Rolvaag's desk and reading a book. She wore pearl-colored heels, a sleeveless white top and a navy skirt so short that she could have caught the croup.

When she looked up and saw Rolvaag, she snapped the book shut and said, "I'm not connecting with Emma Bovary. Sorry, but it's just not happening."

Rose's Broadway-blond hair was accented with a pair of black goggle-sized sunglasses that she'd propped at a saucy angle on her head. "Buy me a cup of coffee," she said to Rolvaag.

"You don't drink coffee," he reminded her.

"It's a figure of speech," she said with a chiding laugh. "It means I want to talk with you alone."

Captain Gallo stepped between them and extended a meaty paw. "I don't think we've been introduced," he said.

"And why should we be? You're married, sweetie." Rose pointed helpfully at Gallo's wedding band. Then she turned to Rolvaag and said, "Are you coming?"

He followed her down the hall to a bank of vending machines. There he bought her a diet soda, which she sipped from the can.

"I noticed all the boxes on your desk," she said. "You going somewhere?"

"Yes. I took a job with a police department in Minnesota."

"Minnesota? But what about Joey?"

"The case is more or less over," Rolvaag said.

"Is that the same as closed?" Rose asked skeptically.

"Not exactly. Just over."

He told her about Chaz Perrone's Humvee turning up at Loxa-hatchee, and about the suicide note. He related only what he knew as facts, and not his strong suspicions.

Rose leaned against the soda machine and said, "Oh God. There's something I've got to confess."

The detective felt a stab of heartburn. "Please don't tell me you killed him. I already rented the U-Haul."

"For God's sake, no, I didn't kill him," she said. "But I did invite him to my place after the memorial… and then I doped his drink." She smiled sheepishly. "I was trying to get him to admit he pushed Joey overboard."

"Did he fess up?"

"No comment," said Rose. "Do I need a lawyer?"

"Not unless Mr. Perrone files charges, and I would say that's a long shot."

She handed Rolvaag the half-empty soda pop, which he tossed in the garbage.

"My mom lives in Minnetonka," she said.

"No kidding? The job I'm taking is in Edina."

"Nice town." Rose clucked approvingly. "I saw you at Joey's service, sitting way in the back of the church, but I didn't know whether it was cool to say hi or not."

"You gave a good eulogy," Rolvaag said. "I'm sure Mrs. Perrone would have liked it."

"I haven't given up on that girl, you know. Weirder things have happened."

"I haven't given up, either," said Rolvaag. He wanted to tell her more, but he couldn't.

She said, "I try to go up and see Mom once or twice a year."

"It's nice in the spring," Rolvaag heard himself say.

"Maybe I'll call you next time I'm there," Rose said. "There's not a whole lot happening in Edina, crime-wise. I'll bet you could spare a whole hour for lunch."

"Oh, at least," said the detective.

As she walked out of the office Rose Jewell never once glanced back, which spared Rolvaag the embarrassment of being caught staring. It was one of the most splendid exits he had ever witnessed. After a moment's recovery he returned to his desk and resumed boxing the files. He checked his voice mail but did not find the message he was expecting. It was possible that he was dead wrong about what had happened; possible, he thought, but not likely.

Rolvaag made sure that the rest of the day passed slowly, to give his telephone time to ring. It didn't. Then, shortly before five, he was approached by a well-set middle-aged man with a deep-water tan. The man introduced himself and presented a faded ID from the Dade State Attorney's Office, where many years ago he had worked as an investigator.

"How can I help you, Mr. Stranahan?" Rolvaag asked.

"Let's go eat."

"As you can see, I'm pretty busy. It's my last week on the job."

Stranahan said, "This concerns a man named Charles Perrone."

Rolvaag reached for his coat. "There's a new place on Las Olas. The burgers aren't bad."

"Mind if I bring a friend?"

The detective found one last notebook in the bottom drawer of his desk. "Fine with me," he said.

The green Suburban was parked three blocks away, in the public lot. At the sight of it, Rolvaag suppressed a grin. He got in the backseat and rolled down the window to feel the sun on his face. They ended up ordering takeout and carrying it to a picnic table on the beach.

Mrs. Perrone was even lovelier than in her photographs. Mick Stranahan let her do most of the talking. When she was finished, Rolvaag said, "Tell me again the last thing you remember."

"Falling," she said. "No, diving."

"And before that?"

"My husband throwing me over the rail."

"And afterward?"

"I woke up at Mick's and it was all a blank," Joey Perrone said. "Until yesterday."

"Then it came back to you all at once? Or in bits and pieces?"

Stranahan spoke up. "Pieces. For a while she didn't even know her name."

Rolvaag put down his notebook and went to work on his french fries.

"They found a floating bale of marijuana that had the tips of your fingernails stuck in it," he said to Mrs. Perrone. "I was wondering how long you'd hung on."

Pensively she glanced at her hands and flexed her fingers, as if trying to muscle up the memory.

"She hung on all night," Mick Stranahan said. "That's how I found her."

Although Joey Perrone appeared vigorous and fit, Rolvaag was nonetheless impressed. Few grown men he knew would have survived such a fall, followed by eight hours in the cold chop of the ocean.

"Where's this island exactly?" he asked.

Stranahan told him.

"But you've got a boat, right? Why didn't you take Mrs. Perrone to a hospital after you found her?" the detective said.

"Because she was in no condition to be moved. It's a small skiff, and a nasty ride when it's rough."

"You don't have a phone or a VHP radio on your island?"

"Just a cellular, and the battery was dead."

"No charger?"

"Broken," said Stranahan. "Same with the VHE"

"So, for the last two weeks-"

"Mick's been taking care of me," Joey Perrone said.

With a straw, Rolvaag swirled the ice in his jumbo Sprite. He said, "You've had quite a go of it." That much of their story he believed.

Mrs. Perrone picked distractedly at a Greek salad. "I know it's just my word against his, but I want to prosecute Chaz for attempted murder. I want to take him to trial."

"That may not be possible," Rolvaag said. "Your husband is missing in the Everglades. There was a suicide note in his vehicle."

Joey Perrone seemed more shocked than Mick Stranahan, who asked if the note looked authentic.

"I think there's a strong possibility that Mr. Perrone is gone for good," the detective replied.

Mrs. Perrone put down her fork and turned away, looking toward the ocean. Stranahan moved closer and laid a hand on her back.

"Damn," she said softly.

"You all right?" Rolvaag asked.

She nodded and stood up. "I want to take a walk."

When they were alone, Stranahan asked the detective where he was moving.

"Home to Minnesota," Rolvaag said. "I figure it's best to get out of here now, while I still remember what 'normal' is."

"Good luck," said Stranahan.

"Just yesterday was one of those only-in-Florida moments. They called me out to see some dead guy by the side of the road. You know these white crosses people put up at fatal accident scenes? He had one sticking in the middle of his gut."

Stranahan took a bite of cheeseburger. "Was he a tourist? Because that's when you hear from the governor, when tourists start getting whacked."

"Nope, he owned a big farming outfit up near Lake Okeechobee. Coincidentally, he was an associate of Mrs. Perrone's husband," the detective said. "Samuel Hammernut was his name."

Stranahan displayed no curiosity whatsoever. When a seagull landed on the corner of the table, he tossed a french fry at its feet.

Rolvaag said, "They held a memorial service for Mrs. Perrone last Thursday and, I swear, there was a guy at the church who looked a lot like you."

"No kidding?" Stranahan offered a soggy slice of pickle to the gull, which mangled it greedily. "The island is lousy with these things," he remarked. "Rats with wings."

"All those years working for the state," Rolvaag said, "did you ever get a case that wrapped itself up in a nice neat package, and all you could do was sit back and watch? Where all the bad guys just canceled each other out and saved everybody the hassle of a trial?"

"A rare treat," Stranahan said.

"Well, this is my first." Rolvaag picked up his notebook and sailed it into a litter basket, spooking the bird. "I figure it's a good note to leave Florida on. What do you think, Mr. Stranahan?"

"I think timing is everything, Karl."

The two men stopped talking when they spotted Joey returning along the beach. She had put on her sunglasses and taken off her shoes and pulled the tie from her ponytail. A big striped ball rolled into her path and, without breaking stride, she gently kicked it back to a small blond boy, who skipped away laughing. Every now and then she would stop to watch the waves froth around her legs, or to pick up a seashell.

The burly unkempt stranger who came shouldering out of the saw grass carried no weapon. Chaz Perrone heaved the rock, which splashed in front of the stranger, and screamed, "Stay the fuck away from me, old man!"

The intruder's grin was alarming in its perfection. From his deportment, Chaz initially had pegged him as a homeless wino, but winos typically did not make a priority of dental hygiene.

"Don't get any closer," Chaz warned. He snatched another rock off the ground and cocked his arm.

The grizzled intruder kept coming. When he was ten yards away, Chaz let loose. The man caught the rock bare-handed and threw it back with surprising velocity, over Chaz's head.

"I played some college ball myself," the man said, "about a jillion years ago."

Chaz shielded his shriveling, bug-bitten privates as he backed against the bay tree. He told himself that the situation could be worse; it could be Red and Tool, with the twelve-gauge.

The man said, "I heard the shots last night, but I was a long ways off."

"What do you want?" Chaz asked shakily.

"Thought it might be a deer poacher. Five rounds from a shotgun means somebody's trying to kill something."

"Yeah, me." Chaz turned to reveal the pellet marks in his backside.

"Close call," the man said, with no abundance of concern.

If he was a game warden, Chaz thought, he must have been lost in the boonies for decades. He wore a tattered Stones T-shirt, filthy dungarees and moldy boots that had long ago come unstitched at the toes.

A plastic shower cap was stretched over his hair, and one misaligned eyeball stared emptily at the sky. His silver beard, intricately braided, was accented by a necklace made of teeth.

Human teeth, Chaz observed with consternation. He could see the amalgam fillings.

The stranger noticed Chaz gawking and said, "They're real, if that's what you're wondering. I took 'em off a guy who killed a momma otter for no good reason. Where are your clothes, sir?"

"They got torn off in the saw grass."

Chaz was thirsty, famished and nearly unhinged from lack of sleep, having spent the night ribaldry serenaded by alligators.

"And where's the fellow who tried to shoot you?" inquired the man in the shower cap.

Chaz motioned haplessly at the outlying marsh. "Who knows. There was two of 'em, back on the levee."

The stranger nodded. "Before I decide what to do with you, I need some answers. You mind?"

Chaz answered emphatically. "Anything you want. Just get. me out of this goddamn hellhole."

"Understand that I'm not a well person. I'm muddling through a rough spell at the moment," the man said. "For instance, I've got a hunch you don't even marginally resemble H. R. Haldeman. Bob, they used to call him at the White House."

Chaz said he didn't know who that was.

"An arrogant, perjuring, justice-obstructing shitweasel who worked for the thirty-seventh president of the United States of America, an amoral maggot in his own right," the stranger related somewhat testily. "Anyway, that's who I'm hallucinating when I look at you-Bob Haldeman. So keep that in mind. Plus, I've got a hideous duet running like a freight train through my skull-'Hey Jude,' as performed by Bobbie Gentry and Placido Domingo. It's a fucking miracle I haven't disemboweled myself."

"What's your name?" Chaz was trying to stay calm, trying to sound amiable and harmless.

"You just call me Captain. But I'm asking the questions here, you understand?"

Chaz signaled cooperatively.

The man said, "Good. Let's start with basic identification."

"All right. My name is Charles Perrone and I have a Ph.D. in wet-

lands ecology. I'm employed as a field biologist for the South Florida Water Management District."

"Doing what, Mr. Perrone?"

"It's Dr. Perrone." Chaz hoped that the substance of his title would counterpoise his forlorn appearance. "I work mostly out here in the Everglades, testing the water for phosphates," he said. "It's part of the big government restoration project."

The stranger did not seem as impressed, or deferential, as Chaz had hoped. He removed his artificial eye and, with a scrofulous pocket-knife, scraped a dried clot of algae off the polished glass.

Then he twisted the orb back into its socket and said, "What's your name again?"

"Perrone." Chaz spelled it.

"No, ace, your first name."

"Charles. But everybody calls me Chaz."

The stranger cocked his head. "Chad?"

"No, Chaz. With a z."

That brought an inexplicable laugh. "Small world," said the man in the shower cap.

"How so?" Chaz asked, though he was already dreading the answer.

"I met a lady friend of yours out here the other night," the man told him.

Chaz's stomach pitched and his tongue turned to sandpaper.

"Ricca was her name," the stranger went on. "She had quite a story to tell."

Chaz smiled weakly. "Well, she's got quite an imagination."

"Yeah? You think she imagined that thirty-eight-caliber hole in her leg?" The man fished into his dungarees, first one pocket and then another. He cackled when he located the bullet slug, which he held up for Chaz to inspect in the pink early-morning light.

The man said, "I dug it out with a bent fishhook and a pair of needle-nose. Hurt like hell, but she's a champ, that girl." He nicked the damaged bullet into the water.

Chaz Perrone stood slack and helpless in defeat. What were the stratospheric odds, he wondered, that this half-senile, cockeyed hippie was the same person who'd rescued Ricca?

The stranger said, "Let me address a couple of points, Mr. Perrone. First, I'm not that old a fellow that I can't snap your neck bones with my bare hands. Second, this isn't a hellhole, this is my home and I happen to think it's heaven. Third, if you're a real scientist, then I'm Goldie Hawn."

In a monotone Chaz recited his academic credentials, which caused the man to squint down at him in brutal incredulity.

"Won't you hear my side of the story, Captain? Please?" Chaz scarcely recognized his own voice.

The madman leaned back and frowned at the rising sun. "We need to be moving along. I expect somebody'll come searching for you soon."

"Nobody I'd ever want to find me."

"Then let's go, junior. There's no time for a pity party."

With dull obedience Chaz followed the one-eyed hermit away from the shaded knoll and into the broiling flat savanna. The saw grass sliced Chaz's flesh with every step, but the sensation no longer registered as pain. Not far away, crossing the same stretch of marsh, were two creamy-colored snakes as thick as tugboat cables; they moved with a fluid and fearless tropism, as energized by their wild new surroundings as Charles Regis Perrone was cowed by his.

"I realize I've been an asshole," he called ahead to the stranger, "but people do change if they get the chance."

"Haldeman didn't," the man snapped over his shoulder. "Besides, I don't think of you as a garden-variety asshole, Chaz. I think of you as a nullity."

Chaz wasn't sure what that meant, but given the context, he assumed the worst. Ricca had doubtlessly painted a most unflattering portrait.

As they advanced deeper into the hostile wasteland, the leaden weight of Chaz's predicament settled fully upon him. Christ, he thought, I can't catch a break to save my life.

Literally.

After what seemed like an hour, the derelict in the shower cap stopped marching and held out a dented canteen, for which Chaz lunged unashamedly. As he slugged down the water, it occurred to him that the hoary bushman would probably know precisely how many penises a bull alligator had.

Another question to which there was no soothing answer, Chaz decided upon reflection.

Still another: What happens to me now?

It was as if the crazed wanderer had been reading his thoughts.

"Did you ever study Tennyson? I'm guessing not," the man said. " 'Nature, red in tooth and claw.' That's a very famous line."

To Chaz, it didn't sound promising. "I'm not going back to Boca Raton, ami?"

"No, Dr. Perrone, you are not."