Picker drew back the Jeep's plastic window flap. "Where's your father, Skip?"

The man rubbed his eyes again. " 'Side." His voice was thick and hoarse and peevish.

"We're renting a plane from him this morning."

Skip tried to digest that. Finally he said, "Yeah."

"Where's the takeoff strip, Ly?" said Jo.

"Anywhere we please; these aren't jumbo jets. Let's get going."

The two of them climbed out of the Jeep, and Picker went up to Skip and began talking. Jo hung back, mouth still busy, hands plucking at her vest.

"Poor thing," said Robin. "She's scared."

As I started to turn the Jeep around, another bare-chested man came out of the house. Flowered boxer shorts. The same wide face as Skip but thirty years older. Sloping shoulders and a monumental gut. What was left of his hair was tan-gray. A two-week beard coated a face made for suspicion.

He pointed at us and approached the Jeep.

"You the doctor's new guests?" Heavy voice, like his son, but not as sleepy. "Amalfi." His tiny blue eyes were bloodshot but alert, his nose so flat it was almost flush. The beard was patchy and ingrown. The skin it didn't cover was a ruin of mounds and puckers.

"What's that you got?"

"French bulldog."

"Never saw nothing like that in France."

Robin stroked Spike, and Harry Amalfi drew back his head. "Having a good time, miss?"

"Very much so."

"Doctor treating you good?"

She nodded.

"Well, don't count on it." He licked a finger and held it to the wind. "Wanna go up in the air, too?"

"No thanks."

He laughed, started coughing, and spat on the ground. "Nervous?"

"Maybe some other time."

"Don't worry, miss, my planes are all greased and tuned. I'm the only way to fly around here."

"Thanks for the offer," I said, and completed the turn. Amalfi put his hands on his hips and watched us, hitching up his shorts. The Pickers had gone inside the house with Skip.

As I drove away, I glanced back and got a closer look at the smaller house. The white molding around the door was a ring of sharks' jaws.

I got on Front Street and drove back toward South Beach. The man with the chopsticks was still in front of the Palace, and this time he stood as we approached and waved his arms, as if hailing a cab.

I pulled over and he trotted to the curb. He was around forty, average height and narrow build, with black hair combed down over his forehead and a black mustache too thin to see from a distance. The rest of his face was sallow and smooth, nearly hairless. He wore wide, black Porsche sunglasses, a short-sleeved blue button-down shirt, seersucker pants, and Top-Siders. Back at his table was a stuffed Filofax next to a platter of noodles-and-something, and three empty Sapporos.

He said "Tom Creedman" in a tone that said we should recognize the name. When we didn't, he smiled unhappily and clicked his tongue. "L.A., right?"

"Right."

"New York," he said, pointing to his chest. "Before that, D.C. Used to work in the news business." He paused, then dropped the names of a TV network and two major newspapers.

"Ah," I said, as if all was clear. His smile warmed up.

"Care to join me for a beer?"

I looked at Robin. She nodded.

We got out and went over to his table, Spike in tow. He looked at the dog but didn't say anything. Then he stuck his head in the restaurant's open door. "Jacqui!"

A statuesque woman came out, dishcloth balled in one hand. Her long dark hair was thick and wavy, crowning a full-lipped, golden face. A few lines but young skin. Her age was hard to gauge- anywhere from twenty-five to forty-five.

"The new guests up at Knife Castle," Creedman told her. "A round for everyone."

Jacqui smiled at us. "Welcome to Aruk."

"Something to eat?" said Creedman. "I know it's early but I've found Chinese for breakfast a great pick-me-up. Probably all the soy sauce, gets that blood pressure up."

"No thanks."

"Okay," said Creedman to Jacqui. "Just beers."

She left.

"Knife Castle?" said Robin.

"Local nickname for your lodgings. Didn't you know? The Japanese owned this island; Moreland's manse was their headquarters. They used the locals as slaves to do all the dirty work, imported more. Then MacArthur decided to take over everything from Hawaii to Tokyo and bombed the hell out of them. When the surviving Japanese soldiers were trying to entrench, the slaves grabbed any sharp thing they could find, left their barracks, and finished the job. Knife Island."

I said, "Dr. Moreland said it was because of the shape."

Creedman laughed.

"Sounds like you've done some research," I said.

"Old habits."

Jacqui brought the beers and he threw a dollar tip at her. She looked irritated and left quickly.

Creedman lifted a bottle but instead of drinking rubbed the top of his hand against the glass.

"What brings you here?" I said.

"Little wind-down from reality. Running with the Beltway movers and shakers too long."

"You covered politics?"

"In all its sleazy splendor." He raised his bottle. "To island torpor."

The beer was ice-cold and terrific.

Robin took my hand. Creedman stroked the bottle some more, then the Filofax. "I'm working on a book. Nonfiction novel- life-changes, isolation, internal revolution. The island mystique as it relates to the end-of-the-century zeitgeist." He smiled. "Can't really say more."

"Sounds interesting," I said.

"My publisher hopes so. Got them to pay me enough so they'll break their asses promoting."

"Is Aruk your only subject or have you been to other islands?"

"Been traveling for over a year. Tahiti, Fiji, Tonga, the Marshalls, Guam, rest of the Marianas. Came here last year to start writing because the place is dead, no distractions."

Taking a long swallow, he gave yet another closed-mouth laugh. "So how long will you be here?"

"Probably a couple of months," I said.

"What exactly are you here for?"

"Helping Dr. Moreland organize his data."

"Medical data?"

"Whatever he's got."

"Any specific diseases you're looking at?"

"No, just a general overview."

"For a book?"

"If there's a book in it."

"You're a psychologist, right?"

"Right."

"So he wants you to analyze his patients psychologically?"

"We're still discussing the specifics."

He smiled. "What's that, your version of no comment?"

I smiled back. "My version of we're still discussing the specifics."

He turned to Robin. "And you, Robin? What's your project?"

"I'm on vacation."

"Good for you." He faced me again. "Another beer?"

"No thanks."

"Good stuff, isn't it? Most of the packaged goods that get over here are from Japan. Marked up two, three hundred percent- ultimate revenge."

He drained his bottle and put it down. "I'll have you guys over for dinner."

"Where do you live?" I said.

"Just up there." He tilted his head toward the hillside. "Spent a few days up at Moreland's but couldn't take it. Too intense- he is something, isn't he?"

"He seems very dedicated."

"Easy to be dedicated when you're loaded. Did you know his father was a big San Francisco investment honcho?"

I shook my head.

"Big bucks. Mega. Owned a brokerage house, some banks, ranchland all over wine country. Moreland's an only child, inherited the whole kit and k. How else could he keep that place going? Not that it's going to matter. Lost cause."

"What is?" said Robin.

"Saving this place. I don't want to put a downer on your trip, but Aruk's on the way out. No natural resources, no industry. No industriousness. Talk about your slackers- look at that beach. They don't even have the energy to swim. The smart ones keep leaving. Only a matter of time before it looks like one of those cartoon desert islands, shipwrecked loser under a palm tree."