"Knock it off, dickhead," the shadow barks.

"Jerry, my brother, you're late."

Simultaneously we kill the spotlights. The distinctive L-shaped profile of the airboat becomes visible against a pinkish swath of low sky—the faraway glow of West Palm Beach. I see Jerry's burly silhouette on the driver's platform in front of the big propeller. In the bow are two other figures; one is standing and one is seated, cloaked in a hood.

"Where's the package?" Jerry shouts at me.

"Not yet, you silly man!"

The standing figure prods the hooded figure, who says, "Jack, it's me."

I feel like a mule just kicked me in the gut.

"It's me, Emma." She sounds doped and exhausted.

"How are you doing, princess," I hear myself calling in a strained voice. "It's gonna be all right."

I'm shaking so badly it must be rocking Juan in the front of the boat. If I tried to stand up now I'd keel sideways into the lake. "How do you want to do this?" I ask Jerry.

"Right here. Bring your boat over."

Boy oh boy.

The tall figure in the front of the airboat is loosening the hood on Emma's head. I feel for the starter cord on the Mercury and I pull on it once, twice, three times.

That figures—the fucker won't start. Its moist wheezing reminds me of the late MacArthur Polk.

"Hurry it up," Jerry snaps.

Easy, Jack. Don't panic. Try the choke—but let's not flood it, okay?

"What's the problem, dickhead?" Jerry zaps me with his spotlight. He thinks I'm stalling.

Twice more I yank on the cord before the outboard chugs to life. I put it in gear and idle toward the kidnappers. What else is there to do?

"You look very cool in that contraption, Jerry. Have you driven one of those things before?"

"Shut up, Tagger."

"If you ever get canned by Cleo, maybe you could get a job on the Seminole reservation. Nature tours!"

"Eat me," says Jerry. Descending from the driver's seat, he keeps the spotlight trained on my chest. I guess he wants to make sure I'm not reaching for another frozen lizard.

Pointing my own Q-beam at the bow of the airboat, I see that Emma's hood is a burlap feed sack. She slumps round-shouldered and unmoving. The man guarding her is none other than Loreal. His eyeglasses are bug-splattered and his lustrous waist-length mane is pulled back in a drenched and unglamorous ponytail—the life of a big-time record producer! Under any other circumstances he'd have me in stitches. His distressed expression suggests he'd rather be anywhere else on the planet but here. Obviously Jerry has given him a preview of what lies ahead.

Easing up to the airboat, I put down my light, slip the outboard into neutral and move to the bow. I'm careful not to step on Juan, who remains motionless under the yellow tarpaulin. When I reach beneath it, a large plastic cartridge is pressed firmly into my hand—Jimmy Stoma's unfinished creation.

Jerry's spotlight is scorching the back of my neck, and I know he's looming over me, a gun in his other hand. The glare is so hot that I can't look up.

"Give it here," he says.

"Not until you hand down the lady."

The spotlight's beam jiggles as he shifts positions. I've already decided to knock him into the water if he tries to board the johnboat. The light clicks off, and as my eyes adjust, I can see Loreal leading Emma by the arm; leading her to me. This I can scarcely believe.

Yet now I'm helping her into the johnboat, gently squeezing her arm and whispering that everything's going to turn out fine. In the cloud-glow I see the black stripe of Jerry's eye patch encircling his naked skull. The spotlight bobs restlessly in his left hand, which means the gun is in the other. I expect he'll shoot us the moment he gets his mitts on Jimmy's music.

"Now give it here!" he says.

I pick up the computer box and dangle it above the water on the opposite side of the boat, so that Jerry can't grab at it. "If this baby gets wet, it's all over," I say. "The unit is ruined and the song's lost forever." With such morons it's impossible to belabor the obvious.

"Tagger, what the fuck're you doin'?"

"Your gun, Jer. Throw it as far as you can."

"Yeah, right."

"Listen, Cyclops, I'm counting to five. If I don't hear your pistolahit the water, the package will. Then you can go home and explain to Mrs. Stomarti what happened to her hit single. Explain how you're a tough guy, and tough guys can't part with their guns. I'm sure she'll understand."

Jerry raises his right arm. It's not so dark that I can't make out the shape of the barrel, aimed more or less at my beak. Soiling myself would not be an inappropriate reaction.

Yet I continue to brandish the prized hard drive over the water. "One," I hear myself saying. "Two ... three ... "

"Shit, Jerry, do what he says!" Finally Loreal has something to contribute. "If he drops the damn thing, we lose all the tracks and then we're screwed. I'm fucking serious."

"Listen to the man, Jer. He's a pro."

The bodyguard emits a crude slur on my ancestry, then he rears back and heaves the gun. From the sound of the splash, it was a big one.

He says, "Okay, now gimme the fucking package."

I'm a man of my word. "Here, Jerry. Catch."

I toss the plastic box at his squat silhouette. The hard drive bounces off his chest and falls to the deck of the airboat. While he and Loreal clamber to retrieve it, I shove off.

Stepping to the stern of the skiff, I twist the throttle wide open.

"Jack?"

"It's okay, Emma. Everything's fine."

I reach for the hood and tug it off. She looks haggard and dazed. Smiling numbly, she clutches at my hand. Juan peeks out from beneath the tarpaulin. "We cool?"

"Not quite." A mild understatement.

We'll never outrun that airboat if they come after us, which is a distinct possibility. Jerry didn't even ask for the CDs that we burned from Jimmy's master. It would be calamitous for Cleo if they turned up on some radio station at the same time her album came out. She made a point of telling me to bring those discs tonight, so that she could destroy them. I'd have been pleased to hand them over, too, but that sonofabitch Jerry never said a word.

Which means he either forgot, or he doesn't intend to let us get off this lake alive.

Juan crawls back to take the tiller and to deliver Carla's gun, which he'd held cocked for the duration of the rendezvous. That was one of our contingency plans—in the event of an especially violent double cross, Juan was to burst from beneath the tarp and plug Cleo's bodyguard in the brain. It wasn't a particularly original idea, but we were looking to keep things simple.

Delicately I slip the Lady Colt into my waistband, the challenge being not to shoot myself. I move forward to sit beside Emma, who is wobbly and shuddering. I wrap one arm around her and with the other I point the Q-beam at twelve o'clock, so that Juan is able to see where we're heading. In his fist the GPS screen glows a cozy green, and the unanimous hope is that it will guide us back to Ernie Bo Tump's marina.

For all the neurotic ruminating I do about death, I never before felt the ice-cold breath of the beast. In all my life I cannot recall a singular moment I thought would be my last. Even when no-neck Jerry was whaling on me in the apartment, I was more angry than scared, which doesn't say much for my survival instinct. Tonight a large-caliber handgun was pointed at my nostrils, and my response was cinematic defiance. Whether that was brave or merely idiotic, it plainly reveals a new, more flexible attitude toward the concept of dying. Emma has no frame of reference, but Anne might call it a breakthrough.

In any case, I'm not off the hook. None of us are.

"Jack, look! Look!" Juan points ahead. Emma stiffens in my embrace. Streaking off our port side is another white light—the air-boat, angling on a course to intercept us. Instantly I kill the Q-beam and start fumbling for the gun. I tell Juan not to slow down, no matter what.