I've returned to the shrine.

That's where she found him, rapt and round-eyed.

Demencio took her aside and whispered, "No offense, but I got a business here."

"I understand," said Joan. She walked to the moat and crouched next to her brother. "How we doing?"

"See that?" Sinclair pointed. "She's crying."

Demencio had repaired the Madonna's plumbing; teardrops sparkled on her fiberglass cheeks. Joan felt embarrassed that Sinclair was so affected.

"Your boss called," she told him.

"That's nice."

"It sounded real important."

Sinclair sighed. Cupped in each hand was a cooter. "This is Bartholomew, and I think this one's Simon."

"Yes, they're very cute."

"Joan, please. You're talking about the apostles."

"Honey, you'd better call the newspaper."

Demencio offered to let him use the telephone in the house. Anything to get the goofball away from the shrine before the first Christian tourists arrived.

The managing editor's secretary put Sinclair through immediately. In a monotone he apologized for not calling the day before, as promised.

"Forget about it," said the managing editor. "I've got shitty news: Tom Krome's dead."

"No."

"Looks that way. The arson guys found a body in the house."

"No!" Sinclair insisted. "It's not possible."

"Burned beyond recognition."

"But Tom went to Miami with the lottery woman!"

"Who told you that?"

"The man with the turtles."

"I see," said the managing editor. "What about the man with the giraffes – what did he say? And the bearded lady with penguins – did you ask her?"

Sinclair wobbled and spun, tangling himself in the telephone cord. Joan shoved a chair under his butt. Breathlessly he said: "Tom can't be dead."

"They're working on the DNA," the managing editor said, "but they're ninety-nine percent sure it's him. We're getting a front-page package ready for tomorrow."

"My God," said Sinclair. Was it possible he'd actually lost a reporter?

He heard his boss say: "Don't come home."

"What?"

"Not just yet. Not till we figure out what to say."

"To who?" Sinclair asked.

"The wires. The networks. Reporters don't get murdered much these days," the managing editor explained, "especially feature writers. It's a pretty big deal."

"I suppose, but – "

"There'll be lots of sticky questions: Where'd you send him? What was he working on? Was it dangerous?" It's best if I handle it. That's why they pay me the big bucks, right?"

Sinclair was gripped by a cold fog. "I can't believe this."

"Maybe it had nothing to do with the job. Maybe it was a robbery, or a jealous boyfriend," said the managing editor. "Maybe a fucking casserole exploded – who knows? The point is, Tom's going to end up a hero, regardless. That's what happens when journalists get killed – look at Amelia Lloyd, for Christ's sake. She couldn't write a fucking grocery list, but they went ahead and named a big award after her."

Sinclair said, "I feel sick."

"We all do, believe me. We all do," the managing editor said. "You sit tight for a few days. Take it easy. Have a good visit with your sister. I'll be in touch."

For a time Sinclair remained motionless. Joan took the receiver from his hand and carefully unwrapped the cord from his shoulders and neck. With a tissue she dabbed the perspiration from his forehead. Then she dampened another and wiped a spot of turtle poop from his arm.

"What did he say?" she asked. "What's happened?"

"It's Tom – he's not in Miami, he's dead."

"Oh no. I'm so sorry."

Sinclair stood up. "Now I understand," he said.

Nervously his sister eyed him.

"Finally I understand why I'm here. What brought me to this place," he said. "Before, I wasn't sure. Something fantastic took hold of me when I touched the turtles, but I didn't know what or why. Now I do. Now I know."

Joan said, "Hey, how about a soda?"

Sinclair slapped a hand across his breast. "I was sent here," he said, "to be reborn."

"Reborn."

"There's no other explanation," Sinclair said, and trotted out the door toward the shrine. There he stripped off his clothes and lay down in the silty water among the cooters.

"Nimmy doo-dey, nimmy nyyah!"

Trish, who was setting up the T-shirt display, dropped to one knee. "I believe he's speaking in tongues!"

"Like hell," said Demencio. "Coo-ca-loo-ca-choo."

Balefully he stomped to the garage in search of the tuna gaff.

Krome looked preoccupied. Happy, JoLayne thought, but preoccupied.

She said, "You passed the test."

"The white-guy test?"

"Yep. With flying colors."

Krome broke out laughing. It was nice to hear. JoLayne wished he'd laugh like that more often, and not only when she made a joke.

He said, "When did you decide this would happen?"

They were under the bedcovers, holding each other. As if it were freezing outdoors, JoLayne thought, instead of seventy-two degrees.

"Pre-kiss or post-kiss?" Krome asked.

"Post," she answered.

"You're kidding."

"Nope. Strictly a spur-of-the-moment deal."

"The sex?"

"Sure," JoLayne said.

Which wasn't exactly true, but why tell him everything? He didn't need to know the precise moment when she'd made up her mind, or why. It amused JoLayne that men were forever trying to figure out how they'd managed to get laid – what devastatingly clever line they'd come up with, what timely expression of sincerity or sensitivity they'd affected. As if the power of seduction were theirs whenever they wanted, if only they knew how to unlock it.

For JoLayne Lucks, there was no deep mystery to what had happened. Krome was a decent guy. He cared about her. He was strong, reliable and not too knuckleheaded. These things counted. He had no earthly clue how much they counted.

Not to mention that she was scared. No denying it. Chasing two vicious robbers through the state – insane is what it was. No wonder they were stressed out, she and Tom. That certainly had something to do with it, too; one reason they were hugging each other like teenagers.

JoLayne retreated to standard pillow talk.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Moffitt," he said.

"Oh, very romantic."

"I was hoping he takes his time searching that guy's place. A week or so would be OK. In the meantime we could stay just like this, the two of us."

"Nice comeback," JoLayne said, pinching his leg. "You think he'll find the ticket?"

"If it's there, yeah. He gives the impression of total competence."

"And what if it's not there?"

"Then I suppose we'll need a plan, and some luck," Krome said.

"Moffitt thinks I'll do something crazy."

"Imagine that."

"Seriously, Tom. He won't even tell me the guy's name."

"I'vegot the name," Krome said, "and an address."

JoLayne sat upright, bursting out of the covers. "What did you say?"

"With all due respect to your friend, it doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to run a license-tag check. All you need is a friend at the highway patrol." Krome shrugged in mock innocence. "The creep with the pickup truck, his name is Bodean James Gazzer. And we can find him with or without intrepid Agent Moffitt."

"Damn," said JoLayne. The boy was slicker than she'd thought.

"I'd have told you sooner," he said, "but we were preoccupied."

"Don't give me that."

They both jumped when the phone rang. Krome reached for it. JoLayne scooted closer and silently mouthed: "Moffitt?"

Krome shook his head. JoLayne hopped out of bed and headed for the shower. When she came out, he was standing at the window, taking in a grand view of the Metrorail tracks. He didn't seem to notice that she'd repainted her nails a neon green or that she was wearing only the towel on her head.