And the queer histrionics of the visiting newspaperman had made Demencio edgier than usual. He could cope with hydraulic malfunctions in a weeping statue; a flesh-and-blood lunatic was something else. For the time being, the recumbent and incoherent Sinclair was drawing plenty of customers. But what if he freaked out? What if his marble-mouthed gibberish turned to violent rant?

Demencio fretted that he might lose control of his shrine. He sat down heavily and contemplated the aquarium, where the unpainted baby turtles eagerly awaited breakfast. JoLayne Lucks had phoned to check on the smelly little buggers, and Demencio reported that all forty-five were healthy and fit. He hadn't told her about the apostle scam. JoLayne had promised she'd be home in a few days to collect her "precious babies."

They're precious to me, too, thought Demencio. I've got to milk 'em for all they're worth.

When Trish returned he said: "Let's do the rest."

"What?"

"Them."He nodded at the tank.

"How come?"

"More painted cooters, more money. Think of how happy Mister Born Again'll be." Demencio cut a glance toward the front window. "Crazy dork can bury himself under the damn things."

Trish said, "But, honey, there's only twelve apostles."

"Who says it's gotta be just apostles? Go find that Bible. All we need is thirty-three more saint types. Most anybody'll do – New Testament, Old Testament."

How could Trish say no? Her husband's instincts on such matters were invariably sound. As she gathered the brushes and paint bottles, she showed Demencio the front page of The Register,which had been given to her by Joan and Roddy. "Isn't that the fella went to Miami with JoLayne?"

"Yeah, only he ain't dead." With a forefinger, Demencio derisively flicked the newspaper. "When she called up this morning, this Tom guy was with her. Some phone booth down in the Keys."

"The Keys!"

"Yeah, but don't go tellin' the turtle boy. Not yet."

"I suppose you're right," Trish said.

"He finds out his man's still alive, he might quit prayin'. We don't want that."

"No."

"Or he might stop with them angel voices."

"Tongues. Speaking in tongues," Trish corrected.

"Whatever. I won't lie," Demencio said. "That crazy dork is good for business."

"I won't say a thing. Look here, he's mentioned in the same article."

Demencio skimmed the first few paragraphs while he struggled to uncap a bottle of thinner. "You see this? 'Assistant Deputy Managing Editor of Features and Style.' Hell kinda job is that?Ha, no wonder he's rolling in the mud."

Trish handed him a bouquet of paintbrushes. "What do you think about Holy Cooter T-shirts? And maybe key chains."

Her husband looked up. "Yeah," he said, with the first smile of the day.

When Tom Krome got his turn on the pay phone, he called his parents on Long Island to tell them not to believe what they saw in the papers.

"I'm alive."

"As opposed to what?" his father asked.

Newsdayhad run the story somewhere other than the sports section, so Krome's old man had missed it.

Tom gave a sketchy explanation of the arson, instructed his folks on fielding future media inquiries, then called Katie. He was genuinely touched to hear she'd been crying.

"You should see the front page, Tommy!"

"Well, it's wrong. I'm fine."

"Thank God," Katie sniffled. "Arthur also insists you're dead. He even bought me a diamond solitaire."

"For the funeral?"

"He thinks I think he had something to do with killing you – which I didthink, until now."

Krome said, "I'm assuming he's the one who burned down my house."

"Not personally."

"You know what I mean. The dead body in the kitchen must have been his law clerk, faithful but careless."

"Champ Powell. I guess so," Katie said. "Tom, what'm I going to do? I can't stand the sight of Arthur but I honestly don't believe he meant for anyone to get hurt ... "

"Pack a bag and go to your mother's."

"And the diamond isbeautiful. God knows what it cost. So, see, there's a part of him that wants to be true – "

"Katie, I gotta go. Please don't tell anyone you spoke with me, OK? Keep it a secret for now, it's important."

"I'm so glad you're all right. I prayed so hard."

"Don't stop now," Tom Krome said.

It was a bright and breezy fall morning. The sky was cloudless and full of gulls and terns. The marina stirred but didn't bustle, typical of the dead season between Thanksgiving and New Year's, when the tourists were still up North. For the locals it was a glorious and special time, despite the wane of revenues. Many charter captains didn't even bother to go down to the docks, the chance of walk-ons was so remote.

JoLayne Lucks had dozed off in the car. Krome touched her arm and she opened her eyes. Her mouth was sour, her throat scratchy.

"Yekkk," she said, yawning.

Krome handed her a cup of coffee. "Long night."

"Where are our boys?"

"Still in the truck."

JoLayne said, "What d'you think – they meeting somebody?"

"I don't know. They've been up and down, scoping out the boats."

Squinting at the windshield's glare, JoLayne groped for her sunglasses. She saw the red Dodge pickup at the opposite end of the marina, parked by the front door of the tackle shop.

"Again with the wheelchair zone?"

"Yep."

"Assholes."

They'd decided that the man driving the truck must be Bodean Gazzer, because that was the name on the registration, according to Tom's source at the highway patrol. Bullet holes notwithstanding, the pristine condition of the vehicle suggested an owner who would not casually loan it to fleeing felons. Tom and JoLayne still had no name for Gazzer's partner, the one with the ponytail and the bad eye.

And now a new mystery: a third man, who'd been abruptly put out along the road in the pitch dark of the night – JoLayne and Tom watching from the parking lot of a video store, where they'd pulled over to wait. Something in the bearing of the third man had looked familiar to JoLayne, but in the blue-gray darkness his facial features were indiscernible. The headlights of a passing car had revealed a chubby figure with a disconsolate trudge. Also: An Australian bush hat.

There was no sign of him in the morning, at the marina. Krome didn't know what to make of it.

JoLayne asked if he'd phoned his folks.

"They didn't even know I was dead. Now they're really confused," Krome said. "Whose turn on the radio?"

"Mine." She reached for the dial.

During the long hours in the car, the two of them had encountered a potentially serious divergence of musical tastes. Tom believed that driving in South Florida required constant hard-rock accompaniment, while JoLayne favored songs that were breezy and soothing to the nerves. In the interest of fairness, they'd agreed to alternate control of the radio. If she lucked into a Sade, he got a Tom Petty. If he got the Kinks, she got an Annie Lennox. And so on. Occasionally they found common ground. Van Morrison. Dire Straits. "The Girl with the Faraway Eyes," which they sang together as they rode through Florida City. There were even a few mutual abominations (a Paul McCartney-Michael Jackson duet, for instance) that propelled them to lunge simultaneously for the tuning button.

"Here's what I noticed," said JoLayne, adjusting the volume.

"Who's that?" Krome demanded.

"Celine Dion."

"Geez, it's Saturday morning. Have some mercy."

"You'll get your turn." JoLayne wore a shrewd, schoolteacher smile. "Now, Tom, here's what I noticed: You don't like many black musical artists."

"Oh, bullshit." He was truly stung.

"Name one."

"Marvin Gaye, Jimi Hendrix – "

"A liveone."