Finally she said, "You're going to rape me, aren't you?"

"No way."

"Don't lie. It's better if I know."

"I ain't lyin'!"

"Then what is all this?" Both hands were fixed on the wheel. Her thin arms were straight and stiff. "What's going on?"

Shiner said, "It's a favor for a friend."

"I get it. Then he'sgoing to rape me."

"Over my dead body!" Shiner was startled by his own vehemence.

It drew a hopeful glance from Amber. "You mean it?"

"Damn straight I do."

"Thanks," she said, turning her attention back to the traffic. "You don't really have a gun, do you?"

"Naw."

"So, what's your name?" Amber asked.

Both of Arthur Battenkill's secretaries knew something was wrong, because he'd stopped pestering them for sex. The women didn't complain; they much preferred typing and filing. The judge's deportment in bed was no different from that in the office – arrogant and abrupt.

Dana and Willow often discussed their respective intimacies with Arthur Battenkill, and this was done with no trace of possessiveness or jealousy. Rather, the conversations served as a source of mutual support – the man was a burden they shared.

Willow reported: "He didn't ask me to stay after work."

"Me, neither," said Dana. "That's two days in a row!"

"What do you think?" Willow said.

"He's upset about Champ quitting."

"Could be."

"If that's what really happened," Dana added, lifting an eyebrow.

Both secretaries were puzzled by the sudden departure of the law clerk, Champ Powell. At first Arthur Battenkill had said he'd gone home for a family emergency. Then the judge had said no, that was merely a cover story. Actually, Champ had been called back to the Gadsden County sheriffs department for a special undercover operation. The project was so secret and dangerous that even his family wasn't told.

Which explained, the judge had said, why Champ's mother kept calling the office, looking for him.

Dana and Willow remained unconvinced. "He didn't seem like the undercover type," Dana remarked. "B'sides, he really loved his job here."

"Plus he idolized the judge," Willow said. "That he did."

Champ Powell's devotion was almost an unnatural thing, both women agreed. The clerk was so enamored of Arthur Battenkill that initially the secretaries suspected he was gay. In fact they'd privately discussed the possibility of Champ's seducing the judge, which wouldn't have bothered them one bit. Anything to distract the man.

But it hadn't yet happened, at least to their knowledge.

Said Dana: "Whatever's got into Art, let's just leave it be."

"Amen," Willow said.

"Sit back and enjoy the peace."

"Right."

"Hey. Maybe he's found God."

Willow laughed so hard that Diet Pepsi jetted out of her nostrils. Naturally that's when the judge walked in. As Willow grabbled for a box of Kleenex, Arthur Battenkill said, "How elegant."

"Sorry."

"It's like having Princess Grace answering the phones."

With that, the judge disappeared into his chambers, closing the door. Willow was somewhat battered by his first-thing-in-the-morning sarcasm, so Dana took him coffee.

She told the judge he didn't look well.

"It's Saturday," he grumbled. The chief judge had been on Arthur Battenkill's ass about clearing the case backlog, so he'd been putting in hours on weekends.

"You haven't slept." Dana, affecting a motherly tone.

"Pollens. Mold spores." Arthur Battenkill took a sip of coffee. "I sleep fine."

It was the scene at breakfast that had disturbed him – Katie gobbling down four huge buttermilk flapjacks and a bagel, a clear signal she was no longer grieving. Clearing the dishes, she'd exhibited a perkiness that could have at its root only one explanation: She'd come to believe her precious Tommy wasn't dead.

Reluctantly the judge had already reached the same conclusion. The strongest evidence was the uncharacteristic lack of communication from Champ Powell, who by now should have called to seek Arthur Battenkill's praise and gratitude for the arson. Nearly as ominous: Champ's Harley-Davidson motorcycle had been found and towed from a Blockbuster parking lot three blocks from Tom Krome's house. The judge was certain Champ never would have abandoned the bike were he still alive.

The unexpected upswing of Katie's mood had clinched it for Arthur Battenkill. Picking indifferently at his pancakes, he'd recalled hearing the telephone ring while he was in the shower – probably Krome, calling to tell Katie not to worry. The mannerly motherfucker.

Now Dana, arms folded: "You've got that emergency hearing in ten minutes. Would you like me to press your robe?"

"No. Who is it?"

"Mrs. Bensinger."

"God. Let me guess."

Dana dropped her voice. "Another alimony problem."

Arthur Battenkill said, "I hate those horrible people. Thank heaven they never had children."

"Not so loud. She's out in the hall."

"Yeah?" The judge cupped his hands to his mouth: "Greedy freeloading twat!"

Dana looked at him blankly.

The judge said, "Her husband's a thieving shit, too."

"Yes, he is."

"By the way, I've decided to take some time off. I suppose you and Willow will survive without me. I get that impression."

Dana fixed her gaze safely on the coffeepot. "How long will you be gone?"

"I can't say." Mrs. Battenkill and I are going away together." The judge thumbed his appointment book. "See if Judge Beckman will cover for me starting late next week. Can you do that?"

"Certainly."

"And, Dana, this is supposed to be a surprise for my wife, so don't blow it."

Willow buzzed on the speakerphone to report that Mr. Bensinger had arrived and that the atmosphere in the hallway was growing tense.

"Fuck 'em." Arthur Battenkill snorted. "I hope they slaughter each other with blunt objects. Save the taxpayers a few bucks. Dana, isn't it Judge Tigert over in Probate who's got the bungalow in Exuma?"

"The Abacos."

"Whatever. See if it's available."

The notion of the judge taking his wife on a romantic trip to the Bahamas was stupefying. Obviously the man was suffering a breakdown. Dana could hardly wait to share the gossip with Willow.

As she was leaving his chambers, Arthur Battenkill called out: "Dana, darling, you're doing a superb job of concealing your amusement."

"What on earth are you talking about."

"Don't pretend to know everything about me. Don't pretend to have me figured out. I dohave feelings for Mrs. Battenkill."

"Oh, I believe you," Dana said. "By the way, Art, how'd she like the new necklace?"

The judge's smug expression dissolved. "Send in the goddamn Bensingers," he said.

JoLayne Lucks hadn't been to the Keys since she was a small girl. She was amazed at how much had changed, the homey and congenial tackiness supplanted by franchise fast-food joints, strip malls and high-rise resorts. To take her mind off the riffraff, JoLayne recited for Tom Krome a roster of local birds, resident and migratory: ospreys, snowy egrets, white herons, blue herons, kingfishers, flycatchers, cardinals, grackles, robins, red-tailed hawks, white-crowned pigeons, flickers, roseate spoonbills ...

"Once there were even flamingos," she informed him. "Guess what happened to them."

Krome didn't respond. He was watching Bodean James Gazzer strip and clean a large semiautomatic rifle. Even from a distance of a hundred yards, the barrel glinted ominously in the noon sun.

"Tom, you don't even care."

"I like flamingos," he said, "but what we have here is a rare green-breasted shithead. Broad daylight, he's playing with guns."

"Yes, I can see."

Tom had rejected her latest plan, which involved ambushing Bodean Gazzer alone, jamming her twelve-gauge into his groin and demanding under threat of emasculation that he return the stolen lottery ticket.