Not here, Krome had told her. Not yet.

They were parked on a bleached strip of limestone fill, along a rim of lush mangroves. Not far away was a gravel boat ramp, blocked at the moment by Bodean Gazzer's red pickup. The driver's door was open and he stood in full view; neck-to-knees camouflage, cowboy boots, mirrored sunglasses. He had a chamois cloth spread on the hood, the assault rifle in pieces before him.

"Steel balls. I give him that," Krome said.

"No, he's just a fool. A damn fool."

JoLayne feared a cop would drive by and see what Bodean Gazzer was doing. Once the idiot got himself arrested, the chase would be over. The thing would boil down to JoLayne's word against the redneck's, and he'd never produce the ticket.

A small black bird landed in the trees and began to sing. Krome said, "OK, what's that one?"

"Redwing," JoLayne answered stiffly.

"They endangered?"

"Not yet. Don't you find it obscene – their presence in a place like this? They're like ... litter."She was talking about the two robbers. "They don't deserve this – to feel the sun on their necks and breathe this fine air. It's completely wasted on men like that."

Krome rolled down the car window and took in the cool salt breeze. In a sleepy voice he said, "I could get used to this. Maybe after Alaska."

JoLayne, thjnking: How can he act so relaxed? She could no longer distract herself with the island wildlife, so unnerving was the spectacle of Bodean Gazzer toiling ritually at his gun. She couldn't shake the memory of that awful scene in her house – not just the man's punches and kicking, but his voice:

Hey, genius, she can't talk with a gun in her mouth.

Talking to his filthy, ponytailed friend:

You wanna make a impression? Look here.

Snatching one of the baby turtles from the glass tank, putting it on the wooden floor, coaxing his ponytailed friend to shoot it. That's what Bodean Gazzer had done.

Yet here he was, fit and free in the Florida sunshine. With a $14 million Lotto ticket hidden somewhere, possibly inside a rubber.

JoLayne said to Tom: "I can't just sit here doing nothing."

"You're absolutely right. You should drive to the grocery." Krome took out his wallet. "Then you should stop at one of those motels and rent a boat. I'll give you some money."

JoLayne said she had a better idea. "I'll stay here and keep an eye on the archpatriot. Yougo get the boat."

"Too risky."

"I can handle myself," she insisted.

"JoLayne, there's no doubt in my mind. I was talking about me.Dead persons should always keep a low profile – my face has been in The Herald,probably even on TV."

She said, "It was a shitty picture, Tom. Nobody'll recognize you."

"I can't take that chance."

"You looked like Pat Sajak on NyQuil."

"The answer is no."

Tom didn't trust her, of course. Didn't trust her not to mess with the redneck. "This is ridiculous," she complained. "I've never driven a boat."

"And I've never fired a shotgun," Krome said, "so we have something new to learn from each other. Just what every romance needs."

"Please."

"Speaking of which." He got out, popped the trunk and removed the Remington. "Just in case."

JoLayne said, "Bad news, Rambo. The shells are in my purse."

"Just as well," he said. "I figure we've got another forty-five minutes, maybe an hour. Ice is priority one. Get as much ice and fresh water as you can carry."

"Forty-five minutes until what?"

"Until our sailor with the ponytail gets here," Krome said.

"Is that so? When were you planning to clue me in?"

"When I was sure."

JoLayne Lucks was determined to appear skeptical. "You think they're going by sea."

"Yup."

"Where?"

"No idea. That's why we need a boat of our own. And a chart would be good, too."

Listen to him, thought JoLayne. Mr. Take-Charge.

She considered holding her ground, telling him off. Then she changed her mind. It did look like a grand day to be out on the bay, especially if the alternative was six more hours in a cramped Honda.

"How big a boat?" JoLayne asked.

Chub was almost at ease on the water. One of the few bearable memories of his childhood was the family ski boat, which the Gillespies had used on weekend outings to Lake Rabun. The young Onus's pudginess had prevented him from developing into a first-rate water-skier, but he'd loved steering the boat.

The thrill returned to him now, at the helm of the Reel Luv,which he had hot-wired in the name of the White Clarion Aryans. With its twin Merc 90s, the stolen twenty-footer was much peppier than the boat Chub had captained as a boy. That was fine; he could handle the extra speed. What he couldn't cope with was the irregular layout of Florida Bay, with its shifting hues, snaking channels and treacherous flats. It was nothing like Lake Rabun, which was deep and well-defined and relatively free of immovable obstacles such as mangrove islands. Chub's somewhat rusty navigational skills were further tested by the impaired vision of his wounded left eye (covered by a new rubber patch, purchased for two dollars at an Amoco station) and by his relatively high blood alcohol.

It was only a matter of minutes before he beached the boat. The broad tidal bank was highly visible because of its brown color, which contrasted boldly with the azure and indigo of the deep channels. Also in evidence was a phalanx of wading birds, whose long-legged presence should have signaled the dramatic change of water depth. Chub didn't notice.

The grounding was drawn-out and panoramic, the big outboards roaring and throwing great geysers of cocoa-colored silt. Chub was hurled hard against the console, knocking the wind out of him. The egrets and herons took flight in unison, wheeling once over the noisy scene before stringing out westbound in the porcelain morning sky. When the spewing engines finally died, the Reel Luvwas at rest in approximately seven inches of water. The hull drew exactly eight.

As soon as Chub regained his breath, he got up and saw there was but one way off the shallows: Get out and push. Swearing bitterly, he pulled off his shoes and slipped overboard. Immediately he sank to his nuts in the clammy marl. With great thrashing he managed to position himself at the stern and lean his weight against the transom.

The boat actually moved. Not much, but Chub felt somewhat encouraged.

Every sloppy inch of progress was muscle-sapping, like trying to march in wet cement. The mud sucked at Chub's legs, and his bare skin stung from the sea lice. Fastening to his arms and belly were tiny purple leeches, no larger than rice kernels, which he swatted away savagely. Additional concern was generated by an unfamiliar tingle in his crotch, and it occurred to Chub that some exotic parasite might have entered his body by swimming into the hole of his pecker. No other millionaire in the entire world, he thought rancorously, had these kinds of problems. He was thankful Amber wasn't there to witness the degrading scene.

Finally the stolen boat came free of the grassy bank. Chub boosted himself aboard and manically stripped off his pants to attend to the stinging.

That's when he remembered it.

The ticket.

"Jesus!" he cried hoarsely. "Jesus Willy Christ!"

His right thigh was bare and dripping wet. The jumbo Band-Aid had fallen off. The Lotto ticket was gone.

Chub uttered an inhuman croak and sorrowfully toppled back into the water.