"What do I do?" Chub pleaded. "Jesus Willy, what the fuck do I do?" Gummy-eyed from either sleep or glue, he displayed his other hand – his functional hand – for them to see. The knuckles were bloody knobs, from beating on the crustacean.

Amber cast her eyes at Shiner, who had not much experience with marine life and, thus, no counterstrategy. Despite his white brother's awful predicament, he couldn't help feeling a sense of reprieve. While the others stood transfixed by the sight of Chub, Shiner discreetly scuffed his feet across the dirt until he'd obscured Bode Gazzer's dubious swastika sketch.

"The crab!" Chub was bellowing. "The crab, it's after that g-g-god-damn claw!"

Gravely Bode surmised: "It's either trying to eat it or fuck it."

In its bloated and discolored state, Chub's hand could have been mistaken by a farsighted crab for another member of its species; that was Bode's hypothesis. Amber had nothing more plausible to offer.

Shiner asked, "How come he got your pants on his head?"

"God only knows," she said with a sigh.

Chub bolted toward the water. When the others caught up, they found him madly slinging his lifeless crab arm against the stump of an ancient buttonwood.

Shiner stepped forward. "I'll take care a that goddamn thing."

Bode was alarmed to see the Beretta glinting in the kid's paw. "Oh, no you don't," he said, snatching it away. "I'll do the honors, son."

"Do what?" Amber asked.

She felt Shiner's hand on her shoulder. "Better stand back," he advised.

Although he was unaware of it, Bodean Gazzer almost hadn't made it back to camp. Tom Krome and JoLayne Lucks almost caught him alone. They'd spotted him from about a hundred yards, moving across a salt flat on the crown of the island. The flat was wide and oval-shaped, ringed by mangroves and hurricane deadfall. Normally it filled up as a lagoon during the big autumn tides, but two days of heavy winds had blown out much of the water. Assault rifle in hand, Bode had scattered groups of stilt-legged birds as he clomped through the custardlike marl.

JoLayne and Tom had emerged from the tree line no more than two minutes behind him. They couldn't risk following the same path across the flat because there was no cover. So they kept low to the ground and skirted the fringe, picking their way through the stubborn mangroves. It was slow going; Tom leading the way, holding the springy branches until JoLayne could squeeze past with the Remington. When they reached the place where the stumpy redneck had reentered the woods, they could make out his heavy-footed crackles and crunches ahead of them. They moved forward carefully, baby-stepping, so he wouldn't hear.

Then the twig-snapping stopped. JoLayne tugged Tom's sleeve and motioned him to be still. She came up beside him and whispered: "I smell wood smoke."

The sound of conversation confirmed it. They were very near the robbers' camp; possibly too near. Quietly JoLayne and Tom backed off, concealing themselves in a tangled canopy. All around them, the tree limbs were necklaced with freshly spun spiderwebs. Tom leaned back, dazzled.

"Golden-orbed weaver," JoLayne said.

"It's gorgeous."

"Sure is." She found it interesting that he was so calm, almost relaxed, as long as they were on the chase. It was doing nothing that seemed to unsettle him, the sitting and waiting.

When JoLayne mentioned it, Tom said, "That's because I'd rather be the hunter than the hunted. Wouldn't you?"

"Well, we got pretty close to the bastard."

"Yeah. You're good at this."

"For a black girl, you mean?"

"JoLayne, don't start with that."

"Not all of us hang out on street corners. Some of us actually know our way around the woods ... or maybe were you referring to women in general."

"Actually, I was." Tom decided it was better to be thought a chauvinist than a racist – assuming JoLayne was half serious.

She said, "Are you saying your wife never took you stalking?"

"Not that I can recall."

"And none of your girlfriends?" Now JoLayne was smiling. Obviously she enjoyed giving him a start now and then.

Kissing his neck sweetly: "I'm sorry to be jerking your chain, but it's more fun than I can stand. You don't know how long it's been since I've had a guilt-ridden white boy all to myself."

"That's me."

"We should've made love again," she said, suddenly pensive. "Last night – to hell with the rain and cold, we should've done it."

Tom thought it an odd moment to raise the subject, what with a gang of heavily armed lunatics three hundred feet away.

"I decided a long time ago," she said, "that if I knew exactly when I was going to die, I'd make a point of screwing my brains out the night before."

"Good plan."

"And we coulddie out here on this island. I mean, these are very bad guys we're chasing."

Tom said he preferred to think positive thoughts.

"But you do agree," JoLayne said, "there's a chance they'll kill us."

"Hell, yes, there's a chance."

"That's all I'm saying. That's why I wish we'd made love."

"Oh, I think we'll get another shot." Tom, trying to stay upbeat.

JoLayne Lucks closed her eyes and rolled her head back. "Mortal fear makes for great sex – I read that someplace."

"Mortal fear."

"It wasn't Cosmo,either. I'm sorry for babbling, Tom, I'm just really – "

"Nervous. Me, too," he said. "Let's concentrate on what to do about these assholes who stole your lottery ticket."

The dreamy expression passed from JoLayne's face. "That wasn't all they did."

"I know."

"But still I'm not sure if I can make myself pull the trigger."

"Maybe it won't come to that," he said.

JoLayne pointed up in the mangrove branches. A tiny barrel-shaped beetle had become trapped in one of the gossamer webs. Slowly, almost casually, the spider was crossing the intricate net toward the struggling insect.

"That's what we need. A web," JoLayne said.

They watched the stalking until a drawn-out cry broke the stillness; not a woman's cry, this time, but a man's. It was no less harrowing.

JoLayne shuddered and rose to her knees. "Damn. What now?"

Tom Krome got up quickly. "Well, I'd rather have them screaming than singing campfire songs." He held out his hand. "Come on. Let's go see."

Chub didn't trust either Bode or Shiner to shoot the crab safely off his hand. He didn't even trust himself.

"I feel like dogshit," he admitted.

They persuaded him to lie down, and the panic passed after a few minutes. The piercing pain subsided into a dead throbbing weight. Bode brought a lukewarm Budweiser and Shiner offered a stick of beef jerky. From Amber, nothing; not a peep of sympathy.

"I'm cold," Chub complained. "I got the shakes."

Bode told him the wound was badly infected. "What I can see of it," he added. The crab had quite a mouthful.

"Is the fucker dead or alive?" Chub, squinting fretfully.

Shiner said, "Dead."

Bode said, "Alive."

Chub looked to Amber for the tiebreaker. "I can't honestly tell," she said.

"God, I'm freezin'. My skin's on fire but the rest a me is freezin' cold."

Amber pulled the tarpaulin off the tree and blanketed Chub, up to his neck. He was thrilled by what he perceived, incorrectly, as an act of comfort and affection. Amber's true intent was selfish: to conceal from plain view Chub's stringy nakedness, as well as the ghastly crab.

He said, "Thank you, darling. Later we'll go on that walk you promised."

"You're in no shape to walk anywhere."

Shiner said, "Amen, that's a fact." Dreading the thought of the two of them alone.

Bodean Gazzer warmed a pot of coffee on the fire. Chub began to doze. Amber furtively tried to retrieve her waitress shorts but they caught on Chub's ponytail, which snapped him awake. "No, don't you dare! They're mine, goddammit, you gave 'em to me!" Twisting and shaking his head.