"Why'd you do this?" she asked. "Why'd you help those bastards?"

"I dunno." Shiner turned away and clammed up. It was the same strategy he tried whenever his mother hassled him about skipping his hymns or sneaking beer to his room.

Tom Krome said, "He's hopeless, Jo. Let's go."

"Not yet." Gently she put a fingernail under the young man's chin and turned his head, so their eyes met.

Shiner said, "It's just a club, OK? They asked did I wanna join up and I said sure. A brotherhood is what they tole me. That's all."

"Sure," said Tom. "Like Kiwanis, only for Nazis."

"It ain't what you think. Least it dint start out that way." Shiner, mumbling in a childish tone.

JoLayne's eyes glistened. "You know what your 'brothers' did to me? Want me to show you?"

Wordlessly the skinhead pitched forward and threw up.

JoLayne Lucks took this as an unqualified no.

Unlike some women her age, Amber held a realistic view of life, love, men and her prospects. She knew where her good looks could carry her and how far to let things go. She would not fall for the blond modeling routine (drawing the line at calendar tryouts), and she would not dance tables (despite the staggering sums involved). She would remain a waitress at Hooters and finish junior college and get a respectable job as a cosmetologist or perhaps a paralegal. She would stay with jealous Tony until someone better came along, or until she could no longer tolerate his foolishness. She would not become the mistress of any man old enough to be her father, no matter how much money he had or how great a bay-front apartment he offered to rent for her. She would borrow from her parents only in emergencies, and she would pay back every dime as soon as she could. She would keep only one credit card. She would not fake an orgasm two nights in a row. She would stay off cigarets, which had killed her uncle, and avoid Absolut vodka, which caused her to misbehave in public. She would not be automatically impressed by men with black convertibles or foreign-language skills.

Yet even the most centered and well-grounded young woman would have been rightfully terrified to be kidnapped by an armed militia. However, waitressing in ludicrously skimpy shorts had given Amber an unshakable confidence in her ability to handle jerks of all kinds. Of the three rednecks, Shiner was the weak link and consequently the chief target of her attentions. Amber of course had never actually worked in a tattoo parlor and knew nothing about the art, but she'd correctly surmised that young Shiner was so hungry for her touch that he would allow her to poke holes in his flesh with a rusty fishhook.

Early on, she'd sensed that Shiner's heart wasn't in hate crimes and that he'd joined up with Chub and Bodean Gazzer mainly out of smalltown boredom and curiosity. After Shiner confided about the stolen Lotto ticket and the $14 million prize, Amber realized his two buddies intended to ditch him at their earliest convenience. Which meant she'd be left alone with the camouflaged colonel and the one-eyed panty-sniffing stoner, both of whom she perceived as more brutish and less malleable than the novice skinhead. Almost certainly they were not averse to the notion of forcible sexual intercourse.

Amber believed that keeping Shiner in the equation would improve her chances of avoiding a rape, and also of escape.

To that end, she'd devised for the young man a strategy of rudimentary blackmail. She was astounded he hadn't thought to demand a cut of the lottery prize – he was like a half-witted busboy, too thick or too shy to ask for his tip-out at the end of the night. The hammer (as Amber patiently explained to Shiner) was the security video from the Grab N'Go.

She had only one misgiving about helping the kid get a piece of the Lotto jackpot: It was somebody else's money. Some black chick, according to Shiner. A girl from his hometown. Amber felt crummy about that, but decided it was premature to get the guilts.

For now the priority was emplacing the blackmail plan. It wasn't a bad one, either, concocted on short notice under adverse conditions, with an accomplice of limited cognitive range. The made-up business about the phone call to Shiner's mother, about her readiness to retrieve the videotape in the event of a double cross – those were nifty touches. The plan's chief flaw, as Amber now realized, was the time line. It gave Bode and Chub almost a whole day's grace, enough of a window to leave the island, destroy the incriminating tape and bolt to Tallahassee to claim the lottery.

Which is what they were preparing to do when she confronted them at the boat after her morning swim.

"Take those ridiculous pants off your face." One hand zipping up the top of the jumpsuit, the other clenching Chub's pistol, which earlier Amber had removed from the Reel Luvand concealed in some bushes near the campfire.

"Take 'em off. You look like a pervert." Then shooting once at Chub's feet, just to find out what it felt like; a huge heavy gun going off. And also to make the rednecks understand she was serious and would not negotiate with any grown man wearing shorts over his face.

"Now, what did you guys do with Shiner?"

Nothing, they replied.

"He went off to have a piss," Bodean Gazzer said.

"Well, he's gone."

"Bull," said Chub.

"Let's go find him. Get some clothes on," Amber said.

"Not jest yet." Chub, grinning lopsidedly. "Sure you don't see some-thin' you like? Somethin' hot 'n' tasty?"

He waggled his sunburned peter, inspiring Amber to fire once again. This time the Colt nearly jumped out of her hand. The slug passed between Bode and Chub, snapping through the mangroves and splooshing in the water.

As leaves and twigs fluttered into the boat, the demon crab unaccountably dropped off Chub's ripening hand. The animal was long dead, it turned out. Chub jabbed the rancid blue husk with a bare toe and muttered, "Motherfucker."

Bode Gazzer raised his arms for Amber. "OK, sweet thing, quit with the damn gun. You made yer point."

"Tell your friend."

"Don't worry. He's on board."

Chub said, "Like hell. Not till we play some lollipop, her and me."

Bode scowled disgustedly. The man was unbelievable; no sense of priorities. No sense at all.

Amber said, "He's pushing it, Colonel."

"What can I say? Sometimes he's a complete fuckhead."

"Think I should shoot him?"

"I'd rather you didn't."

Chub was studying his infected hand like it was a busted carburetor. "I still got the damn claw, though."

"One thing at a time," Bode Gazzer told him. "Put on your clothes and let's go find the skinhead."

"Not until my darling Amber blows me."

"She's gonna blow you, awright. She's gonna blow your sorry ass to kingdom come."

Chub said, "No, I don't believe so. I believe I'm due for some good luck."

"Hell's thatmean?"

"It means Amber ain't gone shoot nobody. That's azackly what it means."

He stepped toward her; an exaggerated Hitler-style goose step. Then another. By now she was gripping the pistol with both fists.

"He's asking for it," she warned Bode.

"So I see. My opinion, it's the damn glue."

Chub clucked. "It ain't the glue, Colonel. It's true fucking love."

With a giddy warble he attacked. Amber pulled the trigger but all she heard was a flat harmless click. The gun didn't fire – the cylinder turned, the hammer fell, but no slug came out.

Because there was no bullet in that particular chamber; instead, a small piece of sand-gritted paper, bleached by sweat and saltwater, and folded tightly to fit the small round hole. If she'd been able to remove the paper and examine it, Amber would have seen that it bore six numerals and the likeness of a pink flamingo, official mascot of the Florida lottery.