Which he now carried nonchalantly through the sleeping streets of Grange. It was a lovely, still autumn evening; so different from how he'd always pictured Florida. The air was cool, and it smelled earthy and sweet. He stepped around an orange tomcat, snoozing beneath a street-lamp, which barely favored him with a glance. Occasionally a dog barked in a backyard. Through the windows of the homes he could see the calming violet flicker of televisions.

Squires hoped the night air might clear his muddled brain. Eventually he would figure out what to do – he always did. So he kept walking. Before long he found himself on the same street where he'd been two nights before, under the same oak in front of the same bland one-story house. From behind the drawn curtains he heard lively conversation. Several cars were parked in the driveway.

But Bernard Squires was alone at the glazed shrine of the Virgin Mary. No one attended the spotlit statue, its fiberglass hands frozen in benediction. From his distance it was impossible for Squires to see if there were teardrops in the statue's eyes.

Edging forward, he spotted a lone figure in the moat; the linen-clad man, his knees pulled up to his chest.

Hearing no chanting, Squires ventured closer.

"Hello, pilgrim," the man said, as if he'd been watching the entire time. His face remained obscured by a shadow.

Squires said, "Oh. Am I interrupting?"

"No, you're fine."

"Are you all right in there?"

"Couldn't be better." The man lowered his knees and reclined slowly into the water. As he spread his arms, the white bedsheet billowed around him, an angelic effect.

"Isn't it cold?" Squires said.

"Sah-kamam-slamasoon-noo-slah!"came the reply, though it was more a melody than a chant.

soccer moms slams sununu for slur – another of Sinclair's legendary headlines. He couldn't help it; they kept repeating themselves, like baked beans.

Bernard Squires asked, "What language is that?"

"Into the water, brother."

Sinclair welcomed any company. A noisy meeting was being held in the house – Demencio and his wife, Joan and Roddy, dear lusty Marva, the mayor and the plucky stigmata man. They were talking money; commissions and finder's fees and profit points, secular matters for which Sinclair no longer cared.

"Come on in," he coaxed the visitor, and the man obediently waded into the shallow moat. He did not remove his expensive suit jacket or roll up his pants or set aside his briefcase.

"Yes! Fantastic!" Sinclair exhorted.

As Bernard Squires drew closer, he noticed in the wash of the floodlights a small object poised on the floating man's forehead. At first Squires believed it to be a stone or a seashell, but then he saw it scoot an inch or so.

The object was alive.

"What is it?" he asked, voice hushed.

"A sacred cooter, brother."

From the shell a thimble-sized head emerged, as smooth as satin and striped exquisitely. Bernard Squires was awestruck.

"Can I touch it?"

"Careful. He's all that's left."

"Can I?"

The next day, during the long flight to Rio de Janeiro, Bernard Squires would fervidly describe the turtle handling to a willowy Reebok account executive sitting beside him in business class. He would recount how he'd experienced a soul soothing, a revelatory unburdening, an expurgation; how he'd known instantly what he was supposed to do with the rest of his life.

Like a cosmic window shade snapping up, letting the sunlight streak in – "blazing lucidity" is how Bernard Squires would (while sampling the in-flight sherry) describe it. He would tell the pretty saleswoman about the surrealistic little town – the weeping Madonna, the dreamy Turtle Boy, the entrepreneurial carpenter with the raw holes in his hands, the eccentric black millionaire who worked at the animal clinic.

And afterwards he would tell the woman a few personal things: where he was born, where he was educated, his hobbies, his tastes in music and even (sketchily) his line of work. He would under no circumstances, however, tell her the contents of the eelskin briefcase in the overhead compartment.

EPIPHANY

Tom Krome carried the turtle tank up the porch and backed it slowly through the front door. The house was warm and fragrant with cooking; spaghetti and meatballs.

JoLayne was sampling the sauce when he came in. She was barefoot and blue-jeaned, in a baggy checked shirt with the tails knotted at her midriff.

"Where've you been?" she sang out. "I'm in my Martha Stewart mode! Hurry or you'll miss it." She breezed over to check on the cooters.

"We're one shy," Tom said. He told her about Demencio's "apostles" and the weirdness with Sinclair. "I felt so sorry for the guy," he said, "I gave him a slider. He thinks it's Bartholomew."

JoLayne, with consternation: "What exactly does he do with them? Please tell me he doesn't ... "

"He just sort of touches them. And chants like a banshee, of course."

She said, "You've gotta love this town."

The remaining forty-four seemed perky and fit, although the aquarium needed a hosing. To the turtles JoLayne crooned, "Don't worry, troops. It won't be long now."

She felt Tom's arms around her waist. He said, "Let's hear the big news – are you a baroness, or still a wench?"

JoLayne knighted him grandly with the sauce spoon. He snatched her up and twirled with her around the floor. "Watch the babies! Watch out!" she said, giggling.

"It's fantastic, Jo! You beat the bastards. You got Simmons Wood."

They sat down, breathless. She pressed closer. "Mostly it was Moffitt," she said.

Tom raised an eyebrow.

"He told the guy you were writing a big expose on the shopping-mall deal," JoLayne said. "Told him it was bound to make the front pages – Mafia invades Grange!"

"Priceless."

"Well, it worked. Squires bolted. But, Tom, what if they believe it? What if they come after you? Moffitt said they won't dare, but – "

"He's right. The mob doesn't kill reporters anymore. Waste of ammo, and very bad for business." Krome had to admire the agent's guile. "It was a great bluff. Too bad ... "

"What?"

"Too bad I didn't think of it myself."

JoLayne gave him a marinara kiss and headed for the kitchen. "Come along, Woodward, help me get the food on the table."

Over dinner she went through the terms of the land sale. Tom worked the math and said: "You realize that even after taxes and interest payments, you'll still have quite a comfortable income. Not that you care."

"How comfortable?"

"About three hundred grand a year."

"Well. That'll be something new."

OK, JoLayne thought, here's the test. Here's when we find out if Mr. Krome is truly different from Rick the mechanic or Lawrence the lawyer, or any of the other winners I've picked in this life.

Tom said, "You could actually afford a car."

"Yeah? What else?" JoLayne, spearing a meatball,

"You could get that old piano fixed. And tuned."

"Good. Go on."

"Decent speakers for your stereo," he said. "That should be a priority. And maybe a CD player, too, if you're really feeling wild and reckless."

"OK."

"And don't forget a new shotgun, to replace the one we tossed overboard."

"OK, what else?"

"That's about it. I'm out of ideas," Tom said.

"You sure?"

JoLayne, hoping with all her heart he wouldn't get a cagey glint in his eye and say something one of the others might've said. Colavito the stockbroker, for instance, would've offered to invest her windfall in red-hot would've advised her to deposit it all in the police credit union, so he could withdraw large sums secretly to spend on his girlfriends.

But Tom Krome had no schemes to troll, no gold mines to tout no partnerships to propose. "Really, I'm the wrong person to give advice," he said. "People who work for newspaper wages don't get much experience at saving money."