Piejack scowled. “What the fuck’s that s’posed to mean?”

“Good luck opening your precious medicine bottle without me to help,” Dealey said.

Piejack pensively nibbled his upper lip. “It’s those goddamn kiddy-proof caps. They’re murder with one hand.”

“Oh, you’ll figure out a way.” Dealey noticed a brown iodine-stained nub on the trigger of the shotgun. It was a thumb, sprouting from the gauze where a forefinger ought to have been. Dealey briefly zoomed in on it.

“Make up your mind, Louis.”

Piejack grunted. “You think I won’t shoot? Ha!”

Dealey heard a dull crack and the kidnapper disappeared from the viewfinder. In his place stood a muscular young man holding a rifle. Dealey lowered the camera and saw Piejack, facedown and lifeless in a cactus patch.

“I owe you, bud,” the investigator said to the stranger, who retrieved Piejack’s shotgun and tucked it under one arm.

Then he walked up to Dealey and ungently pinched his nose.

“You’re not real,” the man said accusingly.

“I am too,” Dealey quacked, struggling to pull free.

“Look at your damn suit.”

“I can explain!”

The man with the rifle said, “Don’t lie to me. You’re a death spirit.”

Perfect, Dealey thought. Another Florida wacko.

The man let go of Dealey’s nose and said, “Take off your shoes and socks.”

Dealey stowed the video camera and did what he was told. The man balled up the sweaty socks and crammed them into Dealey’s cheeks.

“You got any water?” he demanded.

Dealey shook his head apologetically.

“Hell,” the young man said. He motioned with the rifle. “Stand up and follow me.”

When Dealey pointed to his Halliburtons, the man shrugged. Dealey hoisted the two cases and trudged heavily after the stranger. The broken oyster shells gouged the soles of the investigator’s feet, and before long he heard himself whimpering.

This is the worst job I ever took, he thought. By far.

Fifteen

She thought she’d heard voices, but what else was new? Rarely was there a silence in her world; no peace, no quiet. Nat King Cole crooned a duet with Marilyn Manson, a sniper tripped a fire alarm at the nursing home, a parakeet landed in a margarita blender…

Just another day inside the head of Honey Santana.

“Some vacation,” said Boyd Shreave, the man who’d phoned during dinner and given his name as Eisenhower and tried to sucker her into buying a tract of overpriced real estate.

The man who’d called her a skank.

“Not what we had in mind,” he added. “Right, Genie?”

“It isn’t much like the Bahamas,” his mistress allowed.

Honey said, “What were you two hoping for? Besides a beach and a tiki bar, I mean. This is raw, untouched wilderness, the very last of it. That’s what people come to see on an ecotour.”

Boyd Shreave chuckled coldly. “Just give us the damn sales pitch and take us back to town.”

“There is no sales pitch,” Honey said.

“Yeah, right.”

Eugenie Fonda stretched her arms. “What’s the name of this island, anyhow?”

“I don’t know,” Honey said, “but it’ll do.”

Shreave frowned. “For what?” He stalked up to her and flicked the half-eaten granola bar out of her hand. “Do for what?”

“That was rude,” Honey said. She collected the pieces off the ground and placed them in a garbage tote. “Beyond rude, as a matter of fact.”

Eugenie Fonda told Shreave to quit acting like a jerk.

“No sales pitch, she says?” He kicked at the ashes of the previous campers’ fire. “What the hell’s going on?”

Honey Santana decided it was pointless to wait any longer. She was ready; he was more than ready.

She stood up and said, “There’s no pitch because there’s no such development as Royal Gulf Hammocks, Mr. Eisenhower.”

Shreave’s brow inverted in a simian portrait of vexation. He swayed slightly, working his lower jaw.

Having connected the dots, Eugenie Fonda said, “Shit, Boyd. Shit, shit, shit.”

“Do I know you?” he asked Honey. The words came out as a rattle. “Don’t tell me you’re the same one who called my house.”

“You called me first, Boyd. Peddling some worthless scrub in Gilchrist County, remember? I gave you a short history lesson on Stephen Foster, how he never laid eyes on the Suwannee River. Why don’t you have a seat?”

Shreave spun around. Stammered. Shook his arms. Finally, Eugenie snagged him by the belt and pulled him down beside her.

“Do the voice,” he said to Honey. “If you’re really her, do the phone voice.”

She was well prepared. “Good evening, Mr. Shreave. My name is Pia Frampton and I’m calling with a very special offer-”

Shreave’s chin dropped. “Aw, Jesus.”

“You said it was too ‘creamy-sounding,’ remember? You gave me lots of helpful pointers.”

Eugenie Fonda said, “Incredible.”

Honey recognized the inflection of fatigue; of low expectations, unmet. What am I doing with this loser? Honey had more than once asked herself the same question, before she swore off dating.

“Boy, she got you good,” Eugenie said to Shreave.

“Bullshit. It was a free trip to Florida!”

“Nothing’s free, Boyd. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

“Yeah, but she sent plane tickets!”

“You got suckered. Get over it.” Eugenie looked over at Honey and said, “Wild guess. There’s a couple of redneck goons waiting to jump out of the bushes and rob us.”

Honey Santana had to laugh.

“Then what’s this all about? Wait, I know-a ransom deal!” Eugenie guessed. “Maybe you found out Boyd’s wife has some bucks.”

Shreave said, “Genie, shut your piehole.”

Honey popped a Tic Tac. Her attention was drawn to the debris of a cottage-peeling lumber, charred beams, broken window frames-that somebody had once called home. A squat bunker-like structure of bare cinder blocks had been erected on one slope of the shell mound, perhaps as a cistern.

Honey noticed a flurry of gulls and pelicans overhead, and she wondered what had flushed them out. They’re probably just going fishing, she thought. It was a fine day.

“Why’d you do this?” Shreave asked in a scraping voice. “The airline tickets and all, Christ, you must be nuts.”

Eugenie Fonda said, “She’s not nuts. Are you, Honey?”

Honey was opening a packet of dried figs. The campsite was dominated by an ancient royal poinciana, and she considered climbing it to get a better fix on their whereabouts. She felt like she was a long way from her son.

A shot rang out, followed by another.

Eugenie jumped. Shreave went wide-eyed and exclaimed, “It is a trap!”

“Sshhh. It’s just poachers,” Honey said, thinking: They must be the ones who built the fire.

Shreave became antic, the gunfire having unstapled his nerves. He launched himself at Honey’s knees and tackled her, pinning a clammy forearm to her throat.

“Get us out of here!” he rasped.

With some difficulty, Eugenie Fonda dragged him off. As Honey picked chipped oyster shells out of her hair, she recalled the time that Perry Skinner had made love to her on the beach at Cape Sable, both of them caked with sand and wet grit. It was in the middle of a wild spring rainstorm, and they were alone except for a bobcat watching from a stand of palmettos. Honey wanted to believe that she’d become pregnant with Fry that afternoon.

“Who shot off that gun?” Shreave demanded.

“I’ve got no idea. That’s the truth,” Honey said.

For several minutes they stayed quiet and listened. There was no more gunfire, and Shreave calmed down.

When Honey began to unpack the pup tents, Eugenie said, “Uh-oh.”

Shreave snickered. “No way we are spending the night out here. I’ll call for help.”

“How?” Eugenie asked. They’d left their cell phones in the rented Explorer because they were afraid of losing them overboard on the kayaks. She said, “We’re campers, Boyd.”