With the stolen kayaks in tow, Sammy Tigertail relocated to the southeastern leg of the island. He built a new campfire while Gillian amused herself with Dealey.

When she pulled the crumpled socks from his mouth, he asked, “Who are you?”

“Thlocko’s hostage.”

“I guess that makes two of us.”

“No, you’re just temporary. Like a POW,” she said. “He also goes by ‘Tiger Tail.’ That’s a Seminole chief.”

“Don’t I get a chance to explain?”

“Doubtful. He’s hard-core.” Gillian opened one of the Halliburtons and began tinkering with the Nikon.

Dealey said, “Don’t do that.” When he reached for the camera, she swatted his hand.

Sammy Tigertail looked up from the fire and threatened to throw both of them in Pumpkin Bay, which he had misidentified as the nearest open body of water. It was, in fact, Santina Bay, an error of no immediate consequence.

“Ten thousand islands and these assholes had to pick this one,” the Seminole said.

Retreat had fouled his mood. The place was being infested by white people and white spirits. Two rifle shots had failed to scare off the kayakers, forcing Sammy Tigertail to abandon the shell-mound campsite upon which he had hoped to commune with the ancient Calusas. Now the three tourists were settling in, and Sammy Tigertail was stuck with both the college girl and the spirit of the dead white businessman.

“I’m not a goddamn ghost!” Dealey protested, displaying his bloody feet as evidence of mortality.

Gillian snapped a few close-ups and set the Nikon down. The Indian handed his guitar to her and told her to play something soft. She slowly worked into “Mexico,” by James Taylor, which Sammy Tigertail recognized and approved. It would have sounded better on an acoustic but he couldn’t complain. For the first time he noticed that Gillian had a lovely voice, and he feared it would add to her powers over him. Still, he didn’t tell her to stop singing.

When the number was over, Dealey stated that he was thirsty. Gillian told him to join the club. “We’ve been living for days on cactus berries and fried fish. I’d blow Dick Cheney for a Corona,” she said.

“What do you want with me?” Dealey asked the Seminole, who took the Gibson from Gillian and began twanging the B string over and over.

Gillian leaned close to Dealey and whispered, “Thlocko won’t talk to you because he thinks you’re a spirit. He says he’s done hassling with dead white guys.”

“Then tell him to let me go.”

“Go where?” Gillian smiled. “Please. You are so not getting out of here. Hey, who was that jerkoff with the Band-Aids on his hand?”

Dealey said he didn’t know the man. “Some freak named Louis who’s stalking a woman from the trailer park. He clubbed me with that shotgun and made me go with him.”

“That’s rich,” said Gillian, “getting kidnapped twice in the same day. It might be a world record.”

“I’m not makin’ this up. That’s the guy who gave me the black eye!”

Gillian told Dealey that she believed him. Sammy Tigertail instructed her to stop speaking to the death spirit.

“But I think he might be real,” Gillian said, giving Dealey a secret wink.

“That could be bad for him,” said the Seminole, who’d already considered the possibility. Unlike the spirit of Wilson, Dealey hadn’t faded away when Sammy Tigertail opened his eyes. More suspiciously, he’d made himself visible and audible to Gillian, who was plainly not an Indian.

Sammy Tigertail fingered a D chord and began to strum feverishly. He wished he had an amplifier. Gillian pulled out Dealey’s digital Nikon and took some shots of the Seminole playing, which she showed to him in the viewfinder. She said, “Damn, boy, you could be quite the rock star.”

The Seminole liked the way he looked holding the Gibson, though he tried not to appear too pleased. “I don’t want to be a rock star,” he said.

“Sure you don’t,” said Gillian. “All the free poon and dope you can stand, who’d want to live like that?”

“I need quiet. I can’t think.” Sammy Tigertail carefully wiped down the guitar and put it away. Then he unrolled his sleeping bag and ordered Dealey to crawl inside.

“Zip him up. I mean all the way,” Sammy Tigertail told Gillian.

“Even his head?”

“Especially his head.”

Dealey turned pink. “Don’t! I’m claustrophobic!”

“Where are those damn socks?” Sammy Tigertail asked.

“No-not that! I’ll keep quiet, I swear.”

Gillian said, “Come on, Thlocko, can’t you see he’s scared shitless?”

“Then you squeeze in there with him. For company,” Sammy Tigertail said. “There’s room for two.”

“Gross.”

“He can’t try anything. He’s dead.”

“Nuh-uh,” she said.

Dealey turned on one side to make space. Gillian slid into the sleeping bag behind him, positioning her elbows for distance enforcement. The Seminole zippered the top, sealing them in warm musty darkness. He said, “I told you, I need to think.”

After a few moments he heard their breathing level off. He sat down not far from the lumpy bulk. It was a mean thing to do, putting Gillian together with a possible death spirit, but maybe she’d finally come to her senses and abandon the notion of staying on the island. No normal young woman would tolerate the sack treatment, but then Gillian was miles from normal.

A part of Sammy Tigertail didn’t want to drive her away; the weak and lonely part. But what did he need her for? Surely not to teach him the Gibson. He could learn on his own, like so many of the great ones. His father had told him that Jimi Hendrix had taken one guitar lesson in his whole life, and that the Beatles couldn’t even read music.

“Hey.” Dealey’s hushed voice, inside the bundle.

“Hey what?” said Gillian.

Sammy Tigertail edged closer to listen.

“There’s a motorboat,” Dealey was saying.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“No, there’s a boat on the island. That’s how we got here.”

“You and Band-Aid Man?” Gillian said.

“Yeah, his boat,” Dealey whispered. “I think I could find it.”

“And your point is?”

A short silence followed. The larger of the two lumps shifted in the sleeping bag. Sammy Tigertail massaged the muscles of his neck, waiting.

“The point is,” Dealey said impatiently, “with the boat we can get away from him!”

“And why in the world would I want to do that?” Gillian whispered back, with an earnestness that made the eavesdropping Seminole smile in spite of himself.

Sixteen

The vice mayor of Everglades City borrowed from his neighbor a skiff rigged with a 35-horsepower outboard and an eighteen-foot graphite pole for pushing across the shallows. Perry Skinner brought a cooler of water and food, a spotlight, two bedrolls and the.45 semiautomatic. Fry, who was still hammered from the pain medicine, dozed in the bow for an hour while his father poked around Chokoloskee Bay. There was no sign of Honey and her guests, or of Louis Piejack’s johnboat.

Fry awoke as the sun was setting.

“What now?” he asked his father.

“We keep lookin’.”

“Can I take off this helmet? I feel okay.”

“You lie.” Perry Skinner knew that Honey would blame him if anything happened to the boy. She would, in fact, go berserk.

Fry felt his ribs and grimaced. “It’s gettin’ dark,” he said.

“Better for us.”

“But they’ll hear us coming a mile away.”

“Give me some credit, son.”

Perry Skinner hadn’t forgotten the art of night running, which was essential to prospering as a pot smuggler in the islands. He had never been busted on the water because the feds couldn’t find him, much less catch him. They’d arrested him on dry land at daybreak, along with half the male population of Everglades City. Five DEA guys had come crashing through the screen door, Honey half-naked and hurling a fondue pot at the lead agent, who’d been too entertained to book her.