“Where’s your wedding ring?”

Dealey hesitated a half second too long while making up an answer. Gillian wagged a finger. “You think just ’cause I’m young I can’t tell when a guy’s lying his balls off? I’m an expert, Lester, so you’d better watch out. I’m like a human polygraph!”

“Can I make the call or not?”

“To who?” Gillian was sighting the sawed-off through her toes.

Dealey said, “I need to speak with the lady who hired me. I’m a private investigator.”

“For real? How cool is that!”

“At the moment, not cool at all.”

“By the way, I know how to use this,” Gillian said, hoisting the shotgun. “Thlocko told me it was okay to blast away if you try anything funny. He told me to aim for the legs, in case you’re really alive and not a spirit.”

“Mighty white of him,” Dealey said.

“So tell me your story, Lester, and stick to the truth.”

“Sure,” said Dealey, and he did.

Gillian thought it was fantastic. “She’s paying you twenty-five grand to tape her old man boning some bimbo! That’s awesome, L-man.”

Dealey said, “I won’t see a dime, because I’ll never get the triple-X shot that my client wants. She’s a total kink.”

“And these are the kayak people we’re talkin’ about, right? The same ones camping near Beer Can Gulch.”

“The Yuppie couple from Texas, yeah. The trailer-park woman, she’s not involved.”

Gillian was so delighted to learn some juicy details about the mysterious intruders that she gave Dealey permission to call his client.

“But first, my turn.” She motioned for the cell phone.

Dealey removed it from an inside pocket of his suit jacket and handed it to her. Gillian punched the number and waited.

“My mother,” she said to Dealey.

“Save me some battery.”

Gillian nodded and whispered, “It’s her machine, thank God.”

Dealey could hear the beep on the other end.

“Hey, Mom, just me,” said Gillian brightly. “My cell’s not workin’ and I didn’t want you guys to worry. Everything’s awesome except I’m takin’ some extra vacation. I broke up with Ethan, which you predicted of course, but now I met this new guy-he’s real real different, and I bet you’ll like him. Give my love to Dad, and I’ll try again in a few days.”

She tossed the phone to Dealey and said, “Whew! That’s a load off. You want some privacy?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“I’ll be in the ladies’ room.” She pointed toward a thicket at the edge of the clearing.

Dealey waited until she was out of sight. By moonlight he fished through his wallet for the scrap of paper upon which Lily Shreave had written her mobile number. She answered on the first ring.

“I hope this is good news, Mr. Dealey.”

“Yes and no,” he said.

“Uh-oh. Here we go.”

“The good part is, I got what you asked for.” He knew Boyd Shreave’s wife would believe it.

“Penetration? You got penetration?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“On the beach, right? And she was on top, wasn’t she?”

“Big-time,” said Dealey. He had no intention of ripping Lily Shreave off, but a lie was still a lie. He might have felt worse about it, if she weren’t such a perv.

“So what’s the bad news?” she asked.

“I’m trapped. I can’t get outta this fuckin’ place.”

“And where exactly would you be?”

“I got no earthly idea, Mrs. Shreave. There’s ten thousand goddamn islands out here, and I’m stuck on one of ’em.”

“With my twenty-five-thousand-dollar sex tape.”

“Correct,” Dealey said.

“May I ask how you got there?”

“At gunpoint.”

“Holy Christ,” said Lily Shreave. “It wasn’t Boyd, was it?”

“Get serious.”

“Please don’t tell me you were kidnapped.”

“Twice,” Dealey said.

“But somehow you escaped.”

“Negative. Not by a long shot.”

“So who’s got you now?” Lily Shreave demanded.

“Not important.” Dealey saw no benefit to admitting that he was the prisoner of a guitar-toting Seminole Indian and a college sorority girl.

“Here’s what I need you to do,” he said to Mrs. Shreave, and he told her.

“I like it,” she said. “You’re a smart fella, Mr. Dealey. I’ll call first thing in the morning.”

He held no illusion that she cared whether he lived or died. Getting her mitts on the video was all that mattered to her.

Dealey heard a rustling and Gillian stepped from the thicket. He said into the phone, “I’ve gotta go.”

“Wait! One more question.”

“What?”

“The tape-how’d it turn out? Can you see…everything?”

“The works,” Dealey said.

“Wow.”

“More like double wow.”

“I can’t wait,” said Boyd Shreave’s wife.

“Oh, you’ll be surprised,” Dealey told her, and hung up.

Seventeen

Cecil McQueen died in a chokehold at a nightclub called Le Lube, where he and six friends had gone for a bachelor party. The branch supervisor of the trucking firm was being married the next day to his ex-wife’s divorce accountant, and his buddies couldn’t decide if it was a masterstroke or an act of self-destruction.

At the strip joint the men drank festively but set no records. Normally a shy person, Cecil McQueen surprised his companions when he bounded into the mud-wrestling pit to take on a dancer known as Big Satin, who outweighed him by fifty-three pounds and was unaware (as was Cecil) of his obstructed cardiac arteries. Afterward Big Satin felt terrible. So did Cecil’s co-workers and supervisor, although the wedding went on as scheduled.

The police ruled the death as accidental, but nonetheless it dominated the TV news, which is how the victim’s only son-then addressed as Chad-learned that his father had not perished while rescuing a vanload of orphans from a flooded drainage canal. That was the yarn his stepmother had cooked up.

Years later Sammy Tigertail often thought about his dad, a cheery and harmless soul who believed that the three essential ingredients of contentment were classic rock, Krispy Kreme doughnuts and a hot tub. It was the music that had cheered young Chad, even after he’d moved out to the Big Cypress and shed his name and turned forever away from white people (except for one). His affinity for rock was what had led to the foolish, soul-bruising lapse with Cindy, whom he’d met at a Stones concert in Lauderdale. Within ten seconds Sammy Tigertail had known she was poison, yet he’d willingly opened his veins.

And learned nothing from the ordeal, because the same thing seemed to be happening with Gillian.

“I’m gettin’ a complex,” she told him. “Why aren’t you trying to do me?”

“You asked to be the hostage.”

“So?”

“Hostages don’t get laid.”

“Who made up that stupid rule? Besides, I can tell you’ve been thinkin’ about it.”

“Bull,” Sammy Tigertail said.

She rose on her tiptoes and tried to peck him on the chin. He dodged sideways and said, “You don’t understand.”

“About being nervous? I do so.”

He grabbed the rifle from the crook of a tree, and nodded toward Dealey. “Keep an eye on Mr. Camera Man,” he told Gillian. “I won’t be long.”

“What if he tries somethin’? Like, jumps me and rips off my clothes?”

“Then shoot him. The shotgun’s over there,” the Indian said.

“Okeydoke.”

“But aim low, in case he turns out to be real. I don’t need to hassle with another dead body.”

“When you say low-”

“The legs.”

“Gotcha,” said Gillian.

On a rash impulse Sammy Tigertail leaned forward and kissed the top of her head, then he quickly moved into the night. The sky held enough moon that he was able to make headway without using a flashlight, though his sense of direction was as unreliable as ever. Fortunately, the island was small enough that it was difficult to stay lost. The Seminole eventually located the old oyster mound and took a position overlooking the campsite and the cistern. Embers from the fire glowed faintly, and Sammy Tigertail could make out the steepled shapes of two tents, and one bundled form on the ground.