It took Skinner a few moments to steady himself. “The water’s only twelve inches deep. You got a better idea?”

He planted the double-pronged foot of the pole in the mud and, with slow tentative strokes, began pushing the skiff across the bank toward the island where the campfire burned. Backcountry guides made it look easy, but Skinner felt awkward and tense, rocking on the thin wafer of molded plastic. One slip and he’d tumble into the water or, worse, fall backward and crack his skull on the propeller.

Fry said, “You’re the one who needs a football helmet.”

Skinner gently poked him with the dry end of the pole. “Keep your eyes peeled, ace. We don’t need a welcome party.”

“Where’s the gun anyway?”

“Just relax,” said Skinner.

Fry felt like hurling, he was so anxious. He kept flashing back to the moment when Louis Piejack’s pickup had nearly run him down at the trailer park, and he wondered what he could have done to stop the guy from pursuing his mother. Fry had hated Mr. Piejack for groping her at the fish market, but he’d pegged him as just some twisted old turd-not a mad stalker.

The boy drummed his fingers on the gunwale and thought: Relax? No way.

“I hear somethin’,” his father said from the back of the skiff.

Fry stopped tapping and listened. “Sounds like…like a funeral or somethin’. People cryin’.”

“Where’s it coming from? Can you make out anything?”

“Just shadows.” Fry balled his fists to keep from shaking.

By now his dad had pushed the skiff close enough for them to see the orange flames dancing and to smell the woody smoke. At first the shapes around the fire had looked like small pines, bowing and shaking in the breeze. Now Fry wasn’t so certain. The moaning chorus swelled and faded, making him shudder. His father poled faster.

“We’ll go ashore here,” Skinner announced, angling toward the beach. Four long strokes and the hull scraped up on the sand.

Fry hopped out and was beset with dizziness. “It’s gettin’ cold,” he murmured to himself.

His father jumped down and with both hands hauled the skiff farther up on land, so that the rising tide wouldn’t carry it away. Then he tossed Fry a sweatshirt, which the boy absentmindedly attempted to put on without removing his bulbous helmet.

“Dad, I’m stuck,” he said sheepishly.

Once extricated, he jogged after his father as they hurried away from the shoreline, into the trees. He felt like he was five years old again.

Skinner said, “If I tell you to run for it, you damn well run.”

“Yeah, but where?”

“The other way, son. Opposite of me.”

“But-”

“Don’t be lookin’ back, either-I’ll come find you later.”

“I can’t go fast with this stupid thing on my head.”

“Pretend you’re Mercury Morris.”

“Who?”

“Pitiful.” Skinner pretended to kick him in the pants. “Come on, let’s do it.”

Watchfully they moved through the scraggle and scrub, keeping parallel to the beach. The eerie keening sounds grew louder as they neared the campfire. Skinner dropped to a crouch and motioned for his son to do the same. They crossed a sandy clearing in a faint circle of moonlight and took cover in a stand of Australian pines.

Fry counted five hooded shapes twirling and dipping around a crudely dug fire pit. They wore white robes and weren’t actually crying; it was a strident, wailing chant, with no discernible melody. A tall wooden cross had been planted on a dune overlooking the campsite.

“It’s the Klan!” Fry whispered.

“They’re a long way from home,” said Skinner.

Fry saw him reach beneath his sweatshirt and adjust a gun-shaped bulge in his waistband. It was possible he clicked off the safety.

“What’re you gonna do, Dad?”

“Be my usual charming self.”

Nervously Fry followed him out of the pines. Skinner walked with casual purpose as he approached the moaners, who one by one stopped dancing and fell silent.

“Howdy,” Skinner said.

“Who are you, brother?” It was the tallest one; a man’s voice.

“State wildlife commission. I’m lookin’ for a man named Louis Piejack-he’s wanted for poachin’ shellfish.”

“Don’t know the sinner,” said the tallest moaner. The others closed ranks behind him.

“How ’bout losin’ those hoods?” Skinner asked genially.

The hoods turned out to be part of their white robes, each of which bore a breast emblem that read FOUR SEASONS-MAUI.

Definitely not the KKK, thought Fry with relief.

“We’ve nothing to hide,” the tallest moaner declared. He and the others obligingly revealed their faces. There were two men and three women, all shiny-cheeked and well fed. Neither Fry nor his father recognized them from Everglades City.

“I’m Brother Manuel,” the tall one volunteered, “of the First Resurrectionist Maritime Assembly for God. We believe that Jesus our Savior has returned and is sailing the seven seas”-he paused to acknowledge the lapping surf-“preparing to come ashore in all His glory and inspire the worldly to repent. We will welcome Him with prayer and rejoicing.”

Skinner nodded impatiently. “Where you from, Manny?”

“Zolfo Springs, sir, and we’re up to no mischief. We’re here upon this blessed shore to baptize our newest sister, Miss Shirelle.”

She identified herself with a perky wave.

“You folks been drinkin’?” Skinner inquired.

Brother Manuel bridled. “Wine only, sir. I can show you the passage in the Scriptures.”

“I’m certain you can. See anything strange out here tonight? We believe Mr. Louis Piejack is in the vicinity.”

One of the female moaners asked, “How might we know this man?”

“One of his hands is taped,” Skinner said, “like a mummy’s.”

“Ah!”

“Plus he stinks like dead mudfish,” Fry added, quoting his mother.

One of the male celebrants revealed that they’d heard gunshots earlier in the evening. “From over there,” he said, pointing across the waves.

“How many shots?” Skinner asked. He avoided eye contact with Fry, whom he knew would be alarmed. He purposely had not told his son about the shotgun that he’d seen in Piejack’s johnboat on the river.

“Two rounds,” the man said.

“Sure it was gunfire? Sometimes campers bring fireworks.”

“Brother Darius is a deer hunter,” Brother Manuel explained. “God’s bounty, you understand.”

Sister Shirelle, the stoutest of the moaners, asked, “May we invite you to stay for the baptism? Join us in the divine waters where our Savior sails.”

“Some other time,” Skinner said tightly.

Another woman called out, “Sir, may I inquire about the boy?”

“That’s my son.”

“I couldn’t help but take note of the headpiece. Is he afflicted in some way?”

“Yeah, he’s afflicted with one motherfucker of a migraine. He crashed his skateboard into a truck.”

Brother Manuel clasped his hands. “Then let us pray for the youngster’s healing. Come, brothers and sisters!”

The moaners re-hooded and commenced a new chant, as dissonant as the others. Sister Shirelle, dauntingly braless, led the group in improvisational writhing.

Fry jerked his father’s sleeve and whispered, “You think they really heard a gun?”

“Vamos ahora,” Skinner said.

They’d gone about fifty yards down the beach when Brother Manuel broke from the dance ring and barreled after them, yelling, “Friends, wait! Whoa there!”

Away from the firelight, Fry could no longer see his father’s expression. Not that he needed to.

“A-hole,” he heard him mutter.

“Should we run?” the boy asked hopefully. He was aware of Skinner’s low opinion of preachers and zealots. One time his dad had turned a fire hose on a roving quartet of Jehovah’s Witnesses who’d accosted him at the crab docks.

“See, this is the problem with religion, son. They can’t keep it among themselves, they gotta cram it down everyone else’s throat.” He’d hurried his pace, but the long-legged moaner was gaining on them. “It’s been a long time since I looked at the Bible, but I don’t recall Jesus makin’ a damn nuisance of Himself.”