“The truth can be scummy merchandise, Miss Fonda. Which, by the way, is a totally bogus name. Your real one is Hill.”

Eugenie nipped her lower lip. “I suppose I should be impressed.”

“Believe me,” Dealey said, “I wish I hadn’t touched this goddamn case-I’ve never run up against so many card-carryin’ fruit-balls in all my life.”

Gillian said, “Tell her how much the guy’s old lady was gonna pay for the money shot! Go on, Lester, she won’t believe it.”

“My name’s not Lester.”

“The what shot?” Eugenie asked.

“Mrs. Shreave happens to be a kink,” Dealey said. “I got all the stills and video she’d ever need, but she wanted more.”

“Needed for what-a divorce? Oh please,” Eugenie said.

Dealey raised his hands. “Why do you think wives hire me?”

Gillian couldn’t restrain herself. “Twenty-five thousand bucks! That’s what she was gonna pay for a triple-X shot of you and your boyfriend. That’s why Lester came all this way.”

“Twenty-five grand?” Eugenie had to laugh.

Dealey said, “For what it’s worth, nobody’s seen the other tapes or pictures except me and my client.”

Which was untrue. However, Dealey felt no need to enlighten Eugenie about the on-line popularity of her stellar blow job at the delicatessen. After all, he’d scrupulously doctored the photograph to obscure her face.

He was surprised to hear her say, “Show me what you got, Lester. I’m curious.”

Gillian piped up eagerly, “Me too. Let’s see.”

“Sorry. It’s all in a lockbox back in Fort Worth.” The investigator thought: What is it with these women?

Gillian colorfully shared the tale of her sorority sister turning up on a Girls Gone Wild video, then she asked Dealey, “What’s the all-time freakiest thing you ever got on tape?”

“That’s easy,” he said. “Threesome in River Oaks-the two guys wore Road Runner masks and the woman was Wile E. Coyote.”

Gillian clapped. “Tell me you didn’t make copies of that one!”

Eugenie steered the conversation back to Lily Shreave’s twenty-five-thousand-dollar offer. “Now, what exactly did she want you to get?”

“The impossible,” Dealey said.

“Nothing’s impossible.”

“She’s got a thing for close-ups. Let’s leave it at that.”

Eugenie smiled cheerlessly. “If I’d known Boyd and I were on camera, I would’ve kicked it up a notch or two.”

“You did just fine,” Dealey said.

Gillian confessed that she’d seen only one porn film, at a fraternity-house party. “The Fellatio Alger Story. It was so boring I fell asleep.”

“Boring wouldn’t be bad after the last two days I’ve had. Boring would be a treat,” the private investigator said.

Eugenie was pacing. “How the hell do we get out of here?”

“Talk to him.” Gillian jerked a thumb across the clearing toward Sammy Tigertail, who appeared to have lapsed into a trance while playing his guitar.

Dealey helped himself to another chunk of pineapple. “Well, I’m gettin’ rescued tomorrow,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re both welcome to hitch a ride-in fact, I’d strongly recommend it.”

“Done,” said Eugenie.

Gillian declined. “I’m totally stayin’. He kissed me tonight.”

“The Indian?” Dealey smiled wearily, thinking: True love in the mangroves.

“He’s an Indian? But his eyes are blue,” Eugenie said.

“A Seminole, most definitely,” Gillian reported. “I’m still waitin’ to get the full story.” She turned to Dealey. “So, Lester. Who’s comin’ to rescue you?”

The investigator said it wasn’t important. “I’m goin’ home to Texas in one piece, that’s all that matters.”

“Without the money shot,” Eugenie reminded him. “Boyd’s wife will be seriously bummed.”

“Ask me if I give a shit.” Dealey took a swig from the water bottle. “Something real bad’s going to happen on this island, and I don’t want to be here when it does.”

“Me neither,” said Eugenie, a millisecond before the blue-eyed Seminole’s rifle went off and Gillian screamed and Dealey dropped like a moose.

Nineteen

Honey Santana believed there might be hope for the world if she could save a man as empty as Boyd Shreave. She wanted to try one more time.

“The Indian shot somebody. I couldn’t see who,” she told him when she returned.

“Get this goddamn noose off my neck.”

“It’s just a slipknot, Boyd.”

The rope came undone as easily as a shoelace. Shreave rolled to his knees and whispered, “You’re a sicko.”

After peeling the tape from his ankles and wrists, Honey offered him some dry cereal. “It’s all we’ve got. The Indian took everything else.”

“There’s somebody hidin’ out there.” Shreave glanced anxiously behind him. “I never saw the guy but he sounded real close. Said he’s watchin’ us the whole time.”

Honey made a torch by fastening Shreave’s natty Indiana Jones hat to a driftwood limb, squirting it with lighter fluid and holding it in the embers. She walked the perimeter of the campsite and found no sign of another intruder. She didn’t look inside the cistern.

“There’s nobody in the bushes, Boyd.” She believed he’d cooked up the story to frighten her into fleeing the island with him.

“Who is he? Tell me!” Shreave demanded.

“Eat your Cheerios.”

Honey reflected upon what she’d done-tracking down this disagreeable stranger and suckering him with a phony Florida vacation. She didn’t feel guilty and she didn’t feel crazed; frustrated is what she was. After Fry was born, her low tolerance of cretins, liars and lowlifes had dwindled to zero. She came to regard all of them, from the leering bag boy at Winn-Dixie to the thieving third-term congressman, as potential threats to the happiness and well-being of her offspring. If a common bottom feeder such as Boyd Shreave could be reformed, Honey reasoned, the future would be incrementally brighter for all mankind, including Fry.

It wasn’t an easy theory to sell, and Perry Skinner had never bought it. Neither had her son. Honey was aware that she sometimes appeared to them as naive and obsessive, even borderline manic.

“You asked why I did this, Boyd, how come I went to all the trouble of tricking you down here,” Honey said. “Well, apparently I’m trying to fix the entire human race, one flaming asshole at a time.”

Shreave sniggered. “Good luck, sister.”

“You didn’t even ask about your girlfriend. What’s the matter with you?”

Shreave rubbed his arms nervously. “The scream didn’t sound like Genie. It sounded like a girl.”

“I couldn’t get close enough to the Indian’s camp to see who it was. Don’t you love her, Boyd?”

“I’m not gettin’ my brains blown out over some chick who ran out on me.” He snatched a handful of cereal and crammed his cheeks. “Let’s go find those damn kayaks and get away from here.”

Honey saw that he was genuinely frightened. She said, “They’re hidden in some trees on the other end of the island. I spotted them on the way back from the Indian’s.”

“Then what are we waitin’ for?” Shreave leapt up and grabbed her arm.

Honey easily shook free. “Dawn is what we’re waiting for. There’s something you need to see.” One last chance to awaken your shriveled soul, she thought.

He lunged toward her, then halted. Again he turned toward the woods, straining to listen. “This was part of the setup, right? You got some goon in the trees, waitin’ to kick out my teeth.”

Honey said, “Nobody’s there. Nobody’s watching.” She had no fear of Shreave, who was as unimposing as any man she’d ever met.

His voice dropped to a growl. “Listen, you psychotic twat. This is a goddamn suckhole and we’re gettin’ out now.”

“No, Boyd, it’s an incredibly peaceful and inspiring place,” she said, “and I’m not leaving until morning. You want to sail off on your own, be my guest.”

“Un-freaking-believable. You won’t even show me where the kayaks are?”