Honey said no. Shreave called her another crude name and glared into the night. Then he sat down, fuming, by the campfire.
“Try to keep an open mind,” Honey told him.
“Just shut the hell up,” he said.
The rifle slug had ricocheted off a branch and passed through Dealey’s right shoulder, exploding the rotator-cuff joint. As he rocked in and out of consciousness, he wondered if he was dying. It seemed possible, judging by the pain.
He found himself speculating about who might show up at his funeral, in the event his body was returned in a recognizable condition to Fort Worth. The visitor list would be short-two or three other private investigators with whom he occasionally hoisted a few beers; an aunt from Lubbock who was so senile that she was still mailing campaign donations to Barry Goldwater; his landlady and her yodeling poodle; a bisexual nephew who hung drywall in Austin; possibly one or two ex-wives, snorkeling for loose change.
Not appearing at the ceremony would be Dealey’s next of kin, a younger brother who was a halibut fisherman in British Columbia and forbidden by the terms of his parole from leaving the province. Nor would any of Dealey’s past girlfriends be at the funeral, all having married and long ago terminated correspondence.
Dealey was not sentimental, and the prospect of a sparsely attended memorial didn’t bother him. A more nagging concern was the safe-deposit drawer he kept at the Bank of America branch on Ridglea Place. The private investigator regretted leaving no instructions in his will regarding the box, which meant the lock would be drilled and the contents inventoried for his modest estate. His avaricious ex-spouses would insist.
Inside the bank drawer, awaiting the eyes of some unwary probate functionary, was a small trove of trysts, betrayals and adulterous moments, including Eugenie Fonda’s virtuoso number at the delicatessen on Summit. Dealey’s interest in such a collection wasn’t salacious, but rather one of stout professional pride. The photographs and videotapes stood as triumphs of solo surveillance, the greatest hits from his life as a snoop. The paper files he diligently expurgated every three years, but the most sensational visuals were faithfully preserved. Having always felt underrated by his peers, Dealey found comfort and validation in this secret gallery, which he revisited no more than four or five times a month. Of course he’d never intended for such tawdry gems to reach the public domain, as the fallout would be both tumultuous and career-ending.
Hey, there’s the wife of Zeke Gibbons, our new city councilman, checking into the downtown Hilton with her Bavarian riding coach…
And there’s the husband of Mary Lisette Scowron, chair of the local Justice for DeLay committee, nestling on a Utah ski lift with a dancer for the Mavericks…
And, whoa, there’s the middle daughter of the Rev. Jimmy Todd Barnwell, televangelist and on-call spiritual adviser to our governor, entertaining a vanload of longboarders on South Padre…
Fucking beautiful, thought Dealey. It’s just as well I’ll be six feet under when the shit hits.
He felt his suit jacket and shirt being cut away, and he shivered as the night air awakened his wound. Cracking one eye, he saw a handsome ash-blond woman kneeling over him. She appeared to be disrobing.
That cinches it, he thought. I must be dead already.
Eugenie Fonda capably administered first aid, irrigating the puckered entry hole with water heated over the campfire coals. Then she removed a sweater that she’d borrowed from Honey and used it to stanch the bleeding.
“One time a guy almost croaked on me in bed,” she was saying. “Lucky I’d just passed a CPR class. I kept him goin’ till the paramedics got there, and guess what? He still had his hard-on when they carried him out on the stretcher-that’s all you need to know about men.”
Gillian said admiringly, “Wow.”
Downcast, Sammy Tigertail hovered near Dealey’s motionless form. “It was an accident. It wasn’t him I wanted to hit.”
Eugenie doubted that the injured man was going to die. “But a doctor would be helpful,” she said, adding with a wink: “Even a medicine man.”
Gillian tugged the Indian’s shirttail. “I told you he was real, Thlocko. I told you he wasn’t a ghost.” She wiped the blood from the gash on Sammy Tigertail’s forehead. “What’d you do to yourself?” she whispered.
Dealey stirred and briefly fluttered an eyelid. The Seminole remained glum. He dumped out the stolen duffel bag in a futile search for a medical kit.
“Exactly who were you shooting at?” Eugenie asked.
“A dead tourist.”
“If you say so.”
“Thlocko is, like, haunted,” Gillian explained.
Eugenie snapped open Dealey’s travel cases to inspect the camera equipment. The Seminole bent down and felt the investigator’s wrist for a pulse. He said, “At daybreak you two take him back to the mainland. Somehow we’ll squeeze his fat ass into the canoe.”
Gillian didn’t want to go. “Lester said he was gettin’ rescued tomorrow. Why don’t we just wait?”
Sammy Tigertail frowned. “Who did he say was coming?”
“I dunno. Somebody he called on his cell,” she said.
“No! I don’t want anybody else on this island.”
“What’s the difference?” Gillian asked.
“The difference is, I don’t want to go to jail.” Sammy Tigertail believed he would be arrested for shooting the white man in the business suit. He was also fairly sure that he’d killed the fishy-smelling white man with the bandaged hand; the one he’d clobbered with the rifle butt.
And last but not least: the Wilson situation.
The Indian said, “We’re not hangin’ around waitin’ for the Coast Guard or the Collier goddamn County sheriff, understand? You girls are takin’ this poor bastard back to Everglades City soon as the sun comes up-”
“Just a minute,” Gillian cut in. “Lester told me there’s a motorboat somewhere on the island. That’s how he got here.” She looked at Eugenie Fonda. “You remember the way back, right? You don’t need me.”
“No, sweetie, I’d need a miracle.”
Sammy Tigertail said, “I’ll find the damn boat and I’ll draw up a chart, but you’re both going. I’m through.”
He swung the rifle by the barrel, beating it furiously against a tree stump until it broke into pieces.
“Here. Don’t forget this one.” Gillian reached for the sawed-off shotgun.
The Seminole shook his head. He stretched out on the ground and covered his face with his arms. Eugenie aimed Dealey’s Nikon and snapped a frame.
Gillian drew her aside and said, “He’s really not a bad guy. Just majorly messed up.”
“I never meet the ones who aren’t,” Eugenie said.
“But, see, I want to stay.”
“You slept with him yet?”
Gillian blushed. “I’m workin’ on that.”
“Well, he is good-lookin’-”
“Please don’t try to snake him for yourself.”
Eugenie chuckled tiredly. “Just so you know, I’d do whatever it takes to get off this island, and that includes hand jobs, blow jobs, butt jobs, even singin’ opera stark naked. Nothin’ personal, okay? But it’s windy and cold and I’d love a bowl of French onion soup, so I’m definitely on my way to the Ritz, one way or another.”
“But Thlocko said he’d find the boat! He promised to make a map.” Gillian understood that Eugenie possessed advanced powers of persuasion over men. “You don’t have to screw him or anything. He’s not like that.”
“Of course he isn’t. You want some free advice?”
“Not really. Could you give us, like, some privacy?”
“First show me how to work the video.”
Gillian looked alarmed. “I don’t want me and him on tape!”
Eugenie patted her hand. “Don’t worry. I would never.”
Gillian instructed her about Dealey’s minicam. “I did a fake weather report-you can play it back with that button. I was thinking it might be cool to try TV.”