“Grab his legs,” Skinner told the Indian. “I’ll get the other end.”

“Go easy,” said Gillian.

Skinner pointed to an expensive Halliburton valise. It was the same brand he’d used for hauling cash in the old days; durable and waterproof. “That yours?” he asked Dealey.

“Yeah, but where’s my other one?”

Gillian picked up the travel case. The Seminole took hold of Dealey’s ankles while Skinner hoisted the private investigator from behind, clutching him Heimlich-style around his bare chest.

“Goddamn, that hurts!” Dealey blurted.

Skinner said, “Suck it up. You’re goin’ home.”

They carried him to the notch along the creek where the kayaks were tethered, and with great effort they positioned him in the red one. Gillian propped the Halliburton between his knees.

Dealey was unable to paddle because of the shotgun hole in his shoulder. Skinner hastily devised an anchor from an old cinder block and attached the rope that had been used to secure Honey’s kayaks. He instructed Dealey to push the hunk of concrete overboard in the middle of the creek; that would hold the lightweight craft in the current and make it easier to spot from the air.

Skinner spun the red kayak and aimed the bow toward the open water. Gillian waved and sang out, “Bye, Lester,” but her words drowned in the roar of the approaching chopper. On a count of three, Skinner and Sammy Tigertail gave a firm shove and sent Dealey gliding out of the mangroves.

The tide took the kayak and tugged it toward the Gulf. Dealey clumsily kicked the cinder block over the side, the line came tight and the boat swung to a halt halfway across the creek. From the shore, Gillian clapped and whistled.

A large shadow appeared, skittering like a water bug over the waves. Perry Skinner looked up to see a flash of blaze orange, the official striping of the Coast Guard air-search fleet. He herded Gillian and the Seminole into the shelter of the tree line as the helicopter circled and dipped. They watched with consternation as Dealey endeavored to stand in the kayak, undoubtedly with a mind to signal for help. He was every bit as graceful as a walrus on a boogie board.

The juggle of Dealey’s ample heft caused the boat to list ominously, and the nose began to tunnel in the current.

“Look at that fool,” Sammy Tigertail said.

Skinner was furious. “Sit your fat ass down!” he yelled at the man called Lester, who paid no heed.

Gillian gasped. “Holy shit, he’s sinking!”

The Indian pulled off his shoes. “I’ll go,” he said.

Skinner said no. “They might lock you up, Sammy. Let me do it.”

Thinking: I don’t have time for this nonsense.

The kayak capsized with hardly a ripple. Dealey didn’t fall so much as he rolled. Invigorated by terror and a torrent of cold water, he thrashed until his good arm caught hold of the upturned hull, which had remained anchored in the channel.

“Poor old Lester,” Gillian said, and began stripping off the clothes that Sammy Tigertail had given her.

The Seminole watched, dumbstruck.

“Don’t worry,” she told him when she was down to her mesh panties. “I was on the crew team, ’member? Plus I did the whole Baywatch thing one summer in Destin. It was, like, eight-fifty an hour and you had to buy your own sunblock.”

She stuffed the clothes in Sammy Tigertail’s arms and kissed him wildly on the mouth and said, “Bye, Thlocko. You’re the fucking best.”

“Don’t do this!”

“Write a song about me later,” she said, “when you’re a rock star.”

Then she was gone, splashing out of the mangroves and into the swift creek.

The Indian started to chase her but Perry Skinner caught him by the belt. Skinner pointed up at the helicopter, which already had begun lowering a rescue basket over the flipped kayak. A full-suited Coast Guard diver was poised on one of the aircraft’s skids.

“You think those guys’re gonna let that pretty girl drown?” Skinner said. “Lester’s the one who ought to be worried. He’ll be lucky if they save him a towel.”

Sammy Tigertail watched Gillian scissor through the rotor-blown chop and latch onto the wallowing white man. “She’s a good swimmer, for sure,” the Seminole said. “And pretty, like you say.”

“Save it for a valentine, Sammy. Right now I need you to help me find my son and my wife.”

“You mean your ex.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Sure, Mr. Skinner.” Sammy Tigertail stooped to put on his shoes.

When Fry awoke, he was weak but no longer dizzy. His lower lip stung where he’d chomped it when he fell.

Eugenie Fonda was elated that the boy hadn’t croaked in her arms. She pecked him on the forehead and said, “You got a concussion, bucko. We’re stayin’ right here until your old man tracks us down.”

Fry didn’t argue. He had no strength for another hike. The sun on his legs felt good; so did lying on Eugenie’s lap. Were it not for the football helmet, he would have been basking in the warmth of her outstanding breasts. He tried not to dwell on that.

“Hey, check out the chameleons,” he said.

There were two of them, as bright as emeralds, sharing a bough in the strangler fig. One of the lizards inflated its wine-red dewlap and began pumping its featherweight body, as if it was doing push-ups.

“That’s the male,” Fry explained. “He’s showin’ off.”

“Go figure,” said Eugenie.

She opened the Halliburton and removed the video camera. After rewinding the tape, she touched the play button. The young Seminole’s girlfriend appeared on the display screen, auditioning with the shotgun as a prop.

Good morning, this is Gillian St. Croix bringing you the weather! A winter storm rumbled through the Rockies last night, dumping snow from Montana to New Mexico. The ski resorts in Vail are reporting three feet of fresh powder, and it’s even deeper in Aspen and Telluride. Meanwhile, waaaaaaay down in sunny southern Florida, daytime temps are expected to reach the low seventies by noon. It’s ideal conditions for being held hostage by a stud-hunk Native American on a deserted tropical isle. We’re talkin’ about a serious blue-eyed Bone Machine-

Eugenie Fonda hastily shut off the tape.

“Who was that?” Fry asked.

“Just a girl gone wild.” Eugenie rewound the cassette and activated the record button.

“Where are those lizards?” She pointed the camera toward the fig tree.

“Little higher.” Fry twisted around to show her.

“They’re cute little buggers, aren’t they?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The boy’s neck ached, so he turned back the other way.

“And real fond of each other.” Genie toggled the zoom.

“Do you have any kids?” Fry asked.

She thought: One of the few mistakes I haven’t made. “I never grew up enough to be a mom. That’s a serious gig,” she said.

“Nah, you could do it.”

“I was wondering-do lizards make noise?”

“Geckos, yeah. Not chameleons,” he said.

“Too bad.” Genie fiddled with the focus control.

“What kind of job do you have?” the boy asked.

She chuckled dryly. “I sell an incredible amount of crap to people over the phone. But once upon a time I had a book published.”

“Sweet.”

“The phony true-life story of a doomed romance,” she said, “but don’t be too impressed. I didn’t write a damn word of it.”

“What’s the book called?”

Genie said, “Never mind. It’s not in your school library, I promise. Aren’t chameleons the ones with the big buggy eyes and the superlong tongues? Like that guy in Kiss.”

“Those are old-world chameleons. The species here in the Everglades is called the American anole.”

Eugenie was enjoying herself; the kid was an encyclopedia. She said, “Maybe I can sell this tape to the National Geographic. You could help me with the script.”

Fry cocked his head and listened. “You might want to wrap it up,” he said.

“In a minute.”