Louis Piejack tossed the empty water bottle and resumed foraging. He kicked something hard that was wrapped in a blanket, and it made a noise like a cat caught in bedsprings. Piejack kicked open the bundle and revealed a dazzling electric guitar, which he gathered into his foully stained lap.

Honey felt vindicated. Boyd Shreave had scoffed at her when she said she’d heard guitar music.

“Can you play one a these?” Piejack asked.

“Sure.” She was trying not to move her jaws.

“I’m a piano man myself.” Piejack began tweaking the strings with his infected nubs. “This baby’s worth some cash, ya think?”

“Go easy, Louis.” Honey was disgusted to see him smearing his rancid bandages across the beautiful finish on the Gibson.

“Will you do a song for me?”

“I guess so. If you untie this rope,” Honey said. She couldn’t play a lick, but it was worth a shot.

Piejack hunched over to work one-handedly on the loops of the knot. As the moist stubble of his whiskers rubbed against her skin, Honey suppressed the urge to chomp a gaping hole in his neck.

Once her wrists were freed, he gave her the guitar. It was a magnificent thing to hold. With a sleeve she cleaned Piejack’s grease marks off the polished wood.

He said, “Now do me a love song, angel.”

“All right, Louis.”

Strumming lightly, she began to sing:

Piejack wrested the instrument from Honey. “I don’t care for that fuckin’ number.”

“But there’s twelve more verses,” she said innocently. “It’s called ‘The Trapped on an Island with a Revolting Pervert Blues.’ You never heard it before? Fiona Apple does a killer cover.”

Piejack flung the Gibson into the fire pit and said, “You ain’t one bit funny.”

Honey touched the side of her face. She had a bruise the size of a pomegranate where he’d clobbered her with the branch.

“Louis, may I have a Vicodin?”

“I only got the one left-and it’s for me.”

“Always the gentleman,” she said.

“We get home, you can have all you want. So quit yer bitchin’.”

“Where’s this boat of yours, anyway?”

“Ain’t far now,” he said, although he didn’t sound certain. “Gimme your hands,” he rasped, and fumbled at her neck for the loose end of the rope.

Honey spotted a bluish glint on the other side of the campsite-a pipe-like object on the ground beneath a bay tree. Piejack caught her staring past him, and he wheeled to see what had grabbed her attention.

“Jackpot!” he chortled.

“What is it?”

“Jackpot! Jackpot!” Piejack wobbled excitedly across the clearing and scooped up his sawed-off shotgun. Waving it high for Honey to see, he cried, “I thought I’d lost ’er for good, but look here!”

“Wooooo-hooo,” said Honey. She felt like weeping.

Perry Skinner and Sammy Tigertail had split up to search for Fry. Given his limited wilderness instincts and chronic bad luck, the Indian didn’t expect to find the boy. Yet there he was, in a splash of sunshine, sitting on a Dolphins helmet near a stand of green buttonwoods.

Fry appeared startled by the arrival of the stranger, though he tried to look brave. Sammy Tigertail introduced himself and said, “Your father’s lookin’ all over creation for you.” He offered some water, but the kid declined.

“Where is he? My dad.”

The Indian checked his watch. “We’re supposed to meet up in twenty minutes on the other side of the island.”

Fry said, “I’m not going anywhere. I don’t know you from the man in the moon.”

“Your father does. I saved his life once-me and my uncle.”

The boy eyed him. “When he rolled his truck?”

Sammy Tigertail said, “Yep. That night on the Trail.”

“You’re one of the Big Cypress Seminoles?”

“Well, I ain’t exactly from the south of France.”

Fry didn’t crack a smile. “You could be a Miccosukee is what I meant.”

“I could be, but I’m not.”

“How come you’re wearin’ blue contacts?”

“This the real color of my eyes.” It was a sensitive subject for Sammy Tigertail; conspicuous evidence of his mixed ancestry. He wasn’t ashamed so much as uncomfortable. Skinner’s kid was quick, and fearless with the questions.

He said, “That fleece you’ve got on is a Patagonia.”

“My deerskin loincloth is at the dry cleaner,” the Seminole cracked. “Don’t you read the papers, boy? We’re like the new Arabs. We got casinos and nightclubs and hotels. Our chief is now called the chairman, and he just sold his Gulfstream to Vince Vaughn. That’s how far we’ve come.”

The boy looked stung. “I didn’t mean anything bad.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“My mom had me write a paper about Osceola, what they did to him,” Fry said. “What we did to him.”

The Indian felt sort of lousy about jerking the kid’s chain. “Come on. It wasn’t you that killed him.”

“On the Internet I read how your tribe never surrendered, not ever. That’s cool,” said Fry.

“Depends what you mean by ‘surrendered.’ They booked Justin Timberlake at the Seminole Hard Rock for New Year’s.” Sammy Tigertail was ready to change the subject. “I heard about your skateboard crash. How’s the headache?”

“I’ll live.”

“Mr. Skinner said for me to make sure you keep that football helmet on ’til we find your mother. That way, he won’t get yelled at.”

“But it’s too heavy.”

“Do what your dad says. We should go now.”

Fry put on the Dolphins helmet and followed Sammy Tigertail, who again asked if he needed water.

“Nope. I’m good,” Fry said.

The Indian had to laugh. “You remind me of me,” he said, “back when I was a white boy.”

“Was your dad like mine?”

“He cared just as much. He would’ve made me wear that damn thing, too.”

Sammy Tigertail wondered what his life would be like if his father were still alive. I’d probably be off at college now, he thought, studying business or accounting, and dating a trippy coed like Gillian.

Fry said, “Hey, can you slow down a little?”

The Indian turned in time to see the boy teeter. He caught him under the armpits and slung him over a shoulder.

“Actually I feel like shit,” the kid murmured.

“Deep breaths,” Sammy Tigertail advised, traipsing onward through the scrub and hammock.

Perry Skinner had been waiting for the Seminole in the mangroves near the skiff. He took Fry and hugged him.

“Not too tight,” the boy squeaked, “or I’ll start hurlin’.”

Skinner lay him on the casting deck of his boat and looked him over. “It’s my fault,” he said, “draggin’ you out here with a goddamn concussion.”

“I’ll be okay. Where’s Mom?”

“Sammy and I are fixin’ to go get her right now. Stay here in the shade.”

“But I wanna come, too-”

“No!”

The kid sighed unhappily. Skinner slipped a seat cushion under his head and told him not to worry. “We won’t be long. Sammy knows right where she’s at.”

The Seminole nodded. He figured it would be easy to find the place again in the daylight.

“And it’s just her and the guy,” Skinner said. “Sammy said the girlfriend ran off.”

“I know, Dad.” Fry described his encounter with Eugenie Fonda. “She was nice. She stayed with me last night after I got sick. The Coast Guard chopper picked her up this morning.”

Skinner turned to Sammy Tigertail. “Well, that simplifies things. You ready?”

The Indian set off in the lead. He improvised a path through the cactus plants to the ravine that Gillian had named Beer Can Gulch, because of the hundreds of empty tall boys. Perry Skinner called it a “recycler’s wet dream.”

Sammy Tigertail pointed to the Calusa shell mound. “She’s camped on the other side.”