Skinner ran up the slope, the Seminole two steps behind. At the top, Sammy Tigertail pointed out a clearing, fifty yards away. They saw a couple of pup tents, but no sign of Honey Santana or the remaining Texan.

Skinner was halfway down the hill before realizing he was alone; the Seminole hadn’t moved.

“What’s wrong?” Skinner called out.

Sammy Tigertail motioned for him to return, and Skinner jogged back. There was no easy way to tell him, so the Indian said it directly: “He’s not dead, Mr. Skinner.”

“Who’s not dead?”

“That guy I hit with the rifle butt. The one with the tape on his hand that you said was after your wife. I told you I killed him but I guess I didn’t.”

Skinner grabbed Sammy Tigertail’s arm. “How do you know?”

“Because this is the spot where I hammered him. He fell into that cactus patch and now he’s gone.”

“Show me.”

The Indian walked him to the place, careful to avoid the spiny plants. Skinner noted numerous crushed leaves and several loose threads of cloth.

“Maybe somebody moved the body,” he said quietly.

“No, sir, I don’t believe so.” Sammy Tigertail pointed to a furrow where something large had slid down the shell mound into the pile of Busch cans.

“Like a gator drag,” the Indian said. Nesting alligators grooved similar trails while hauling themselves back and forth to the water. This one had been made by a human.

Skinner quickly scouted Beer Can Gulch. He discovered a line of unmistakable tracks leading up another slope; recurring impressions of kneecaps and elbows.

“The bastard’s crawling,” he said.

Sammy Tigertail had mixed feelings. He was relieved that he hadn’t killed the white man and set loose another bothersome death spirit. At the same time, he was sorry that the guy was still around to cause trouble.

“What’s his name again, Mr. Skinner?”

“Piejack.”

“As bad hurt as he is, he won’t get far.”

“He doesn’t need to. It’s a small island, like you said.” Perry Skinner pulled the.45 from his waist and clicked off the safety. He said, “Sammy, I forgot to thank you for finding my son.”

“He’s a good kid,” the Seminole said.

“It would destroy him if something happened to his mom.”

“Or to you, Mr. Skinner.”

Gun in hand, Fry’s father disappeared over the crest of the Calusa mound. Sammy Tigertail sprinted after him, kicking up a dust of ancient shells and warrior bones.

Twenty-three

As the helicopter sped north along the coast, Eugenie Fonda frowned out the window. One minute she’d been watching snowy egrets scatter like confetti across a carpet of mangroves; then abruptly the view had changed to a dreary checkerboard of parking lots, condo towers and suburbs. Eugenie had anticipated a rush of relief at the first sight of civilization, but instead she felt depressed.

Gillian was chatting up one of the Coast Guard spotters, while another crewman tended to the private investigator. Eugenie couldn’t hear a thing over the turbines, which was fine. Her thoughts turned to the boy in the football helmet, Honey’s son. Eugenie tried to imagine what it was like living in the backwater of Everglades City, where there were no Jamba Juices or Olive Gardens or Blockbusters; where the only entertainment was a swamp bigger than Dallas.

Fry seems like a fairly normal kid, she thought. A happy kid, too. She was sure that his old man would find him soon, and run him to a doctor.

Eugenie also wondered about the tall blue-eyed Seminole. She was glad that she hadn’t tried seducing him to get a lift off the island, because that would have hurt Gillian, of whom she’d grown fond. It also averted the humiliating possibility that the Indian might have refused to have sex with her. Eugenie was unaccustomed to such rejection because she was unaccustomed to dealing with men of character.

Exhibit A being Boyd Shreave.

On the regret meter, Eugenie Fonda had passed the “What was I thinking?” stage and was cruising toward “Boyd who?” Their fling had been an idle blunder of her own devising, and she bore him no malice. In fact, she would’ve been bummed if he were mauled by a panther, poisoned by a coral snake or otherwise savaged in the boondocks.

But Eugenie doubted that a fate so colorful would befall her dull Boyd. She saw him begging a ride back to the mainland with Honey and her ex, then hastening to Fort Worth on a doomed mission to head off a divorce. It was easy to envision his thunderstruck reaction as Lily Shreave presented the graphic pictorial and video evidence of his infidelity. A more endearing schmuck might win a reprieve, but Boyd didn’t stand a chance. Eugenie had no reason to hope that being single and destitute would improve his personality, or his prospects. Boyd was what he was, and she’d already moved on.

Minutes after the helicopter landed in Fort Myers, an ambulance whisked Lester off to a hospital. A female paramedic examined Eugenie and Gillian while a Coast Guard petty officer took their statements. Gillian told him that she was a weather personality for WSUK, a non-existent television station in Tallahassee. Eugenie, using her real name of Jean Leigh Hill, was inspired to identify herself as Gillian’s videographer. The two of them had gotten lost, she explained, on a kayak expedition in the Ten Thousand Islands. Juicing up the yarn, Gillian said they’d befriended Lester, who while skinny-dipping was shot by a poacher who’d mistaken him for a manatee. The ski-masked assailant, she added, escaped in a silver-blue speedboat called Wet Dream.

The young Coast Guard officer showed no sign of doubting the yarn. He mentioned that Wet Dream was the most common boat name in Florida, followed by Reel Love and Vitamin Sea. He also reported that Lester was actually Theodore Dealey, and that he was suffering from a rare and unpronounceable medical disorder. The petty officer commended Gillian for diving into Dismal Key Pass to assist Mr. Dealey, who would have otherwise drowned. The petty officer then asked the women if they’d seen anyone besides the trigger-happy poacher on the island, and both of them-wishing to protect the fugitive Seminole-answered no.

The petty officer said they were free to leave, and offered to call a cab. Eugenie picked up the Halliburton that held Dealey’s video gear; Gillian grabbed the one with the Nikon.

Outside it was getting warm, so they waited in the parking lot and soaked up the sun. Gillian yawned and said, “So, whatcha gonna do now-go home to Texas?”

“I haven’t decided. You?”

“Back to FSU, I guess. Try not to flunk out this term.”

“Bet you’re gonna miss Taco,” Eugenie said.

Gillian laughed. “It’s Thlocko. And yeah, I miss him already,” she said. “But, hey, at least we got to do it. Only once-but he was amazingly awesome.”

“Well, good for you.” It was the natural order of things, and Eugenie didn’t feel the least bit jealous.

“I could totally eat a horse,” Gillian said, stretching.

“Me, too.”

“Can I borrow a few bucks?”

“All I’ve got is a credit card,” said Eugenie, “but you’re welcome to join me. There’s some stuff I need to tell you, anyway.”

“Cool. Where do you wanna go?”

“Looks like a good day for the beach.”

“I’m there,” Gillian said.

“And maybe a spa treatment?”

“Oh, momma.”

“And for lunch,” Eugenie said, “a bowl of French onion soup.”

“You’re my hero,” said Gillian.

“That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

Tree-bound, Boyd Shreave was revisiting the high points of his telemarketing career:

Troy Marchtower, age seventy-three, who had dumped the last of his 401(k) into sixteen acres of abandoned soybean fields near Gulfport, Mississippi, with the expectation (based on Shreave’s spiel) that the tract would be developed into upscale waterfront town houses. Hurricane Katrina obliterated Gulfport soon afterward, and Marchtower’s property lay beneath seven feet of toxic mud, a bleak turn of events that Shreave couldn’t have foreseen (and in any case fell under the contractually absolving “act of God” clause).