Many Seminoles were first-rate warriors, Sammy’s uncle had said, but a few were not.

“What’re you waitin’ on? Take the fuckin’ guitar and vamoose,” Piejack said, “’fore I shoot your red ass off.”

That’s ugly, Sammy Tigertail thought. Ugly and unnecessary.

Crossing the clearing, he could sense the boy watching him. Skinner’s ex-wife, too. The Seminole fixed his eyes on the blond Gibson, shining among the ashes.

“Mister, wait,” the kid said.

Sammy Tigertail didn’t look up. He lifted the guitar and wiped it with a bandanna. With chagrin he noted a nasty ding in the finish.

“Don’t you dare leave us here,” said the boy’s mother. “Please.”

The Indian offered no response. He’d made up his mind.

“For God’s sake, Sammy.” It was Mr. Skinner, rising.

The Seminole thought of his great-great-great-grandfather, Chief Thlocklo Tustenuggee, tricked with promises of peace and then imprisoned. Manifest destiny, otherwise known as screwing native peoples out of their homelands, had been a holy crusade among white men of that era. Immune to guilt or shame, they dealt suffering and death to mothers, infants, even the elders. One American president after another, breaking treaties and spitting lies-the boundlessness of their deceptions was altogether stunning.

Sammy Tigertail in his young life had never betrayed a soul. He owned a working conscience that could have sprung from either of his bloodlines. His mother was a moral, hardworking woman; his father had been a decent and truthful man.

“You some kinda retard, or what? I said to get the hell outta here,” Band-Aid Man barked.

“Just a minute.”

“I said now!”

The Indian looked up and saw Piejack waggling the.45.

“Bad idea,” Sammy Tigertail said, and began moving toward him.

The man told him to back off, or else. The Seminole continued to advance with long, even strides.

Wide-eyed, Piejack struggled to level the gun.

“Louis, don’t be an imbecile!” Honey pleaded.

When he got six feet away, Sammy Tigertail turned. He stepped up to Perry Skinner and held out the guitar. All he said was: “I believe Mr. Knopfler would understand.”

“Who?” Piejack croaked. “Unnerstand what?”

Skinner took the instrument by the neck and, limping forward, poised it like an ax.

“Duck,” the Indian advised the former Mrs. Skinner, and then he dived to cover her son.

The gun in Louis Piejack’s paw spit an ice-blue spark, but the blond Gibson came down hard, splintering his filthy skull.

Twenty-five

Eugenie Fonda sat on the balcony of her sixth-floor room, fanning her freshly painted toes and watching the sun melt like sorbet into the Gulf of Mexico. Her third Bacardi was sweating cool droplets that snaked down her bare tummy.

The sliding door opened, and Gillian St. Croix stepped out wearing camo flip-flops and a baby-blue tank dress that Eugenie had bought for her at a shop in the lobby. She announced that her mosquito bites had practically vanished, thanks to a magical mint unguent recommended by a Moroccan lady at the spa.

“Check out the sunset,” Eugenie said.

“Yeah, it’s awesome.” Gillian arranged herself cross-legged on the other patio chair. “Wanna hear what he said? Ethan, when I called him?”

Eugenie sipped her drink. “I can guess what he said, sweetie. ‘All is forgiven. Come back home.’”

“Yeah, but you know what I said? ‘Find another girlfriend, loser.’ He’s such a loser, not tellin’ me about those dolphins. Makin’ me think they swam off like Free Willie when all they did was hang around and beg for treats like trained poodles.”

Eugenie had heard the story before but she listened politely. Looking south, she wondered if Boyd Shreave had gotten off the island yet. She hoped that he wouldn’t come searching for her, that he wasn’t dim enough to believe he was still in the mix.

Gillian went on, “Ethan doesn’t really care about me. It’s just the sex.”

“Well, he’s a boy.”

“Why are they all like that?”

“Oh, they’re not.” Eugenie was thinking in particular of Honey Santana’s ex, who’d obviously never stopped loving her. There was no such man in Eugenie’s past; even Van Bonneville had quit writing from prison.

“Rate the massage,” Eugenie said.

“Awesome. Eleven on a scale of ten.” Gillian paused and frowned. “Know what? I gotta find a new word. I’m so over awesome.”

“It’s been beaten to death,” Eugenie concurred.

“Hey, how about super? I had a super massage.”

Eugenie shook her head. “Super is over, too. Especially if you’re gonna be a big-time TV weather woman.”

“God, who knows what I’m gonna be.” Gillian laughed. “Did you have the Japanese guy or the deep-tissue redneck? I had the redneck.”

“Me too. Showed me pictures of his darling twin boys.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah,” Eugenie said, “then he took out a vibrator the size of a hoagie and asked me if I was into toys.”

Gillian hooted. “See! They’re all the same!”

Eugenie drained her glass. The sun was gone, the horizon aglow. There were scads of little kids running up from the beach, shouting and giggling and kicking up sand.

“Patience,” she said to Gillian. “That’s the secret. Once you start rushin’ into these things, making lousy choices, it’s awful hard to dig yourself out. By that I mean it’s hard to change.”

Gillian said, “You haven’t done so bad. Look where we are, Genie-the beach, the ocean, rum drinks! The rest of the country’s freezin’ their butts off.”

Eugenie thought: Treading water is where I am. Maxing out my credit card.

“What happens is, you start to give off a certain vibe,” she said. “Why do you think that masseur came on to me and not you? Because he knew, sweetie, that I’m not above fucking the help when I get bored. They’ve got radar for it, men do, the boredom vibe. You be careful about that, okay?”

Gillian went and got a beer from the minibar. She took a slug and said, “Wait for the good ones-that’s what you mean by patience?”

“They’re out there. I know for a fact,” Eugenie said.

“Like Thlocko?”

“Find one from earth, Gillian. His baggage had baggage.”

“But he’s different. I like him.”

Eugenie said, “Me too.”

“Totally not boring.”

“That’s true.”

“Thanks for not sleeping with him. I mean it.”

“Anytime,” said Eugenie.

Gillian tipped the last half of her beer into a clay planter. “I better head back to Tallahassee tomorrow-I’ve gotta buy my books for the new term. What about you?”

“I’m on a non-stop to DFW. Gonna quit my shitty job and start over.”

“Yeah? And do what?”

“Quilts. I hear they’re coming back. Or maybe scented candles,” Eugenie said with a straight face. “Something where I can work at home and never have to meet any jerks.”

Gillian watched a flock of gray pelicans crashing bait in the waves. “What a crazed trip-I mean crazed. Maybe we should, like, celebrate.”

Eugenie Fonda agreed. “I’m thinking lobster,” she said, “and a Chilean chardonnay.”

“Magnificent,” said Gillian with a wink. “How’s that for a word?”

Ninety-one miles away, Boyd Shreave finally got to change his pants.

He’d waited in the poinciana tree until dusk, listening for the two men who had accosted him at gunpoint. Then he had commenced a nervous descent that transpired in stages, the first being baby steps and the second being a spontaneous heels-over-head plummet. By some miracle, he’d landed short of the cactus patch. And although he’d torn off his windbreaker and bloodied his palms on a ridge of loose oyster shells, Shreave was overjoyed not to have crippled himself.

He removed his soiled boat shorts and searched hurriedly through the Orvis bag for a dry pair of Tommy Bahamas. He settled for apple-green Speedos, which he’d packed in the fanciful expectation of appearing well matched with his bethonged mistress on the beach.