With impatience Brother Boyd directed the headlamp toward his own pudgy palms, which were raw and oozing as a result of his tumble from the tree. He failed to behold the stigmata resemblance.

“I had a fall,” he explained.

Brother Manuel nodded. “As have we all. Come.”

They led the stranger down the shore to the campfire, where the other moaners ceased their dancing and fell quietly into a half circle. The women were eyeing Brother Boyd’s bathing attire in a manner that made him uncomfortable.

“Can I borrow one of those robes?” he asked. “How about a beach towel?”

Brother Manuel steepled his long pink fingers and began: “Sister Shirelle and I were praying together in the woods, communing most strenuously, when we saw a mysterious light-like a star descending from the heavens-and then, lo, this weary mariner appeared on the water. Show them your hands, Brother Boyd.”

The moaners gasped at the sight. “It is He!” exulted one of the women.

“No, wait!” one of the others interjected. “He could be that poacher-the lawless heathen we were warned about by the visitor with the boy. He was said to have a damaged hand, remember?”

Brother Boyd looked stricken. “I’m not a poacher. I’m in telemarketing!”

Sister Shirelle hastened to his defense. “But there are wounds on both His hands, not just one. And He has arrived alone by sea, exactly as foretold by Brother Manuel, bearing a cargo of forgiveness and salvation for all worldly souls. His long, lonely crossing is over.”

Another female moaner raised an arm. “What’s up with the Speedos?”

Sensing that doubt was coiling like a serpent amid his flock, Brother Manuel sidled close to Brother Boyd and whispered, “I’ll take it from here, dog.”

“Hey, are those rib eyes on the fire?”

“Sisters, brothers, listen and be joyful!” Brother Manuel commanded. “Tonight He appears to us just as He departed this world more than two thousand years ago-nearly naked, wounded and pure of soul. Instead of thorns He is crowned with light, the symbol of hope and rebirth!”

Here Brother Manuel spread his arms to righteously welcome Brother Boyd, who appeared to the other moaners as somewhat lacking in serenity.

“What are you goony birds talkin’ about?” he demanded.

Sister Shirelle gently spun him by the shoulders, the beam of his headlamp falling upon the stark wooden cross that was planted on the dune.

Brother Boyd stared and said, “You’re shitting me.”

Sister Shirelle put her plump lips to his ear. “See? We’ve been expecting you.”

“Rejoice! It is Him!” a bearded moaner crowed.

“No, He!” corrected the woman who had earlier commented upon Brother Boyd’s swimwear.

Sister Shirelle pressed the case: “Can there be any doubt that He is our Savior? Is today not the Epiphany?”

The moaners murmured excitedly, and then one spoke up: “But wait, sister-the Epiphany was, like, last Thursday.”

“Close enough!” boomed Brother Manuel.

Whereupon a spontaneous frolic broke out, the moaners twirling and gyrating euphorically around the fire. Bottles of cabernet were passed around, and before long Brother Boyd worked up the nerve to ask Sister Shirelle if they intended to nail him to their homemade cross. She laughed volcanically and tweaked his chin and said he was an extremely cute Messiah.

“I’m in sales,” he whispered confidentially.

“And a carpenter, too, don’t forget.”

“C’mon, sis, tell me-where’s your boat?”

“As if you needed one,” she said with a wink.

His headlamp illuminated the blue stenciling on the front of her white robe. “Four Seasons, huh? Not bad,” Brother Boyd remarked. “That’s my kinda religion.”

“Are those goose pimples on your arms?”

“Duh, yeah. It’s cold as a well digger’s ass out here.”

“Well, we definitely can’t have our Savior catching pneumonia. Here-” With an operatic flourish, Sister Shirelle shed the plush hotel garment and presented it to him.

“God bless you,” said Brother Boyd, liking very much the way it sounded. “God bless all of you.”

Honey Santana said, “Don’t die on me, you big bonehead.”

“Slow it down.” Perry was laid out and breathing hard in the bottom of the skiff. She’d given him Louis Piejack’s last Vicodin but he was still in monstrous pain.

He said, “You’re gonna hit an oyster bar, and this ain’t my boat.”

“Is Fry asleep?”

“Can’t you hear him? He snores worse than you.”

“Not nice.”

“Slower, Honey. I promise I’m not gonna die.”

She eased off the throttle. “Me and my two sick boys,” she said. “You with your hip shot away, and him with a concussion. Knuckleheads!”

“See the channel markers?” Perry asked.

“Sure do.”

“Remember, stay left of the red ones and right of the greens.”

“I heard you the first time, Captain Ahab. You’re still bleeding, aren’t you?”

“I got a pint or two left. Is your jaw broke?”

“It looks worse than it feels.”

“I doubt that. Was it Piejack?”

Honey nodded. “My own dumb fault. I tried to be Wonder Woman.”

“Tell me what the hell you were doin’ out here-and no more bullshit about an ‘ecotour.’”

So she told him everything, beginning with Boyd Shreave’s sales call from Texas. He didn’t interrupt her once.

After finishing, she said, “Perry, this is all my fault and I’m sorry.”

“It ain’t exactly normal. You know that.”

“I’ll go back to the doctor. I’ll try the pills again.”

“Won’t work, Honey. This is how you are. It’s how you’ll always be.”

“Please don’t talk like that.” But she knew he was right. “Can I ask you something-was that the first time you ever killed somebody?”

“It’s been a week or two, at least.”

“I’m serious, Perry! I never saw a man die before-have you?”

“Not like that,” Skinner said. “Not killed by a damn guitar.”

“But Fry didn’t see it, right? The Indian was on top of him.”

“I’m pretty sure he didn’t see a thing.”

Honey said, “You’ve got no idea how sorry I am-”

“Just watch where you’re goin’.”

The pass opened into a broad expanse of water, and she spotted a twinkle of lights-Everglades City. It had to be.

Perry lifted his head. “Good work, babe. We’re almost home.”

Chokoloskee Bay. She remembered the first time she’d been there at night. Perry had brought her out in a crab boat to see the sunset. They drank some champagne, made love-the water glassy at dusk and the sky like grenadine. He’d asked if she was sure about staying with him. Said he’d understand completely if she changed her mind and went home to Miami.

This was two days before they got married.

It’s the middle of nowhere, not everybody can handle it, Perry had said. Especially the skeeters.

Honey had told him she’d never seen anyplace so peaceful, which remained a true statement nearly twenty-two years later. When she’d told him that she wanted to visit all ten thousand islands, he’d promised to show her every one. Build a fire and make out on the beach. What woman could have said no?

Fry stirred in his father’s arms. Honey was chilled to think that she’d almost gotten both of them killed.

“Perry, I’m gonna dock at the Rod and Gun, okay?” She was in a hurry because of all the blood.

“Hey, Perry?”

The channel was well marked, so she goosed the engine and planed off the skiff.

“Perry, you awake?”

She sped up the mouth of the Barron River, eased back the throttle and-as if she’d done it a thousand times-kissed the bow against the pilings of the old Rod and Gun Club.

“Perry!”

Nothing.

Fry sat up, rubbing his neck. He said, “I got the worst headache in the history of the human race.”

“Can you run?”

“What for, Mom?”

“Just answer me. Are you good to run?”

“Sure. I guess.”

“Then go get help.” Honey boosted him to the dock.