Fry looked down at his father lying in the boat. “Dad? Hey, man, wake up!”

“Just go,” his mother told him. “Fast as you can.”

One day not long after Fry was born, Perry Skinner had brought home a CD by the Eagles, a group that he claimed was more country than rock. He’d told Honey there was a song on the record that reminded him of her, and she’d picked it out immediately: “Learn to Be Still.”

At first her feelings were hurt because it was the story of a restless woman who heard voices; a woman who wouldn’t slow down long enough to let happiness find her. But the more Honey had listened to the lyrics, the better she’d understood that Perry wasn’t being mean; he was trying to let her know that he was afraid of what was happening.

But if I hit the brakes now, she remembered thinking, I’ll skid for ten years.

The funny thing was, Honey secretly liked the song. It made her feel that she wasn’t the only one struggling with that particular demon. One afternoon, Perry had come home early from the docks and caught her playing the CD, but she’d insisted it was only because she had the hots for Don Henley.

Although Honey couldn’t carry a tune-Fry forbade her from singing in the car; said she sounded like a wildcat riding a jackhammer-she knelt down, gathered Perry Skinner close and sang to him. As always she switched the words to first person.

“Just another day in paradise…”

Listening to his choppy breaths.

Squeezing one of his wrists, counting the heartbeats.

“As I stumble to my bed…”

Feeling the sticky warmth of his blood on her bare leg.

Thinking that he’d promised her he wouldn’t die, and he’d always kept his word, for better or worse.

“Give anything to silence…”

She shifted him slightly in her arms so that she could watch his face in the lights from the dock.

“These voices ringin’ in my head…”

“Have mercy,” Perry said weakly.

Honey giggled with relief. “Ha! You want me to stop?”

“No offense.”

“’Member those letters I wrote you in prison? Did you read ’em all?”

“Except for the ones that started ‘Dear Shithead.’ Where’s Fry?”

Honey said, “It’s so perfect out here. Look at the sky.”

“Better than church.”

“Oh, so much better.”

Perry coughed. “Damn. I’m all run-down.”

“How come you filed first? Don’t you dare go to sleep on me! Let’s discuss this stupid divorce.”

He said, “The stars are burnin’ out one by one. I’m tired, babe.”

Honey shook him. “Nuh-ughh, buster. We’re not done yet.”

She heard a siren. She prayed it was real.

“Oh no you don’t,” she said. “Wake up, Skinner.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“You are too.”

He said, “Hush now. Doesn’t it hurt to talk?”

“Wake up or I’ll start singin’ again. Honest to God.”

He smiled but didn’t open his eyes.

“You hear that?” she asked. “That’s the ambulance.”

“I don’t hear a damn thing.”

“Yes you do!” she said. Please tell me you do.

Twenty-six

On the thirteenth day of January, overcast and crisp, Lily Shreave sat before the bedroom television and replayed for the fourth time a VHS cassette that had arrived that morning by courier.

The tape was only six minutes long, and after it ended she made a phone call.

“You lied to me,” she told the man on the other end.

“Not completely. I said I got penetration, which is true.”

“But it’s not Boyd!” Lily snapped.

“Obviously. Nothing was happening between him and the girlfriend, so I had to wing it.”

“Oh please, Mr. Dealey.”

“This was the best I could do.”

“Lizards? Two lizards humping?”

“I was on an island, Mrs. Shreave. Lost in the goddamn Everglades.”

“And you’d still be stranded there if it weren’t for me,” Lily said. She clicked the remote to rewind the tape. “I hope you’re not expecting twenty-five thousand dollars for this spectacle.”

Dealey chuckled. “No, ma’am. But remember I took a bullet for the cause.”

Lily hit the play button. “I do like the music,” she remarked.

“Ravel’s Bolero. It’s pretty standard.” He’d dubbed it himself, to erase the conversation between Eugenie Fonda and the boy in the football helmet.

Lily went on: “I’m not fond of creepy critters, but these slinky little rascals are cute, I’ve gotta admit. And definitely hot for each other.”

“I’m told they’re chameleons,” Dealey said. “Green is their happy color.”

Lily was impressed by the male’s lithe piggybacking. It couldn’t have been easy maneuvering around his mate’s tail to achieve the glandular docking.

“You still there?” Dealey asked.

“I’ll give you ten grand, but that’s it.”

“Sounds fair.”

“To help with your out-of-pocket medical.”

“Much appreciated,” said the private investigator. He could hear Bolero rising in the background, along with Mrs. Shreave’s breathing.

She said, “FYI, I’m filing the divorce papers next week.”

“Should be a breeze.” Dealey figured that she’d finally closed the deal on her pizza joints.

“Just out of curiosity, where exactly is my husband?” she asked.

“I have no earthly idea.”

“Then I’ll assume he ran off with his six-foot bimbo.”

Dealey didn’t say a word.

Lily wasn’t finished. “By the way, the Coast Guard said they rescued two women from the same island.”

“Campers,” he said. “They were lost, too.”

“Serves ’em right. It sounds like a perfectly awful place.”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Shreave.”

Dealey hung up smiling. When Eugenie Fonda asked him what was so funny, he told her about the ten grand.

She whistled and said, “What’d I tell ya? The woman’s seriously gettin’ off on those reptiles.”

“Nice job with the camera. Helluva job, actually.” Dealey’s shoulder, bolted together with three titanium pins, was throbbing. He hunted through the desk for some Advils.

“You got any normal clients?” Eugenie asked.

“A few. You’ll see.”

“So, what’s the dress code around here?”

“Surprise me,” Dealey said.

Eugenie had strolled into his office two days earlier offering a deal: She would return the two Halliburton cases containing the costly surveillance equipment if he promised to deliver the chameleon sex tape to Boyd Shreave’s wife. During that conversation it had occurred to Dealey that Eugenie, with her vast and intimate knowledge of human frailty, could be a valuable addition to his staff.

“Does this mean you’re taking the job?” he asked.

“Just don’t try to get in my pants. You’ve got no chance whatsoever.”

“Understood,” Dealey said.

“And if you set me up with any of your loser buddies, I’ll personally break your other arm. Think compound fracture.”

“Right.” He was almost certain that she could, and would, do it.

“One other thing-those tapes and pictures you took of me and Boyd. Did you make copies?”

Dealey frowned and shifted in the chair.

“Burn ’em,” Eugenie said.

He thought ruefully of his masterpiece, the delicatessen blow job. “They’re in a safe box at the bank. Nobody but me has a key.”

“I said burn ’em.” Eugenie leaned forward, tapping her fingernails on the desk. “Did I or did I not just make you ten thousand ridiculous dollars?”

The investigator slouched in resignation. “But I thought you wanted to see ’em-the videos and prints.”

Eugenie said no, she’d changed her mind. “It’s ancient history.”

“You looked pretty damn fine, for what it’s worth.”

“Don’t make me tell you what it’s worth, Mr. Dealey.”

He uncapped a pen to write down her Social. “When can you start?”

“Hang on. I’m not done,” she said. “Did you make those calls for our friend?”

She was talking about Gillian, the spacey college kid with whom Dealey had been forced to share a sleeping bag. It was not an entirely unpleasant memory.