He said, “Nobody at the Indian reservation would tell me a damn thing. They acted like they’d never heard of Mr. Tigertooth.”

“Tigertail.”

“Whatever. Guy could be anywheres by now.”

“Gillian’s determined to find him.”

“I don’t get the attraction.”

“If you’ve gotta ask,” Eugenie said, “then you definitely need my help around here.”

Dealey’s inquiries to Collier County had not been altogether fruitless. From a newspaper reporter he’d learned that Louis Piejack, the freak who had kidnapped him, was missing in the Ten Thousand Islands. Having no wish to be subpoenaed to that dreadful part of the planet, Dealey had elected not to enlighten the authorities about Piejack’s many crimes.

“What about Boyd?” Eugenie Fonda asked.

Dealey flexed his hands and shrugged. “No John Does at the local morgue. He probably got off the island and hauled ass. Were you expecting him to call?”

“Oh, I’d be very surprised,” Eugenie said. She had changed her phone number the day after arriving back in Fort Worth. It was the first call she’d made after quitting her job at Relentless.

“Now let’s talk salary,” she said to Dealey.

“Fire away.”

With the exception of Sister Shirelle, the moaners had become disillusioned with the one who called himself Boyd. For a savior he seemed whiny and graceless.

One afternoon, Brother Manuel took him aside and said, “You blew it, dog.”

Boyd Shreave bridled. “Bite your heathen tongue!”

“They took a vote. Gimme the damn robe.”

“No way.” Shreave locked his arms across the sash.

“You had a sweet gig here,” said Brother Manuel. “Why couldn’t you just smile and look wise and keep your trap shut?”

“But I read somewhere that Jesus was like a rock idol.”

“Charismatic is the word, but that ain’t you, man. You’re just another loudmouthed schmuck.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll tone it down.”

“Too late,” the chief moaner said curtly.

The moment reminded Shreave of his many past failures in sales. Over the phone he could be a master of persuasion; in person he seemed doomed to rankle. This he blamed not on multiple character defects but rather on miscalculating his target demographic. From now on he would upwardly skew his efforts toward a more cosmopolitan market, with needs yet unrevealed.

Brother Manuel went on: “Fact is, you’re way too obnoxious to be the Son of God. I can’t cover for you anymore.”

“Was it unanimous?”

“Everybody except Shirelle, and she’d go down on Judas Iscariot if he was a hottie. Now hand over the robe.”

“I don’t think so,” Shreave said.

Brother Manuel calmly punched him in the gut and he doubled over. The glorious Four Seasons vestment was peeled off his shoulders like a snakeskin.

“We’re headin’ back to the mainland tomorrow,” said Brother Manuel. “The girls are gonna leave you two loaves of sourdough and a jug of Tang. If you’re ever passin’ through Zolfo Springs, stop by the AAMCO and I’ll cut you a break on a pan gasket.”

Shreave was wheezing. “This is a joke, right?”

“No, friend, this is adieu.”

“You can’t leave me out here! Even on Survivor the losers get to go home.”

Brother Manuel said, “We’ll call the Park Service on our way out of town.”

“But you don’t even know the name of this friggin’ island! How’re they supposed to find me?”

“Worse comes to worst, you’ve always got the canoe.”

“But I’ll die out here! I’ve got a heavy-duty disease and I need my medicine,” Shreave said. “Aphenphosmphobia!”

Brother Manuel snorted. “That’s not a disease, it’s a disorder. And if you were truly afflicted, brother, you wouldn’t have asked Sister Shirelle to rub your feet last night.”

Boyd Shreave wilted.

“My cousin’s an aphenphosmphobic,” Brother Manuel added in a frosty tone. “That’s how I know.”

There was nothing left for Shreave to do but beg. “Christ, please take me with you.”

“If He were here, perhaps He would. However, it’s my boat and it’s my call.” Brother Manuel slung the white robe over one arm and turned away.

“Gimme another chance!” Shreave called out, but the preacher kept walking.

That night Shreave built a feeble fire on the dune, using a book of matches that Sister Shirelle had tucked in his Speedos shortly before the moaners cast off. For tinder he sacrificed his ragged copy of Storm Ghoul, rendering to ashes the only keepsake of his fizzled affair with Eugenie Fonda.

Slumped against the wooden cross, Shreave stared out across the Gulf of Mexico and assayed his prospects, which were not as gloomy as he’d initially believed. The running lights of several large vessels were visible offshore, so he knew it was only a matter of time before somebody spotted him. At that point a major life decision would be required. Shreave ruled out a return to Texas, having no desire to face Lily’s wrath and his mother’s scalding denigrations. It never occurred to him that neither woman was interested in his whereabouts or his intentions.

Florida might be worth a shot, Shreave mused. Boca Raton supposedly had more telephone boiler rooms than Calcutta.

He gnawed on a hunk of sourdough but nearly gagged on the lukewarm Tang. The waves whispered him to sleep, and he awoke at daybreak sucking on his NASCAR toothbrush. Glancing up, he was alarmed to see-preening on the crossbeam of the bogus cross-a large white-capped bird that he recognized from countless documentaries on the Discovery Channel as an American bald eagle.

“Boo!” Shreave yelled hoarsely. “Beat it!”

The eagle was old and hunched, yet its amber gaze was penetrating. The flexed talons were larger than Shreave’s hands, and he didn’t doubt for a second that the predator was capable of removing his face with one swipe.

“Go away!” he brayed twice, whereupon the great bird hitched its chalky tail feathers, uncorked a prodigious bowel movement and flew away.

With a woeful moan, Shreave rolled himself down the dune, over the cold fire pit and into the water. There he threshed in hysterics, trying to slosh off the pungent stickum of feathers, bones, fur, mullet scales, cartilage and less identifiable ingredients of the jumbo eagle dropping.

It was in this frothing state of aggrievement that he was found by a passing park ranger, drawn to the scene by Shreave’s howls. After being hauled aboard the patrol boat, he was transported in his befouled Speedos to the public landing at Everglades City. There he was hosed off vigorously and examined by a paramedic wearing full biohazard gear.

Later, sporting ghastly tartan shorts and a double-knit golf shirt donated by the local Red Cross, Boyd Shreave wandered alone to the Rod and Gun Club, where he slapped his wife’s MasterCard on the old mahogany bar. The bartender was the same one who’d provided directions on the night that he and Genie had arrived, but the man didn’t recognize him. Shreave’s bearing had been considerably diminished on Dismal Key by a deleterious combination of sun poisoning, wind chafing and general character abasement.

After five Coronas, Shreave felt not nearly so adrift and out of sorts. A couple in their sixties, plainly from the Midwest, settled a few bar stools away and began rhapsodizing about their vacation to southwest Florida.

“It was twelve degrees at O’Hare this morning!” the wife chortled.

“Three below with the windchill,” said her husband.

“I don’t want to go home, Ben. It’s so incredible here.”

“McMullan called from the club-the lake on the seventeenth hole is froze solid. The kids are out there playing ice hockey with dog turds.”

“Ben, did you hear what I said? I really do not wish to go back.”

“You mean it?”

Boyd Shreave picked up his beer bottle and moved closer.

“We could get a place in Naples,” the wife was suggesting.

“Or right here on the river,” said the husband. “Buy a boat and dock it behind the house.”