Desie felt so liberated that on their honeymoon night in Tortola she was able to remain aroused – and not dissolve into giggles – when Palmer panted into her ear: "Come on, baby, light my candle."

"Fire," she whispered gently.

"What?"

"It's 'fire,' honey. The song goes, 'Come on, baby, light my fire.' "

"No way. I saw that fella do a show down at Dinner Key before he croaked – "

"Palmer," Desie said, changing the subject, "can I get on top now?"

It was three months before he brought the Polaroid camera into bed. Desie went along but she didn't approve – the flash was annoying, as were Palmer's stage directions. Moreover, the snapshots came out so blurry and shabbily composed that she couldn't understand how her husband found them titillating. Did that make him a weirdo? After being with Andrew Beck, nothing short of a medieval mace and chain-mail suit would have seemed kinky to Desie.

She did, however, draw the line at cigars. Palmer wanted her to try one in the bedroom, before and possibly during sex.

"No chance," Desie said.

"It's that goddamn Bill Clinton, isn't it? Him and his twisted bimbos, they've given the whole cigar scene a bad name. Honest, Des, all I want you to do is smokeone."

"The answer is no, and it's got nothing to do with the president."

"Then what?" Palmer Stoat rattled off the names of several cigar-puffing movie starlets. "Come on," he pleaded, "it's a very erotic look."

"It's a very stupid look. Not to mention the nausea that goes with it."

"Oh, Desie, please."

"They cause cancer, you know," she said. "Tumors in the soft palate. You find thaterotic, Palmer?"

He never again mentioned cigar sex. But now: rhinoceros horns. Desie was appalled. Killing one was bad enough, but this!

Admittedly, she and Palmer hadn't been making love so often. Desie knew why she wasn't feeling amorous – she wasn't happy with herself or the marriage; wasn't even certain she still likedher husband all that much. And she was aware he seemed to have lost interest, as well. Maybe he kept girlfriends in Tallahassee and Washington, or maybe he didn't. Maybe he was being truthful when he said that the only reason he'd purchased the black-market rhino powder was to rekindle their romance.

Desie didn't know what to do. Materially she had secured a good comfortable life; she was scared to think of starting over. But the emptiness in her heart was scary, too; scarier by the day. She didn't view herself as one of those wives who could accept a marital chill as inevitable; pretend it wasn't there, distract themselves with spas and overseas travel and home-improvement projects.

Or perhaps she could. To Desie, being alone sounded less appealing than being in a not-so-torrid marriage. Some of her friends had it worse; they had husbands who didn't give a shit. At least Palmer was trying, or appearing to try. His hope for a two-day erection was either endearing or idiotic, depending on his true motives.

In any case, Desie was so infuriated by the way he ridiculed her kidnap story that she ordered him to sleep in one of the guest rooms.

"I'll find you a shrink. The best in town," Palmer Stoat told her. "Please, Des. You're just a little confused."

"I prefer to stay confused," she said, "for now." Firmly she closed the bedroom door in his face.

All of a sudden McGuinn quit eating and became lethargic. At first Twilly didn't know why. Then he found the lint-covered cluster of antibiotic pills on the car floor, beneath the backseat. All this time the dog had been pretending to swallow – scarfing down the roast beef envelopes while somehow concealing the chalky tablets under his tongue. Then, when Twilly wasn't looking, he'd spit them out.

So the stubborn mutt probably has a post-op infection, Twilly thought. From the phone book he picked a nearby veterinarian's office. There the receptionist took out a clipboard and asked him some questions.

"Name of the pet?"

Twilly told her.

"Breed?"

"Labrador retriever."

"Age?"

"Five," Twilly guessed.

"Weight?"

"One twenty. Maybe heavier."

"Is he neutered?"

"Check for yourself."

"No thanks," the receptionist said.

"See? Balls."

"Why don't you have him lie down again. Mr. Spree."

"Down, boy," Twilly said obediently.

"Would you like us to go ahead and neuter him?"

"I'm not the one you should be asking," said Twilly.

"We've got a special this month on cats and dogs," the receptionist told him. "You get a twenty-five-dollar rebate from the Humane Society."

"Is that twenty-five per testicle?"

"No, Mr. Spree."

Twilly sensed the Lab gazing up at him. "Cats and dogs only?"

"That's right."

"Too bad."

The receptionist ignored his last remark. A tall frizzy-haired woman in a pink lab coat came out to collect McGuinn. Twilly followed her to an examination room and together they hoisted the dog onto a stainless-steel table. In came the veterinarian, a slightly built fellow in his sixties. He had a reddish gray mustache and wore thick-rimmed eyeglasses, and he didn't say much. He listened to McGuinn's heartbeat, palpated his abdomen and examined the sutures.

Without looking up, the doctor asked, "What was the reason for the surgery?"

Twilly said, "I don't know." Desie had promised to tell him, but never did.

"I don't understand. Isn't this your dog?"

"Actually, I just found him a few days ago."

"Then how do you know his name?"

"I had to call him something besides 'boy.' "

The veterinarian turned and eyed Twilly dubiously. Twilly made up a story about finding the Labrador wandering the shoulder of Interstate 75 near Sarasota. He assured the veterinarian he was taking an advertisement in the local newspaper, in the hopes of locating the dog's owner.

"No rabies tags?" the veterinarian asked. "No, sir."

"No collar?"

"Nope," Twilly said. The collar and the tag were in the car.

"A dog like this – it seems hard to believe. This animal has champion bloodlines."

"I sure wouldn't know about that."

The veterinarian stroked McGuinn's snout. "Somebody cared enough to take him in for surgery. Doesn't make any sense they'd abandon him afterward. Not to me, it doesn't."

Twilly shrugged. "Humans are hard to figure. The point is, I care about him, too. Otherwise I wouldn't be here."

"No, I suppose not."

"I got worried when he stopped eating."

"Yes, it's good you brought him in." The veterinarian lifted McGuinn's upper lip and peered at the pale gums. "Mr. Spree, do you mind waiting in the other room?"

Twilly returned to the reception area and took a seat across from two maternal-looking women, each with an obese cat on her lap. Next to Twilly sat a sharp-featured man clutching a brushed leather valise, from which a small shaggy head – no larger than an apple – would emerge intermittently. Its moist brown eyes would dart edgily about the room until the man whispered something, and then the tiny canine head would pop out of sight.

The sharp-featured man noticed Twilly staring, then pulled the valise protectively to his chest. Abruptly he got up and moved three chairs away.

"So," Twilly said affably, "what's your hamster's name?"

The young man snatched up a veterinary magazine and pretended to read. The other pet owners seemed equally disinclined to chat. Twilly assumed they disapproved of his attire – he was shirtless and barefoot, and wore only a pair of old chinos. The rest of his clothes were at a laundromat down the street.

"Ah well," he said, and folded his arms. Before long he fell asleep and, as always, did not dream. He awoke to see the face of the frizzy-haired woman in the pink lab coat.