"Not much," the trooper said, with a polite smile.

"You're a lieutenant now?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's impressive," said the governor. Both of them knew why: The Highway Patrol was not famous for promoting minorities.

"Your wife?"

"She's fine, sir."

"She was a trooper, too?"

"That's right."

"Never went back?"

"No, sir."

Dick Artemus nodded to show his approval. "One in the family's enough. It's dangerous as hell out there on the road."

As if the lieutenant needed reminding.

"Which is why I asked you to stop by, Jim" – as if the trooper had a choice – "for this private chat," said the governor. "I've got a problem that needs to be handled quickly and quietly. A delicate situation involving a highly unstable individual – a nutcase, if I can be blunt – who's on the loose out there ... somewhere."Dick Artemus motioned somberly toward the window.

The trooper's expression never changed, but the governor sensed an onset of discomfort, a newfound wariness in the man's gaze. Artemus picked up on it immediately; he'd encountered the same vibe a thousand times before, with customers at Dick's Toyota Land, USA.

"What I'm about to tell you," the governor said, leaning forward, "must remain in the strictest confidence."

The trooper, whose name was Jim Tile, said, "Of course."

And Dick Artemus told him the story, almost the whole story, about the young man who'd kidnapped Palmer Stoat's dog and Fed-Exed him one of the ears, in order to stop a new bridge from being built to a place called Toad Island.

"Or Shearwater, which is the developer's Yuppie-ass name for it," the governor added. "Point is, I didn't call you here to talk about rescuing some jerkoff lobbyist's dog – that's been taken care of. The problem is this young man, who has the potential – and I'm no shrink – but I'd say he's got the potential to hurt or even kill someone if we don't find him fast."

"And then what?" asked the black trooper.

"Get him some help, of course. Professional help, Lieutenant Tile. That's what the young man needs."

"Do you know his name?"

"Nope," said the governor.

"What he looks like?"

"We can find out. He was seen in a bar called Swain's, down in Lauderdale."

"Where is he now? What's the best guess?"

"No earthly idea, my friend." Dick Artemus was amused by the trooper's straight-faced questions, entertained by the charade.

Jim Tile said, "Then there's not much I can do."

"Is that so." The governor, smiling now. Not the car-lot smile, either, or the campaign smile. This was the OK-let's-cut-the-bull-shit smile. "Look here, Jim, you know damn well what I need you to do."

The trooper momentarily glanced away. Dick Artemus could see the cable-thick cords of his neck go tight.

"So, tell me. How is our former governor these days? And don't say, 'Which one?' You knowwhich one. The crazy one. Clinton Tyree."

"I don't know, sir. I haven't spoken to him in at least a year, probably longer."

"But you do know where to find him?"

"No, sir," said Jim Tile. Technically it was the truth. He knew howto find the ex-governor, but not where.

Dick Artemus got up, stretched his arms and ambled to the window. "The old-timers still talk about him around here. He wasn't even in office, what, two years, before he disappeared. And still he's the one they always talk about. 'Where is he?' 'What's he done now?' 'Did they catch him yet?' 'You think he's still alive?' Man, it's the crazy fuckers that always capture the public imagination, huh? What is old Clint calling himself these days?"

The black trooper said, "I don't know. I call him Governor."

He said it so deadpan that Dick Artemus whipped around. And what Dick Artemus saw in Jim Tile's expression was worse than distrust, or even disliking. It was a bloodless and humiliating indifference.

"Look here, Jim, you were here when it happened. You were his bodyguard, for God's sake."

"And his friend."

"You bet," said the governor, "his friend, of course. When I say 'crazy,' you know what I mean. There's good crazy and bad crazy. And this kid who's hacking up Labrador retrievers to make a political statement, that's the bad kind of crazy."

"I'm sure you'll find him, sir." Jim Tile rose from the chair. He was several inches taller than Dick Artemus, big hair and all.

But the governor, selling hard, pressed on. "Skunk," he said, "I believe that's what he calls himself. Or is it Skink? See, Lieutenant, I've done my homework. Because I was as curious as anybody, hearing all this talk, all the rumors. You know he never even sat for a portrait? In the whole mansion there's nothing, not a picture or a plaque – nothing – to show he ever lived here. So hell, yes, I was curious."

Jim Tile said, "Sir, I'm sorry but I ought to be going. I teach a DUI school downtown that starts in twenty minutes."

"This'll take only five." Dick Artemus casually sidled in front of the door. "This Toad Island bridge, it's a twenty-eight-million-dollar item. The folks who want those contracts gave quite a bit of money to my campaign. So it's gonna get done, this damn bridge, one way or another. You can bet the farm on that. Now – about this crazy boy, he's got the potential to make some ugly headlines, and that I don't need. Neither do my loyal friends at the future Shearwater Island resort.

"But even worse, I get the distinct feeling this boy's whacko behavior has put his own welfare in jeopardy. This information goes no further than you and me, Lieutenant. All I'll say is this: Some of the characters involved in this project aren't so nice. Am I proud to be their choice for governor?" Dick Artemus snorted. "That's a whole 'nother issue. But for now, I need to make sure nothing awful happens to this crazy dognapper, because, a, no young man deserves to die over something stupid like this and, b, that would be one ugly headline. A goddamn nightmare of a headline, can we all agree on that?"

The trooper said, "You really think they'd murder him?"

"Fucking A. And if he's half as crazy as I think, he won't go quietly. He'll make a big splash, like all these nutty ecoterrorists. And then Shearwater gets on the front pages, and before long some prick reporter follows the trail of slime directly to yours truly. Who, by the way, is hoping to be reelected in a couple years."

"Sir, I see your problem," Jim Tile said.

"Good."

"But he won't do it. Assuming I can even find him – in a million years I don't think he'd ever agree to help."

"And I think you're wrong." Dick Artemus walked to a maple credenza and picked up a brown office envelope. Both ends were taped shut. "Give this to the former governor, please. That's all I'm asking, Jim. Just make sure it reaches him, and then you're free of the whole mess. Whatever he decides, he decides. It's all laid out for him in black and white."

The governor handed the envelope to the trooper. "This is not a request, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir, I know. I'll do what I can." Jim Tile spoke with such a blazing lack of enthusiasm that Dick Artemus abandoned his plans for an inducement: A job offer is what he'd been prepared to offer. An opportunity for the trooper to get off the highway and rest his tired middle-aged butt. Step out of the hot polyester uniform and into a nice suit. Return to the governor's mansion and ride security.

But Dick Artemus didn't waste his time trolling the idea by Jim Tile. He knew a cold customer when he saw one. The lieutenant would do what he was asked, but he would act strictly out of duty. Nothing more. The man had no interest in hitching his future to the governor's star, one-on-one.

"The truth is," Dick Artemus said, "after all I've heard, I'd like to meet your legendary friend someday myself. Under different circumstances, of course."