"Ouch," said Twilly.

"You should hear it."

"How'd you get a tape of something like that?" Twilly thinking: The more pertinent question is: Why?

Mr. Gash said, "I got my sources. Where's your goddamned car, anyway? I'm getting drenched."

"Not far."

Twilly was crestfallen to spy the Road-master behind a scrub-covered sand dune, where he had parked it. He had hoped Desie would see the keys in the ignition and drive back to the bed-and-breakfast, to sulk or pack her bag or whatever.

Maybe she decided to walk, thought Twilly. The important thing was that she was somewhere else, somewhere safe ...

But she wasn't. She was lying down in the backseat. Mr. Gash tapped the gun barrel against the rain-streaked window. Desie sat up quizzically and put her face near the glass. Mr. Gash showed her the semiautomatic and told her to unlock the door. When she hesitated, he grabbed McGuinn's collar, jerked the dog off the ground and jammed the gun to its neck.

The door flew open.

Mr. Gash beamed. "Lookie there, Fido. She loves you, too."

The trooper got to the old bridge before he changed his mind. He whipped the cruiser around and drove back to look for his friend. Thirty minutes later he found him, naked on a dune. The governor stood with his face upturned, his arms outstretched – letting the rain and wind beat him clean.

Jim Tile honked and flashed his headlights. The man who called himself Skink peered indignantly through the slashing downpour. When he saw the Highway Patrol car, he stalked across the sand and heaved himself, dripping luxuriantly, into the front seat.

"I thought we said our good-byes," he growled, wringing out his beard.

"I forgot to give you something."

The man nodded absently. "FYI: Governor Dickhead was right. They sent someone after this boy. The boy with the dog."

Jim Tile said, "He's twenty-six years old."

"Still a boy," Skink said. "And he's here on the island, like we figured. I believe I met the man they sent to kill him."

"Then I'm glad I came back."

"You can't stay."

"I know," said the trooper.

"You've got Brenda to consider. Pensions and medical benefits and such. You can't be mixed up in shit like this."

"Nothing says I can't take off the uniform, Governor, at least for a few minutes."

"Nothing except for common sense."

"Where's your damn clothes?"

"Hung in a tree," said Skink. "What'd you bring me, Jim?"

The trooper jerked a thumb toward the trunk of the cruiser.

"Pop it open for me, would you?" Skink got out in the rain and went to the rear of the car. He returned with the package, which Jim Tile had wrapped in butcher's paper.

Skink smiled, hefting the item up and down in one hand. "You old rascal! I'm guessing Smith & Wesson."

The trooper told him the gun was clean; no serial numbers. "One of my men took it off a coke mule in Okaloosa County. Very slick operation, too – eighteen-year-old Cuban kid driving a yellow Land Rover thirty-seven miles per hour at three in the morning on Interstate 10. It's a wonder we noticed him."

Skink borrowed a handkerchief to swipe the condensation off his glass eye. "I don't get it. You're the one told me not to bring the AK-47."

"Guess I'm getting nervous in my old age," the trooper said. "There's something else in the glove compartment. You go ahead and take it."

Skink opened the latch and scowled. "No, Jim, I hate these damn things." It was a cellular phone.

"Please. As a favor," the trooper said. "It will significantly improve my response time."

Skink closed his palm around the phone.

"You better hit the road," he said grumpily. "This damn car stands out like the proverbial turd in the punch bowl."

"And you don't?"

"I'll be getting dressed momentarily."

"Oh, then you'll reallyblend in," Jim Tile said.

Skink got out of the police cruiser and tucked the heavy brown package under one arm. Before closing the door, he leaned in and said, "My love to your bride."

"Governor, I don't hear from you in twenty-four hours," the trooper said, "I'm coming back to this damn island."

"You don't hear from me in eight, don't even bother."

Skink gave a thumbs-up. Then he turned and began to run across the windblown dunes. It was a meandering, waggle-stepped, butt-wiggling run, and Jim Tile couldn't help but laugh.

He watched his friend disappear into the hazy yellow-gray of the storm. Then he wheeled the car around and headed for the mainland.

caller: Help me! Help me, God, please, oh God, help ...

dispatcher: What's the problem, sir?

caller: She set fire to my hair! I'm burning up, oh God, please!

dispatcher: Hang on, sir, we've got a truck on the way. We've got help coming. Can you make it to the bathroom? Try to get to the bathroom and turn on the shower.

caller: I can't., I can't move ... She tied me to the damn bed. She ... I'm tied to the bed with, like – oh Jesus, my hair! – clothesline. Aaaggggghhhooooohhhh ...

dispatcher: Can you roll over? Sir, can you turn over?

caller: Cindy, no! Cindy, don't! CINDY!

dispatcher: Sir, if you're tied to the bed, then how –

caller: She held the phone to my ear, the sick bitch. She dialed 911 and put the phone to my ear and now ... ooohh-hhhhh ... Stop! ... Now she's doing marshmallows. My hair's on fire and she's cooking ... Stop, God, stop, I'm burning up, Cindy! ... Marsh – oh Jesus! – mallows ... Cindy, you crazy psycho bitch ...

Mr. Gash turned down the volume and said, "See? That's what love gets you. Man's wife ties him to the bedposts, pretending like she's gonna screw his brains out. Instead she puts a lighter to his hair and roasts marsh-mallows in the flames."

Desie said, "That was real?"

"Oh yes, Virginia." Mr. Gash popped the tape out of the console, and read from the stick-on label. "Tacoma, Washington. March tenth, 1994. Victim's name was Appleman. Junior Appleman."

"Did he die?"

"Eventually," Mr. Gash reported. "Took about six weeks. According to the newspaper, the Applemans had been having serious domestic problems. The best part: He lied to the dispatcher. It wasn't clothesline she tied him up with, it was panty hose. He was too embarrassed to say so. Even on fire! But my point is, romance is fucking deadly. Look at you two!"

Twilly and Desie traded glances.

"You wouldn't be here right now, about to die," Mr. Gash added, "if you guys hadn't gotten romantically involved. I'd bet the farm on it."

They were all in the station wagon, parked among the bulldozers in the woods. Desie recognized the place from Dr. Brinkman's tour of the island. Night had fallen, and the rain had ebbed to a drizzle. The only light inside the car came from the dome lamp, which Mr. Gash had illuminated while playing the 911 cassette for his captives. He was next to Twilly Spree in the front seat. Desie sat behind them with McGuinn, who noisily had buried his snout in a sack of dry dog food and was therefore heedless of the semiautomatic pointed at his head.

Mr. Gash said to Desie, "What's your name, babe?"

"Never mind."

Mr. Gash held the gun in his right hand, propped against the headrest. With his other hand he pawed through Desie's purse until he found her driver's license. When he saw the name on it, he said, "Shit."

Desie shrunk in her seat.

"Nobody told me. I wonder why," Mr. Gash mused. "They told me about the dog but not the wife!"

Twilly said, "Her husband didn't know."

"Didn't care is more like it."

"You're making a mistake," said Twilly. Of course the man in the brown zippered shoes ignored him.

"Well, 'Mrs. Stoat,' I had big plans for tonight. I was going to drive you back to the mainland and hook up with a couple party girls. Introduce you to the wonderful world of multiple sex partners." Mr. Gash was studying Desie's photograph on the license. "I like the highlighting job on these bangs. It's a good look for you."