When they put him in the Highway Patrol car, Twilly Spree was loaded on painkillers, which worked out fine because McGuinn immediately pounced on his chest to say hello. It still hurt like hell, but not enough to make Twilly pass out.

The first stop was a Barnett bank, where he made a cash withdrawal that by chance equaled, almost to the dollar, three whole years of Lt. Jim Tile's Highway Patrol salary. Even the former governor was taken aback.

"Inheritance," Twilly said thickly. "My grandfather's spinning in his grave."

The next stop was a GM dealership on the way out of Tallahassee.

"What for?" the captain demanded.

"We need a car."

"I walk most everywhere."

"Well, I don't," Twilly said, "not with a hole in my lung."

Jim Tile appeared highly entertained. Twilly sensed that Clinton Tyree was accustomed to running the show.

"Can I call you Governor?"

"Rather you didn't."

"Mr. Tyree? Or how about Skink?"

"Neither."

"All right, captain,"Twilly said, "I just wanted to thank you for what you did on the island."

"You're most welcome."

"But I was wondering how you happened to be there."

"Spring break," Skink said. "Now, let's get you some wheels."

With McGuinn in mind, Twilly picked out another used Roadmaster wagon, this one navy blue. While he filled out the paperwork in the salesman's cubicle, the trooper, the captain and the big dog ambled around the showroom. None of the other salesmen dared to go near them. Afterward, in the parking lot, Jim Tile admired the big Buick. McGuinn was sprawled in the back, Twilly was in the front passenger seat and Skink was behind the wheel.

"I don't really want to know where you three are headed," the trooper said, "but, Governor, I do want to know what you did with that gun I gave you."

"Gulf of Mexico, Jim."

"You wouldn't lie to me?"

"I threw it out of the chopper. Ask the boy."

Twilly nodded. It was true. The pilot wisely had asked no questions.

"But the cell phone is a sad story, Jim. I must've dropped it in the woods," Skink said. "The great state of Florida should buy you a new one. Tell Governor Dick I said so."

Jim Tile circled to Twilly's side of the car and leaned down at the window. "I assume you know whom you're traveling with."

"I do," Twilly said.

"He is a dear friend of mine, son, but he's not necessarily a role model."

Skink cut in: "Another public service announcement from the Highway Patrol!"

Twilly shrugged. "I'm just looking for peace and quiet, Lieutenant. My whole mortal being aches."

"Then you should take it easy. Real easy." The trooper returned to the driver's side. Clearly something was bothering him.

Skink said, "Jim, you believe the size of this thing!"

"How long since you drove a car?"

"Been awhile."

"Yeah, and how long since you had a license?"

"Twenty-two years. Maybe twenty-three. Why?" The captain idly walked his fingers along the steering wheel. Twilly had to grin.

"Tell you what I'm going to do," Jim Tile said. "I'm going to leave right now, so that I don't see you actually steer this boat off the lot. Because then I'd have to pull you over and write you a damn ticket."

Skink's eye danced mischievously. "I would frame it, Jim."

"Do me a favor, Governor. This young man's already been through one shitstorm and nearly didn't make it. Don't give him any crazy new ideas."

"There's no room in his head for more. Am I right, boy?"

Twilly, deadpan: "I've turned over a new leaf."

The trooper put on his wire-rimmed sunglasses. "Might as well be talking to the damn dog," he muttered.

Clinton Tyree reached up and chucked him on the shoulder. Jim Tile gravely appraised his road Stetson, the brim of which had been nibbled ragged by McGuinn.

"Governor, I'll say it again: I'm too old for this shit."

"You are, Jim. Now, go home to your bride."

"I don't want to read about you two in the paper. Please."

Skink plucked off the trooper's shades and bent them to fit his face. "Elusive and reclusive! That's us."

"Just take care. Please," Jim Tile said.

As soon as he was gone, they drove straight for the interstate. Twilly drifted in and out of codeine heaven, never dreaming. Near Lake City the captain excitedly awakened him to point out a dead hog on the shoulder of the highway.

"We could live off that for two weeks!"

Twilly sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Why are you stopping?"

"Waste not, want not."

"You love bacon that much, let me buy you a Benny's franchise," Twilly said. "But I'll be damned if you're stashing a four-hundred-pound pig corpse in my new station wagon. No offense, captain."

In the back of the car, McGuinn whined and fidgeted.

"Probably gotta pee," Skink concluded.

"Makes two of us," Twilly said.

"No, makes three."

They all got out and walked toward the fringe of the woods. The ex-governor glanced longingly over his shoulder, toward the road-kill hog. McGuinn sniffed at it briefly before loping off to explore a rabbit trail. Twilly decided to let him roam for a few minutes.

When they got back to the car, the captain asked Twilly how he felt.

"Stoned. Sore." With a grunt, Twilly boosted himself onto the hood. "And lucky," he added.

Skink rested one boot on the bumper. He peeled off the shower cap and rubbed a bronze knuckle back and forth across the stubble of his scalp. He said, "We've got some decisions to make, Master Spree."

"My mother saved all the clippings from when you disappeared. Every time there was a new story, she'd read it to us over breakfast," Twilly recalled. "Drove my father up a wall. My father sold beachfront."

Skink whistled sarcastically. "The big leagues. More, more, more."

"He said you must be some kind of Communist. He said anybody who was anti-development was anti-American."

"So your daddy's a patriot, huh? Life, liberty and the pursuit of real estate commissions."

"My mother said you were just a man trying to save a place he loved."

"And failing spectacularly."

"A folk hero, she said."

Skink seemed amused. "Your mother sounds like a romantic." He refitted the shower cap snugly on his skull. "You were in, what, kindergarten? First grade? You can't possibly remember back that far."

"For years afterward she talked about you," Twilly said, "maybe just to give my dad the needle. Or maybe because she was secretly on your side. She voted for you, that I know."

"Jesus, stop right there – "

"I think you'd like her. My mother."

Skink pried off the sunglasses and studied his own reflection in the shine off the car's fender. With two fingers he repositioned the crimson eye, more or less aligning it with his real one. Then he set his gaze on Twilly Spree and said, "Son, I can't tell you what to do with your life – hell, you've seen what I've done with mine. But I will tell you there's probably no peace for people like you and me in this world. Somebody's got to be angry or nothing gets fixed. That's what we were put here for, to stay pissed off."

Twilly said, "They made me take a class for it, captain. I was not cured."

"A class?"

"Anger management. I'm perfectly serious."

Skink hooted. "For Christ's sake, what about greedmanagement? Everybody in this state should get a course in that.You fail, they haul your sorry ass to the border and throw you out of Florida."

"I blew up my uncle's bank," Twilly said.

"So what!" Skink exclaimed. "Nothing shameful about anger, boy. Sometimes it's the only sane and logical and moral reaction. Jesus, you don't take a class to make it go away! You take a drink or a goddamn bullet. Or you stand and fight the bastards."