"That's what I'm savin', Asa. These clowns'll never figger it out. Long as Jeffy here don't keel over before they actually squeeze off a shot."

Durgess took a step closer, into the spear of white light and swirling insects. He peered skeptically at the motionless rhino. "You still with us, old-timer?"

"He is," Asa Lando said. "Unless that's a puddle of yourpiss on the grass."

The hunting party had come in the night before and, against Durgess's advice, celebrated into the late hours with rich desserts, cognac and Cuban cigars. It was rare that the governor was able to cut loose and relax without fear of ending up in a snarky newspaper column – ordinarily he was careful not to be seen socializing so intimately with insider lobbyists such as Palmer Stoat or shady campaign donors such as Robert Clapley. And upon first arriving at the Wilderness Veldt, Dick Artemus had been subdued and remote, his wariness heightened by a recent unsettling event inside the governor's mansion.

Gradually, however, the chief executive began to feel at ease within the gated privacy of the Wilderness Veldt Plantation, drinking fine whiskey and trading bawdy stories in cracked leather chairs by a cozy stone fireplace. This was what it must have been like in the good old days, the governor thought wistfully, when the state's most important business was conducted far from the stuffy, sterile confines of the capitol – hammered into law by sporting men, over smoky poker games at saloons and fish camps and hunting lodges; convivial settings that encouraged frank language and unabashed horse trading, free from the scrutiny of overzealous journalists and an uninformed public.

Willie Vasquez-Washington, however, wasn't so comfortable among the walnut gun cabinets and the stuffed animal heads, which unblinkingly stared down at him from their stations high on the log walls. Like the governor, Willie Vasquez-Washington also felt as if he'd taken a step backward to another time – a time when a person of his color would not have been welcome at the Wilderness Veldt Plantation unless he wore burgundy doublets and waistcoats, and carried trays of Apalachicola oysters (as efficient young Ramon was doing now). Nor was Willie Vasquez-Washington especially enthralled by the company at the lodge. He had yet to succumb to the famous charms of Dick Artemus, while Palmer Stoat was, well, Palmer Stoat – solicitous, amiably transparent and as interesting as cold grits. Willie Vasquez-Washington was no more favorably impressed by Robert Clapley, the cocky young developer of Shearwater, who had greeted him with a conspicuously firm handshake and a growl: "So you're the guy who's trying to fuck me out of a new bridge."

It was Willie Vasquez-Washington's fervent wish that the political deal could be settled that night, over dinner and drinks, so he would be spared the next day's rhinoceros hunt. Half-drunk white men with high-powered firearms made him extremely nervous. And while Willie Vasquez-Washington was not, in any sense of the term, a nature freak, he had no particular desire to watch some poor animal get shot by the likes of Clapley.

So Willie Vasquez-Washington attempted on several occasions to draw the governor aside, in order to state his simple proposal: A new high school in exchange for a yea vote on the Toad Island bridge appropriation. But Dick Artemus was caught up in the frothy mood of the pre-hunt festivities, and he was unwilling to tear himself away from the hearth. Nor was Palmer Stoat a helpful intermediary; whenever Willie Vasquez-Washington approached him, the man's face was so crammed with food that his response was indecipherable. In the soft cast of the firelight, Stoat's damp bloated countenance resembled that of an immense albino blowfish. What meager table manners he had maintained while sober deteriorated vividly under the double-barreled effects of Remy Martin and babyback ribs. The ripe spray erupting from Stoat's churning mouth presented not only an unsavory visual spectacle but also (Willie Vasquez-Washington suspected) a health hazard. The prudent move was to back off, safely out of range.

At 1:00 a.m., Willie Vasquez-Washington gave up. He headed upstairs to bed just as Stoat and Clapley broke into besotted song:

"You can't always do who you want,

No, you can't always do who you want ... "

They stopped at a shop with a Confederate flag nailed to the door, on U.S. 301 between Starke and Waldo. Twilly Spree purchased a Remington 30.06 with a scope and a box of bullets. Clinton Tyree got Zeiss night-scope binoculars and a secondhand army Colt .45, for use at close range. A five-hundred-dollar cash "donation" toward the new Moose Lodge served to expedite the paperwork and inspire a suddenly genial clerk to overlook the brief waiting period normally required for handgun purchases in Florida.

Skink and Twilly stopped for dog food, camo garb and other supplies in the town of Mclntosh, seventeen miles outside Ocala. At a diner there, a shy ponderous waitress named Beverly blossomed before their very eyes into a svelte southern version of Rosie O'Donnell – a transformation hastened by a hundred-dollar tip and the gift of a one-of-a-kind Chihuahua-hide vest, which Skink good-naturedly took off and presented to her on the spot. Beverly pulled up a chair and offered numerous scandalous anecdotes about what went on at the Wilderness Veldt Plantation and, more importantly, flawless directions to it. By nightfall Twilly and Skink were comfortably encamped on the north end of the spread, having conquered the barbed ten-foot fence with a bolt cutter. The ex-governor built a small fire ring in a concealed palmetto thicket, while Twilly took McGuinn to scout the area. The dog was like a dervish on the leash, pulling so hard in so many different directions that it nearly dislocated Twilly's acutely tender right shoulder. By the time they returned to the campsite, Skink had dinner cooking over the flames – for Twilly, a rib-eye steak and two baked potatoes; for himself, braised rabbit, alligator tail and fried water moccasin, all plucked, freshly smote, off a bountiful two-mile stretch of pavement south of Micanopy.

Skink said, "Any sign of the warriors?"

"No, but I could see the lights of the main lodge at the top of a hill. I'm guessing it's three-quarters of a mile from here."

Twilly looped McGuinn's leash over one ankle and sat down with a jug of water by the fire. The dog rested its chin on its paws, gazing up longingly at the sizzling meat.

"Still no brainstorm?" Skink inquired.

"Truth is, we ought to just shoot the fuckers."

"It's your call, son."

"How about some input?" Twilly wanted the captain to assure him there was another way to save Toad Island, besides committing murder.

Instead Skink said, "I've tried everything else and look where it's got me."

"You're just tired is all."

"You don't know the half of it."

They ate in restive silence, the night settling upon them like a dewy gray shroud. Even McGuinn inched closer to the fire. Twilly thought of Desie – he missed her, but he was glad she wasn't with him now.

"I propose we sleep on it." Skink, crunching on the last curl of snake.

Twilly shook his head. "I won't be sleeping tonight."

"We could always just snatch 'em, I suppose."

"Yeah."

"Make a political statement."

"Oh yeah. Just what the world needs," Twilly said.

"Plus, hostages are a lot of work. You've gotta feed 'em and take 'em to the John and wash their dirty underwear so they don't stink up the car. And listen to all their goddamn whining, sweet Jesus!" Skink laughed contemptuously.

"On the other hand," Twilly said, "if we kill them, then the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation will be chasing us. That's not a happy prospect."