The ex-governor pried loose his glass eye and tossed it to Twilly, who held it up before the fire. The thing appeared surreal and distant, a glowering red sun.

"Beats a plain old patch," Skink said, swabbing the empty socket.

Twilly handed the prosthetic eye back to him. "What do you think they'll be hunting tomorrow?"

"Something big and slow."

"And when it's over, they'll gather around the fireplace, drink a toast to the dead animal and then get down to business. Make their greedy deal and shake hands. And that gorgeous little island on the Gulf will be permanently fucked."

"That's how it usually goes."

"I can't sit still for that, captain."

Skink tugged off his boots and placed them next to the binoculars case. In a pocket of his rain suit he found a joint, which he wedged into his mouth. He lowered his face to the edge of the flames until the end of the doobie began to glow.

"Son, I can't sit still for it, either," he said. "Never could. Want a hit?"

Twilly said no thanks.

"You ever licked toads to get high?" Skink asked.

"Nope."

"Don't."

Twilly said, "I should warn you, I'm not much of a shot."

"Maybe you won't have to be." Skink dragged heavily on the joint. "All kinds of bad shit can happen to foolish men in the woods."

"Still, a plan would be helpful."

"It would, son."

Twilly stretched out, using McGuinn as a pillow. The rhythmic rise and fall of the dog's chest was soothing. Skink dumped water on the fire, and the aroma of wood smoke mingled sweetly with the marijuana.

"What time is it, Governor?"

"Late. You get some rest, we'll figure something out."

"They've got more guns than we do."

"That's undoubtedly true."

The Labrador stirred slightly beneath Twilly's head, and he reached up to scratch the dog's chin. One of McGuinn's hind legs started to kick spasmodically.

Twilly said, "There's him to consider, too."

"No need to bring him along. We can tie him to a tree, where he'll be safe."

"And what happens to him if we don't make it back?"

The captain exhaled heavily. "Good point."

Twilly Spree fell asleep and had another dream. This time he dreamed he was falling. There was a bullet hole in his chest, and as he fell he leaked a curlicued contrail of blood. Far below him were a break of green waves and a long white beach, and in the sky all around him were the seabirds, falling at the same velocity; lifeless clumps of bent feathers and twisted beaks. Somewhere above was the faint, fading sound of a helicopter. In the dream Twilly snatched wildly at the falling gulls until he got one. Clutching the broken bird to his breast, he plummeted in a clockwise spin toward the beach. He landed hard on his back, and was knocked momentarily senseless. When he awoke, Twilly glanced down and saw that the gull had come to life and flown away, out of his hands. It was dark.

And Clinton Tyree was looming over him. Around his neck was a pair of binoculars. Hefted in his arms like an overstuffed duffel was McGuinn, looking chastened.

Twilly raised his head. "What?"

"A flatbed and a forklift. You won't believe it."

Skink rekindled the fire and made coffee. Wordlessly they changed into camouflage jumpsuits and broke out the guns and ammunition. Twilly removed the dog's collar, so it wouldn't jingle.

"Hey, captain, I got one for you. Not a plan but a poem."

"Good man."

" 'I should have been a pair of ragged claws,' " Twilly said, " 'Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.' "

The former governor of Florida clapped his hands in delight. "More!" he exhorted. "More, more, more!" His laughter crashed like a hailstorm through the tall trees and scrub.

Durgess awoke everybody an hour before dawn. No one in the hunting party had the stomach for a hearty breakfast, so the four men gathered quietly around the table for coffee, aspirins, Imodium and, in Robert Clapley's case, two Bloody Marys. Willie Vasquez-Washington had correctly guessed that khaki would be the fashion order of the day. He wondered if Clapley, Stoat and Governor Dick had purchased their nearly identical big-game wardrobes at a sale (although Stoat's absurd cowboy hat somewhat set him apart).

The mood at the table was subdued; a few lame hangover jokes, and halfhearted inquiries about the weather. Durgess sat down to explain how the hunt would be organized. Because the rhinoceros was Clapley's kill, he and Durgess would go first into the bush. Asa Lando would follow twenty or so yards behind, accompanied by the governor, Palmer Stoat and Willie Vasquez-Washington. Ten yards behind them would be the governor's two regular bodyguards.

Weaponry was the next subject, Robert Clapley announcing he had come armed with a .460 Weatherby, "the Testarrosa of hunting rifles."

Durgess said, "That's all we'll need." Thinking: A slingshot and a pebble would probably do the job.

Not to be outdone, Stoat declared he was bringing his .458 Winchester Magnum.

"My choice, too," interjected Dick Artemus, who had never shot at anything larger, or more menacing, than a grouse. The governor had yet to fire the powerful Winchester, which he had received as a bribe six years earlier while serving on the Jacksonville City Council.

It was hopeless to object, but Durgess felt obliged. "Mr. Clapley's gun is plenty. I'll be armed and so will Asa, in case the animal gives us any trouble. And so will the governor's men." The FDLE bodyguards had lightweight Ruger assault rifles, semiautomatics.

"He's right," Clapley chimed in. He didn't want anybody else sneaking a shot at his trophy rhino.

"Just hold on," Palmer Stoat said to Durgess. "You said this was a killer, right? A rogue."

"Yessir."

"Then – no disrespect meant to you, Bob, or to Dick's security people – but I intend to protect myself out there. I'm bringing my own rifle."

"Me, too," the governor said. "The more the merrier."

Durgess relented without comment. It was always the same story with these big-city shit-heads, always a dick-measuring contest. One guy gets a gun, they allgotta have one.

The guide turned to Willie Vasquez-Washington. "You a Winchester man, too?"

"Nikkormat. Pictures is all I'm shooting."

"That's cool." Once Durgess had turned down an offer to guide big-game photo safaris in South Africa because he'd heard that hunters tipped better than photographers. Sometimes, on mornings such as this, Durgess wished he'd taken the gig anyway.

Robert Clapley said, "One thing we've got to get straight right now. It's about the horn – I'm taking that sucker home with me. Today."

Durgess thought: Sure, tough guy. Soon as we see the dough. Otherwise Mr. Yee awaits, cash in hand.

"The horn? What in the world you gonna do with that?" Willie Vasquez-Washington asked.

Palmer Stoat explained how rhinoceros horn was ground into an illicit powder that was sold as an aphrodisiac. "It didn't put any extra lead in Bob's pencil, but his two blond babeniks went animal for the stuff."

Willie Vasquez-Washington chortled in astonishment.

"They got so wet, Bob needed a spatula to scrape 'em off the sheets." Stoat winked archly at Clapley, who turned as red as his tomato cocktail.

Still hollow-eyed from the night before, Dick Artemus gamely looked up from his coffee cup. "I heard about that stuff from a buddy works for Toyota HQ. These horns are very pricey, he says, plus you've got to go all the way to Hong Kong or Bangkok to find one. Supposedly you sprinkle it in your sakeand get a hard-on that lasts longer than a hockey season."

"Some men do, but not Bob," Palmer Stoat chirped.

Willie Vasquez-Washington couldn't believe what he was hearing – Clapley clearly was more excited about scoring the sex powder than stalking the formidable African rhinoceros. White guys were truly pathetic, the worst, when it came to fretting about their dicks.