"I wonder what happened to Brian," Wiley said irritably. "He was our ace in the hole, our smoking gun. I even gave him the briefcase—it was all the proof those moron cops would ever need."

"So what do we do?" the Indian asked.

"Strike again," advised Jesus Bernal, who had wandered out of the hammock to eavesdrop. "Strike again, and strike dramatically."

Wiley's bestubbled face cracked into a grin. "Jesus, mi hermano,do you still have some C-4?"

"Si."

"Bueno,"said Wiley, humoring him with Spanish. "Make me a bomb."

"Yes, sir!" Bernal said, scarcely concealing his rapture. "What kind of bomb?"

"A bomb that goes off when it's supposed to."

"Ciaro!Do not worry."

"Please don't blow up my car," Tommy Tiger-tail said.

Among those who had no intention of waiting for a bomb were the residents of Otter Creek Village, where the abduction of Ida Kimmelman had set off a minor panic. Newly hired security guards now patrolled the shuffleboard courts until midnight—security guards with guns! Furthermore, the Otter Creek Safety Committee declared that all condominium owners should henceforth walk their dogs en masse,for protection. This was a drastic measure that only promoted more hysteria at Otter Creek—a herd of yipping, squatting miniature poodles dragging scores of Sansabelted retirees across the landscaping. Fearful of kidnappings, some of the oldsters armed themselves with sharp umbrellas or canisters of Mace, which they often used on one another in the heat of competition for shrubs and hydrants. Indelible terror seized the residents when the actual text of the El Fuegoletter appeared in the newspaper; within hours forty-seven units at Otter Creek were put up for sale. Contracts on fourteen other apartments, including a penthouse with a whirlpool, were canceled. Overnight the parking lot seemed to fill with mustard-colored moving vans and station wagons with New York tags.

This was the first wave out of Florida.

It was exactly the way Skip Wiley had dreamed it.

One morning Brian Keyes looked up and saw the round, friendly face of Nell Bellamy. For a second he thought he was back on the sidewalk outside Pauly's Bar.

"Hello again."

"Hi," Keyes said.

"I read about your accident."

"It wasn't exactly an accident," Keyes said. "Why are you whispering?"

"It's a hospital. I always whisper in hospitals." Nell Bellamy looked embarrassed.

Keyes said, "It was nice of you to come."

"How are you feeling? The nurses said you had a little setback."

"Tore a few stitches the other night. One of those things." The cost of Jenna's heavenly visit; the next morning he'd felt like a gutted carp.

Nell tucked another pillow under his head. "Did you see the paper? They think it's a gang of ... maniacs."

Brian Keyes knew why Nell Bellamy had come, and it was time to tell the truth. As a reporter, he'd always tried to do these melancholy chores over the phone, never in person. On the phone you could just close your eyes and take a deep gulp, and say, "Ma'am, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but—" and then the rotten news. Your little boy got hit by a truck. Your sister was a passenger on that 727. They found your daughter's body, Mrs. Davenport. Sometimes Keyes couldn't bring himself to do it, and he'd play the line-is-busy game with his editor. Sorry, can't get a comment from the family. The line's been busy all afternoon.And then if the editor persisted, Keyes would dial his own phone number and hold the receiver away from his ear, so the busy signal would be audible.

Unfortunately, Nell Bellamy wasn't on the other end of a telephone. She was standing intently at the rail of the hospital bed, bracing for what her ace private investigator was about to say.

"Mr. Keyes, I've a feeling you found out something important."

Keyes couldn't bear to look in her eyes, so he concentrated on the buttons of her crisp blouse. "Mrs. Bellamy, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but your husband is dead. I think he was murdered."

Nell Bellamy sat down, neat and plump, in a chair by the window. "Oh, Teddy," she said softly.

At that moment Brian Keyes could have murdered Skip Wiley, could have grabbed his wild blond mane and snapped his neck. In his derangement Wiley had come to see his own life as a headline, getting bigger and more sensational each day. Everything El Fuegosaid and did, or ordered done, was devised with one test: how it would look in print. Sparky Harper gagging on a rubber alligator, for instance—masterful, in a way. For days Keyes had been thinking about Wiley's macabre front-page reality. Now he thought: Skip ought to be here to watch this woman cry.

"I think it was the same people who stabbed me," Keyes said. "They're very dangerous, Mrs. Bellamy. They're fanatical."

"The Nachos?" Nell Bellamy asked. "But why would they kill my husband? He's just a realtor."

"They're killing off tourists," Keyes said.

Nell nodded as if she understood, as if Florida was finally making sense. "Well, the police warned me not to believe the newspaper."

"The police are wrong, Mrs. Bellamy."

"A detective told me Teddy must've drowned. He said there's no such thing as The Nachos."

"They had Teddy's swimming trunks," Keyes said.

"Oh no," Nell said, stricken. "What did they do to him? I mean, how ... ?"

Keyes felt terrible. He held out his hand and Nell Bellamy took it. "They told me it was quick and painless," he said. "I'm very sorry."

From nowhere Nell produced a handful of pink Kleenexes and dabbed at her eyes. "You're a brave man, Mr. Keyes. Risking your life the way you did." She composed herself and took a paisley checkbook from her purse. "How much do I owe you?"

"Put that away," Keyes said. "Please, Mrs. Bellamy."

"You're very kind."

No, I'm not, Keyes said to himself.

"Is there any chance," Mrs. Bellamy said, "of finding Teddy's body?"

"None," said Keyes, thinking of Pavlov the crocodile.

The door opened and the two beefy Shriners came into the room. They wore business suits and mauve fez hats.

"You're a popular fellow," Burt the Shriner said. "Lots of visitors. Mr. Mulcahy from the newspaper was here. So was Detective Keefe. Later there was a Sergeant Garcia, kind of a rude fellow. Also some television types asking for an interview. One of those Live-Eye jobs."

"We told them to come back another day," said the Shriner named James, "when you were up to snuff."

"I asked Burt and James to keep an eye on the door," Nell Bellamy explained. "Hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. Thank you." Keyes knew what Garcia and the other visitors had wanted: a firsthand account of his nochewith Las Noches.Cab Mulcahy doubtlessly had figured out the Wiley connection. Keyes wondered what the old boy would do now.

"We knew it'd be like Grand Central Station up here after that newspaper article," Burt said. "We thought you'd appreciate a little peace and quiet." He looked at Mrs. Bellamy and said, "So what's the verdict, Nellie?"

"Mr. Keyes said the newspaper was right."

"Slavic murderers! Wearing wigs!"

"No," Brian Keyes said. "That part was wrong."

"But the part about Ted being killed, that was true," Nell told the Shriners. They stole his bathing trunks."

"Lord God," Burt said, "those bastards."

James put a meaty arm around Nell Bellamy's shoulders and she went for the Kleenex again.

Burt waited a decent interval, than asked: "What are the chances that the police will catch these people?"

"Fifty-fifty," Keyes replied, without conviction.

"Not good enough," James said.

"Piss poor," Burt concurred. Mr. Keyes, what's your timetable? Are you going to stick with this case?"