Eugenie Fonda recognized Boyd Shreave’s self-transformation from ambivalent dullard to condescending asshole as a last-ditch attempt to raise his game. It wasn’t the first time one of her lovers had tried to re-invent himself, but for sheer detestability Boyd had outdone all the rest. He’d pay dearly for it, of course. Instead of lounging on a beach with chilled rum runners in hand-Eugenie’s ideal of a proper Florida vacation-they were paddling through a funky-smelling, bug-infested swamp. Worse, she was doing all the hard work; as a kayaking partner, Boyd was useless, his strokes splashy and mistimed. He snottily spurned instruction from their tour guide, who-Eugenie had noticed in the light of day-was quite attractive. Most of Eugenie’s past loser boyfriends would have been hitting on Honey Santana by now, but not Boyd. He’d decided to advertise his virility by behaving like a conceited dipshit.
“I gotta take another leak,” he announced to the world. Eugenie Fonda disregarded him. Honey spun her kayak and said, “Everything okay back there?”
“No, it’s not. I’ve gotta piss again,” Shreave said.
“We’ll stop for lunch up ahead.” Honey pointed to an island a half-mile away.
“Better hurry,” Boyd growled to Eugenie, “or you’ll be up to your ankles in something nasty.”
He resumed his spastic paddling, which immediately put the kayak off course. To neutralize him, Eugenie shed her life vest and matter-of-factly unstrung her halter.
“What’re you doin’?” she heard Boyd ask.
“My New Year’s resolution: no more tan lines.”
“But what if another boat comes by?”
“Who cares, Boyd? They’re just tits.”
From then on he was so preoccupied that he scarcely paddled at all, which had been Eugenie’s objective. Unhindered by his inept flailing, she guided the kayak effortlessly with the tide. As they closed in on the mangrove island, Honey called out, “Right side, Boyd, right side. Watch out for those snags, Genie.”
No sooner had the bow creased the bank than Shreave stepped into the shallows, clambered ashore and vanished. Honey Santana and Eugenie Fonda dragged the kayaks up on dry land.
“Can I ask you something?” Honey said.
“Yeah, but there’s no good answer. I was bored, I guess,” Eugenie said. “I mean really bored.”
“He sure doesn’t seem like your type.”
“I’ve never met my type. That’s a problem,” Eugenie said. “How about you?”
Honey nodded. “Once I did. We stayed together a long time.”
“I’d settle for that. You have no idea.”
Shreave reappeared. His hat was crooked and he was struggling to remove a twig from the zipper of his pants. He said, “Ladies, you won’t believe what yours truly found up the hill.”
“An ounce of charm?” Eugenie said.
“A campfire!”
“Way out here?” Honey looked concerned.
“It’s still warm,” Shreave reported, “and it smells like greasy fish.”
Honey said they should move to another island immediately.
“What’re you scared of? They’re gone now.” Shreave swept his arms dismissively. “Besides, I’m starving.”
“Well, that settles it. His Majesty wants supper.” Eugenie opened her backpack and removed a light cotton pullover, which she put on despite Boyd’s adolescent protests. She had no intention of marching topless through spiderwebs.
Fry woke up giggling. He didn’t know where he was, and he didn’t much care. He heard his father’s voice say, “Nice job, champ.”
“Whah?”
“You T-boned a garbage truck.”
Fry tried to remember.
“On your skateboard,” his dad said.
“Shit,” Fry mumbled. Normally he tried not to cuss in front of his parents, but at the moment he had no self-control. The sun was blinding and his neck throbbed when he turned away.
His father said, “The truck was parked, by the way. Six tons of solid steel and you couldn’t see it.”
“I’m sorry, Dad.” Fry laughed again and scrambled to recover. “I know it’s not funny. Really, I know it’s not.”
“You’re wasted,” his father said. “Don’t get too used to it.”
“Ohhhhhh.” Fry closed his eyes, floating. He comprehended that he was in his father’s pickup, and it was speeding along the Tamiami Trail.
“They gave you some heavy-duty pain pills,” Perry Skinner said.
“For what?”
“Three busted ribs. Concussion with a hairline skull fracture. Plus you’ve got a knot on your head as big as a strawberry.”
Fry tried to touch it but all he could feel was smooth plastic.
“What’s the deal?” he asked.
“The hospital wanted to hold you for observation but we had to get a move on, so I stopped at the mall and bought a football helmet.”
“Bucs or Dolphins?”
“Dolphins,” his father said. “In case you get dizzy and fall, I didn’t want you to spill your brains all over the place.”
Fry’s memory was returning in muddy waves. “Where was I going when it happened? To school, right?”
“Yep.”
“Dad, are you driving superfast, or is it the medicine?”
“Both.”
Fry recalled looking up and seeing the garbage truck broken down directly in his path, unavoidable. He wondered what he’d been thinking about at the time, what had distracted him so completely.
“Where we goin’?” he asked.
“For a boat ride,” Perry Skinner replied.
“Why?” Fry didn’t feel like getting on a boat. He felt like going home and shutting the blinds and crawling under the sheets.
“Because I can’t leave you alone is what the doctors told me. In case you have a damn seizure or somethin’,” his father said sharply. “There’s nobody else to watch over you ’cept me.”
“What about Mom?”
Skinner didn’t answer. Fry now remembered seeing Louis Piejack cruise past the trailer that morning. He also remembered rushing to tell his dad at the crab docks.
“What about Mom?” he asked again. This time he opened his eyes. “Dad?”
“That’s where we’re goin’, to find your mother.”
“But where is she?”
“I don’t know for sure.”
“Is Mr. Piejack after her?” Fry asked.
“It’s possible.”
Fry slumped to one side, the football helmet clunking against the truck window.
Perry Skinner said, “I should’ve let ’em keep you in the hospital. What the hell was I thinking?”
“I would’ve just snuck out and hitched a ride.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right.”
Neither of them spoke again until they reached the flashing yellow light that marked the turn toward Everglades City.
Fry’s father said, “Your skateboard made out better than you. One of the wheels got snapped off, but that’s it.”
“Dad, you gonna bring your gun?”
“What?”
“When we go look for Mom. Are you takin’ the gun?”
“I am.” Perry Skinner cleared his throat.
“Good call,” Fry said.
Louis Piejack gazed through the binoculars and said, “Jackpot!” Then he said it another six or seven times.
“What is it?” Dealey asked miserably from the bow.
“Get your camera ready. I see titties.”
Dealey squinted ahead. The bay was a rippled puddle of glare, and the two kayaks were at least five hundred yards away.
“No good,” he said to Louis Piejack. “It’s too far, plus they’re backlit.”
“They ain’t Honey’s, but those are some major-league boobs. Rig up that damn camera.”
Dealey snapped open one of the Halliburtons and removed a Nikon body, which he attached to a small tripod. From the other case he took a 600-millimeter telephoto lens. Assembly was achieved with shaking fingers, for Dealey was afraid of dropping the expensive equipment overboard.
Louis Piejack laid off on the throttle, crowing, “Jackpot! Jackpot! They stopped at the island!” His good right hand held the field glasses to his eyes while his swathed left paw steered the johnboat.
“It’s still backlit, don’t you understand? There’s no shot from here,” Dealey complained.
“That’s Dismal Key. I know another way in.”