"I've finally gotten to where I sleep through the night."
"We're not going to kill Chaz or any such thing. You said so yourself."
Joey kissed Mick on the mouth, leaving him gloriously dizzy. She said, "Thanks for putting up with all this. You deserve a medal."
"It's not too late to bail. Go to the cops and tell them what he did."
"Not yet."
Rose had tipped over again, and Strom had leapt in to help. The gulls and terns were pitching a fit, but Rose was laughing uproariously as she helped the clumsy dog get to shore.
"This whole thing could blow up on us," Stranahan said, half to himself.
Joey squeezed his arm. "Everything's under control."
Stranahan wasn't so sure. The cast of characters-himself included-was undisciplined and, in varying degrees, unstable. Falling for Joey was a prime example: It wasn't part of the plan, but Stranahan was doing it anyway. And the harder he fell, the more powerful was his urge to beat the everlasting shit (and, ideally, a confession) out of Dr. Charles Perrone. Stranahan told himself to get a grip.
Joey said, "You're thinking about us, too. I can tell. The big picture."
"Unfortunately, my resume speaks for itself."
"Well, it's true I've never been with anyone like you," she said, "but I'll bet you've never been with anyone like me, either."
"That's a fact."
Last night he'd challenged her and Rose to write down the names of all the Beatles, a screening protocol for younger women that in past times had saved Stranahan from certain doom. Rose had gotten only three out of four correct, but Joey Perrone had passed with flying colors, crediting a BBC special that she'd watched one night on the History Channel while Chaz was out with his buddies at a titty bar.
Stranahan had to smile, for there was no point in pretending he could walk away now. In Joey's presence he was helpless and driven and probably happy. Someday she would leave, as they all did, and he'd return to his slow-motion existence, revolving peaceably as it did around a dog, a boat and some corroded fishing gear. This was the embedded cycle of his life, as predictable as the tides.
Joey nudged him and said, "Mick, stop already. I can hear the gears grinding."
"Sorry."
"Relax, okay?" She peeled out of her swimsuit and led him toward the bedroom. "And that's an order," she said.
Chaz Perrone dreamed he was being mauled by a fifteen-foot alligator with two hungry heads, one chewing on his left leg and the other chewing on his right-a mad contest to see which gobbling maw would reach his crotch first. He woke up wailing, and saw Tool standing expressionless at the foot of the bed.
"Just a nightmare," Chaz said, trying to compose himself. He was soaked with perspiration, which he hoped was a result of the dream and not the feverish onset of West Nile virus. The night before he had counted thirty-four mosquito bites on his face, and at the moment every one of them itched like poison ivy.
Tool said, "Your mother's on the phone."
"Jesus, what time is it? Tell her I'll call back."
"Tell her yourself, dipshit. It's your ma, for God's sake."
Chaz had detected a menacing chill in Tool's attitude since they'd left LaBelle. In retrospect, he wondered if it had been unwise to bad-mouth the man in front of Red Hammernut.
As soon as Tool left the room, Chaz picked up the telephone and heard a familiar question from Panama City: "Any news, son?"
"No, Mom."
"How are you holding up?"
"Some days are better than others," Chaz answered sorrowfully. It was still important to appear needful of sympathy.
"Don't give up hope yet."
"Mom, it's been, like, nine days. Nobody can survive that long in the ocean without food or water."
"Think positive thoughts," she said.
"Mom, please."
"Didn't you see Cast Away?"
Chaz Perrone sucked his teeth. His relationship with his mother had delaminated during his late teens and early twenties, though not because of her marriage to Roger, the wiggy RAF pilot. Rather, Chaz's mother had come to notice (and comment often upon) the fact that her son was failing to outgrow the more obnoxious traits of his adolescence. Her list included laziness, habitual self-gratification, a deep-rooted lack of ambition and a reflex aversion to truthfulness. Chaz refused to address the merits of these charges, instead bitingly informing his mother that it would be folly to take career advice from a senior cashier at Target. Once he'd received his doctorate at Duke, Chaz's mother apologized tearfully for having doubted him. He made a fuss about forgiving her, but in fact her opinion had never mattered enough to either wound him or warm him. He indulged her with a phone call every so often, but it was purely an act of charity. His mother would ramble on about how proud she was; how marvelous that her only son was using his brilliant scientific knowledge to save the Everglades from human destruction. She was such a liberal drip, it was pathetic. She had adored Joey, too, another reason that Chaz wasn't eager to chat.
"Miracles do occur," his mother was saying. "Roger and I have been praying for her every night."
Chaz sighed. "Joey's gone, Mom. They'll never find her."
"Have you thought about seeing a psychic?"
"No. Have you thought about getting a brain scan?" Chaz slammed down the receiver. "Dingbat," he grumbled.
"Ain't no way to talk to your momma." It was Tool again, filling the doorway like a load of bricks.
Chaz foolishly advised him to mind his own damn business, at which point Tool snatched Chaz off his feet and rather effortlessly heaved him against the wall. Chaz was inclined to remain crumpled in a sobbing heap for the remainder of the morning, but Tool seized him by the hair and hoisted him upright.
"You call her back right this minute," he said, slapping the phone into Chaz's limp hand. "Call her back and say you're sorry. Else I'm gonna stomp on your nuts."
As soon as Chaz gathered himself, he phoned his mother and apologized for being so rude. It was difficult, though not nearly as painful as the alternative.
"It's all right, Charles, we understand," his mother assured him. "You're under a great deal of stress right now."
"You've got no idea," he said.
"Have you thought about trying Saint-John's-wort? It seems to be helping Roger level off."
"Good-bye, Mom." Chaz gently set down the phone.
Tool dragged him to the kitchen and placed him in a chair. "Where'd you go last night, Doc?" he asked.
"See a friend."
Chaz was working up the nerve to tell Tool the truth; that he'd gone out and coolly, efficiently committed a homicide. Maybe the dumb gorilla would think twice about knocking him around like a rag doll. On the other hand, Chaz was fairly certain that Red Hammernut wouldn't approve of his unilateral decision to eliminate Ricca Spill-man. Chaz had a feeling that Red didn't trust him with any responsibilities beyond signing his name to the phony water tests.
Tool said, "You took your truck off-road. The tires was covered with mud."
"My friend and I went for a ride," Chaz said.
"You ain't 'posed to go nowheres without me."
"But you were asleep. Snoring like a train."
"Where's that gun?" Tool asked.
"I, uh… I don't know."
Tool grabbed his throat. "Where's the fuckin' gun?"
"Backpack," Chaz peeped.
"And where's the fuckin' backpack?"
"Hummer." Chaz jerked a thumb in the general direction of the driveway.
Tool let go of him and headed for the door. Chaz gingerly massaged his neck, congratulating himself for having had the foresight to dispose of the spent shell casings and wipe down the.38. When Tool returned, he displayed no suspicion that the pistol had been recently fired. He placed it on the counter and matter-of-factly inquired, "So, who'd ya shoot?"