As they pa.s.sed Mallory Docks, Teal saw people leaping from the seawall into the channel. Others hovered above them, pointing, and one shirtless fellow slapped clumsily at the water with a long-handled shrimp net. The harbor was full of bobbing heads.

"Look at the fruitcakes," Teal said.

Albury paid close attention to the chaos. He saw three city police cars, two wreckers, and the corpulent profile of Huge Barnett at the forefront of the gathering. Somewhere on the bottom of the roiling channel was the nicest Winnebago in town.

"Let's go," Albury said.

Teal's keen eyes fanned the water. "G.o.d, Breeze, it's money! That's what they're swimming after." He pointed in the current, and Albury watched a soggy wad of hundreds float by.

"Use the landing net," Ricky urged giddily.

"No, son."

"It's f.u.c.kin' everywhere, Breeze. Must be thousands in here," Teal said. "No wonder the crazies are jumping in." He leaned over the side and scooped two fifty-dollar bills from a clump of kelp. "Look at this!"

"Let's stop, dad. See what we can get."

"No! Teal, we got work to do."

At Mallory Docks, Huge Barnett decreed a search of all people leaving the water. A few were frisked, and two men-a gay couple from Los Angeles-were actually arrested as an example to other scavengers, most of whom simply trod water until Barnett's deputies were occupied elsewhere. Then the swimmers thrashed to the seawall and handed fistfuls of money to accomplices on sh.o.r.e. It took all morning to restore order.

Huge Barnett carried to lunch with him seven thousand sodden dollars and a feeling of dread. He had recognized the submerged camper instantly. A pasty-faced coroner later had shown him the bullet holes in the corpse of Drake Boone, Esquire. Of Winnebago Tom Cruz there was no sign.

AFTER A THIRD NIGHT on the Mud Keys, Jimmy Cantrell had reached his limit of insects, isolation, and body stench. He proposed to take the on the Mud Keys, Jimmy Cantrell had reached his limit of insects, isolation, and body stench. He proposed to take the Diamond Cutter Diamond Cutter insh.o.r.e and find out what had happened to Albury. insh.o.r.e and find out what had happened to Albury.

"No way," Augie replied. "Breeze said we head north, up the Keys."

"And just leave him down here? Forget about him?" "Settle down, chico. chico. They got telephones in Marathon, too. We'll find out what happened." Augie rocked on the gunwale, dangling his brown feet in the milt-colored water of the creek. A pair of translucent needlefish crisscrossed the creek, their gemstone eyes searching for minnows. They got telephones in Marathon, too. We'll find out what happened." Augie rocked on the gunwale, dangling his brown feet in the milt-colored water of the creek. A pair of translucent needlefish crisscrossed the creek, their gemstone eyes searching for minnows.

Behind him, Augie heard Jimmy climb to the pilothouse. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to call my wife on the radio."

"The h.e.l.l you are!"

Jimmy poised the microphone in his hand. "This is the vessel Black Star Black Star calling the marine operator in Key West." calling the marine operator in Key West."

"Go ahead, Black Star Black Star, this is Key West."

"I need a land line, number seven-four-two, six-one-three-six. Same area code."

"We copy, Black Star; Black Star; what are your call numbers, please?" what are your call numbers, please?"

Jimmy hesitated, and before he could invent a number, Augie s.n.a.t.c.hed the microphone and silenced the radio.

"Do you want every a.s.shole in Key West to hear your phone call?"

"Augie, for Chrissakes, she's pregnant." Jimmy's voice cracked. "She's probably worried to death."

Augie nodded grimly. "Get the anchor up." The vessel Black Star Black Star, he thought sourly, what next? He peeled off his T-shirt and surrendered to the noon sun, raw in a cloudless sky.

Jimmy was right about one thing: another miserable day in the mangroves would be unendurable. Augie punched the ignition and the Diamond Cutter Diamond Cutter's diesel coughed to life. The young Cuban deftly backed the crawfish boat from its berth in the swamp, wheeled her 180 degrees in the current, and aimed the prow toward open water, the Gulf of Mexico.

"What about the dope boat?" Jimmy yelled from the bow. Augie shrugged. It felt good to be moving, to be free of the whining colonies of mosquitoes and horseflies.

After stowing the anchor, Jimmy joined Augie in the wheelhouse and offered him a warm Pepsi. The Diamond Cutter Diamond Cutter had been out of ice for a day and a half. had been out of ice for a day and a half.

"I'm sorry about all that," Jimmy said. "But I really need to talk to Kathy. I was s'posed to take her up to Miami this weekend."

"Sure, we'll get you to a phone. There's a fish camp up on Ramrod Key. I've known the guy all my life, and he won't say s.h.i.t to anybody. A quiet man. The best kind."

Satisfied, Jimmy retired to the stern and stretched out to watch the Mud Keys melt on the horizon.

It was then that he saw the charcoal column of smoke, rising from the mangroves in fierce billows and smeared by the wind across the pastel sky. Jimmy knew where the fire came from. Augie had spotted it, too. He stood in the pilothouse, his back to the wheel, transfixed by the incineration of five tons of marijuana. He flinched at the explosion that wooshed across the Gulf when the flames engulfed the gas tanks of the pirated crawfish boat.

"Jesus," Augie murmured and opened the Diamond Cutter Diamond Cutter to full throttle. to full throttle.

"Let's go," Jimmy cried, pointing to the distant speck of a speedboat racing from the Mud Keys. The saboteurs were now dead on a course for the Diamond Cutter. Diamond Cutter. The profile of the big lobster boat rode high on the calm seas. There could be no hiding this time, Augie knew. The profile of the big lobster boat rode high on the calm seas. There could be no hiding this time, Augie knew.

Jimmy bounded to the wheelhouse, panting, the Remington on his shoulder; a shirtless, fuzz-faced Johnny Reb. "You see what they did to the other boat?" he said. "Looked like a f.u.c.king atom bomb. Augie, don't slow down now."

The Cuban was smiling, his arms folded. His coffee-brown eyes were fixed on the chase boat, drawing closer, its V-shaped hull slicing the afternoon chop.

Jimmy had added binoculars to his uniform. "Looks like three of them," he said, peering, "and two of us."

Augie smiled broadly and killed the engine. "Looks like a bonefish boat to me."

THE MAYHEM ALONG Mallory Docks had prompted one of Huge Barnett's epic fits of perspiration. Every pore had been a geyser. He smelled like a goat and knew it. Mallory Docks had prompted one of Huge Barnett's epic fits of perspiration. Every pore had been a geyser. He smelled like a goat and knew it.

As he changed clothes, even the apparition of Laurie Ravenel bouncing on top of him failed to brighten or elevate him. It had been a catastrophic day for law enforcement in Key West: Tom Cruz was missing, the water was full of freaks, and the island's most renowned lawyer had been murdered. Murdered-s.h.i.t, Barnett fumed, his police department had no homicide experts. Murder didn't happen that often. When it did, it was usually a domestic quarrel or a bar fight among the shrimpers on Caroline Street. A knife in the gut, a bullet in the heart, an act of contrition later. Witnesses galore. Made a policeman's job downright easy.

Barnett elbowed his way into a crisply pressed Western shirt, Arizona cactus plants on each shoulder. He stepped into his trousers and belted them high, above his navel.

Drake Boone certainly had ruined the day. This was one that they'd want solved. There would be newspaper reporters all the way from Miami, and inquiries of an official nature. No medals from the Governor on this one, d.a.m.nit.

Barnett wedged his pale, sockless feet into a new pair of Tony Llama boots. He arranged the Stetson and walked out to the Chrysler, grunting with each step.

He could hear Freed, the b.u.t.tf.u.c.ker, harping away at the next city council meeting. Any suspects, chief? Any suspects, chief? Suspects? Boone had more enemies than a barracuda has fangs. When word of his murder got out, a cheer had gone up in the cell blocks at the county stockade-half the guys in there had been screwed by Boone's courtroom incompetence. Suspects? Suspects? Boone had more enemies than a barracuda has fangs. When word of his murder got out, a cheer had gone up in the cell blocks at the county stockade-half the guys in there had been screwed by Boone's courtroom incompetence. Suspects?

Still, it was one nasty little murder that would not go away. Barnett knew that he would soon have to announce a suspect. A prime prime suspect. Breeze Albury would do, he reckoned, as long as he stayed gone. suspect. Breeze Albury would do, he reckoned, as long as he stayed gone.

Barnett double-parked in front of the Cowrie and honked three times. When Laurie got in, the chief broke into a wide, brown-toothed grin.

"You look a sight," he said. "And you wore them jeans."

"Let's go," she said in a worried tone. "As it is, everybody in the restaurant's gonna talk."

"You know f.a.ggots, they got to gossip."

Barnett took Truman Avenue to U.S. 1, up the island past Stock Island. As soon as they were out of Key West, Laurie scooted over next to him.

"Well, well."

Her perfume was arousing. A sideways glance told the police chief that his radiant date was not wearing a bra.

"I write a little poetry," Laurie said, placing a casual hand on Barnett's right leg. "Don't you think the names of these islands would make wonderful poetry? Boca Chica. Big Coppitt. Little Torch Key."

"Hadn't really thought about it."

"Ramrod. Sugarloaf. The Saddlebunch."

"Yeah. Ramrod, Sugarloaf. Those are good ones." Barnett winked. "I like those."

"Oh, stop it. Watch the road." Laurie patted his leg.

"You haven't told me where you want to go. There's a place up on Summerland we can stop for a drink-"

"No, it's too risky. Breeze knows everybody down here. Someone would tell him as soon as he got back. I know it." Laurie softened her voice. "I couldn't hurt him like that. You understand, don't you?"

"So where do you want to go?"

"Ever heard of the Tarpon Inn?"

Barnett shifted behind the wheel. "Darlin', that's a long G.o.dd.a.m.n drive."

"I know, chief, but it's got a sweet little bar. And the rooms are nice." Laurie manufactured her cutest giggle. "King-sized beds."

Huge Barnett roared his approval with a laugh that issued tremors through his belly. "The Tarpon Inn it is," he declared, gunning the Chrysler around a poky school bus pell-mell down the wrong side of the most dangerous highway in America.

Laurie Ravenel shut her eyes tightly and prayed that it soon would be over.

The gas station man parked his pickup on a bleached spit of dredged-up rock that formed a jetty into Spanish Harbor. He rolled down the windows, punched a Jackson Browne ca.s.sette into the tape deck, and tried to relax.

The message from the post office had been brief, almost too brief. When the gas station man had asked for more details, he had been curtly directed to "follow instructions."

Crystal was in his usual cautious mood.

The gas station man had waited in the truck only seven minutes before the skiff appeared, boring straight for the jetty across two miles of gra.s.sy shallows. When it was fifty yards away, the driver cut back and let the skiff glide to the rocks. He was of medium height, dressed in the khaki short-sleeved uniform of charter boat captains; his bare arms and legs were like polished walnut. He picked up the package and heaved it from the boat to the jetty.

"You know what to do, right?"

The gas station man struggled with the package. "Christ, this is heavy."

"Fifty-five pounds," said Teal. He turned the ignition key, and the big outboard came to life. "Your place is how far?"

The gas station man half-threw, half-pushed the package into the flatbed. "Just up the road, maybe a half-mile at the most."

"Good. The radio says they're right on schedule."

"G.o.d, I hope so," the gas station man said.

"Good luck." Teal gave a wave as the bonefish skiff planed off, skimming across the flats for deep water and the straight, oceangoing run back to Key West.

"SHOULD I CALL YOU chief, or what?" chief, or what?"

"Anything you want, darlin'." Huge Barnett was steering left-handed. His right hand, crablike, was exploring Laurie's blouse. She pushed it away, but not too firmly.

"Can I call you Clare?"

Barnett reddened. "No," he snapped. "What is it, your f.a.ggot boss went snooping around the city personnel records? That how you found out?"

"Oh, stop, it's not so bad." Laurie moved Barnett's hand to her thigh. "Where I come from, that's a perfectly fine name. Clare Barnett."

"Well, down here it's a p.u.s.s.y name, so just call me chief."

"Don't pout," Laurie said crossly.

"I'm not, d.a.m.nit. It's this G.o.dd.a.m.n traffic."

A semitractor rig had lurched into the road ahead of them on Summerland Key. Barnett had been trying to pa.s.s it for five miles. Every time he swung the Chrysler into the left lane, the semi had sped up. Barnett had become so enraged that he had lost his erection.

"It'll be morning before we get to f.u.c.king Marathon," he howled. "I'm going to try one more time."

The truck weaved into the left lane, then cut erratically back to the right.

"G.o.d," Laurie whispered.

Back and forth, the truck snaked down the Overseas Highway, gaining speed as it seemed to lose control.

"Do something!" Laurie said.

"f.u.c.ker's drunk," Barnett grumbled. He mashed a switch on the dashboard panel, and the blue light on top of the Chrysler began to flash. Still, the big truck did not yield. Next, Barnett tried the siren.

"He's going to kill somebody," Laurie cried. "What are you doing now?"

"I'm backin' off, darlin', because you're right. He is going to kill somebody, and that somebody isn't going to be me." Barnett reached for his police radio. "Think I'll call ahead for a state trooper."

At that moment, the brake lights of the semitractor winked twice. Ahead, the truck was slowing, lumbering off the highway into a roadside gas stop. A flaking billboard announced it as the Big Pine Exxon.

In a cloud of dust and gravel, the semitractor gasped to a stop. Barnett parked the Chrysler off to the side, near the gas pumps.

"This won't take long," he told Laurie.

"I'm going in the grocery store for a beer," she said.

Barnett s.n.a.t.c.hed his Stetson from the backseat and lurched out of the squad car. Clumsily, he tried to hoist himself to the running board of the truck; failing that, he stood below the cab, shouting obscenities up at the driver.

The man was lean and smooth-faced. He wore a red Budweiser cap. "I'm very sorry, officer," he said weakly.