"Spread your cheeks, bubba."

Barnett felt dizzy. He turned and fastened his chalky hands to one of the railroad ties. It was scalding to the touch, but he did not flinch. He felt Haller's hands patting him down in the coa.r.s.e, perfunctory way of veteran cops. Barnett's ears filled with the pounding of his own b.l.o.o.d.y rage. Somewhere in the stalled traffic, the children on the church bus from Macon sang "Michael Row the Boat Ash.o.r.e" in rounds.

"You have the right to remain silent," Mark Haller recited.

Barnett leaned with all his might on the guardrail, grinding his teeth. Before him, stretched out in alternating aqua and indigo hues, was the Atlantic. It was serene and empty to the horizon, except for the crawfish boat, which had slowed in the channel not far from the Seven Mile Bridge.

"If you can't afford a lawyer," Haller was saying, "one will be appointed for you. However"-then the handcuffs, sharp on the wristbones-"I suspect you can afford a lawyer, chief."

Barnett was hearing, but not listening. Something about the lobster boat had seized his attention. He blinked several times to make sure he was not imagining it: the vision of a woman, buxom and statuesque, her dark hair slick, her blouse damp and clinging. She stood on the deck of the boat, dabbing at her face with a towel.

As the boat's big diesel came to life and the bow swung around to meet the Atlantic, Huge Barnett swallowed the dry ashes of his fury. The dying sun caught the boat perfectly in its coral light, and the name seemed to glow from the stern.

"Let's go, chief, we're blocking the bridge," Mark Haller said, steering him by the elbows. "Time to go back to the Rock."

Chapter 23.

IT WAS a good hotel overlooking the ocean on Miami Beach, not tasteful perhaps, but less plastic than most. The dark businessman in the corner suite on the eighth floor was a prime tipper, so the waiter was careful to include a newspaper each morning with breakfast. a good hotel overlooking the ocean on Miami Beach, not tasteful perhaps, but less plastic than most. The dark businessman in the corner suite on the eighth floor was a prime tipper, so the waiter was careful to include a newspaper each morning with breakfast.

That day a headline midway down the front page caught the businessman's eyes:

KEYS "S "SWIM-IN" COP JAILED AS P POT S SMUGGLER.

It took the businessman only one phone call then to arrange the rest of his life.

"I'd like a first-cla.s.s seat on this afternoon's flight to Paris."

"Certainly, sir."

"One-way, please."

"And are you an American citizen?"

"My pa.s.sport is Canadian."

Before he left the hotel, Manolo used a razor blade to meticulously clip the newspaper article. He would carry it in his wallet as vaccination against ever going back.

"WHAT A BEAUTIFUL morning!" Bobby Freed signaled for another piece of Key Lime pie and smiled at Laurie, who sat before the remains of a gargantuan brunch. "We did it," she said. morning!" Bobby Freed signaled for another piece of Key Lime pie and smiled at Laurie, who sat before the remains of a gargantuan brunch. "We did it," she said.

"The reign of King Barnett is over. He's finished; humiliated, even if he doesn't go to jail. The rest of them will be easier. Will you help me get them, Laurie?"

"Yes, Bob, I will."

All night she had been manic, laughing at the memory of Barnett's jostling rolls of fat as he tried to zipper his pants before hundreds of gawking motorists. Then, unaccountably, she had wept. For Albury, Freed knew.

"Let's take a walk," he urged. "I like this town again."

They walked arm in arm, paralleling the water. Some of the pa.s.sersby in tight jeans and manicured chests looked slyly at Freed. He would be back, their glances seemed to say. Freed doubted it-but then, two weeks ago, who could have predicted this? He'd stopped trying to figure it out-he was just going to enjoy it. The stares didn't bother him at all. Once, on impulse, he darted across the street and bought an exquisite conch sh.e.l.l from an old woman in a floppy straw hat.

On Caroline Street, they strolled to the water's edge and clambered out along some rocks. It was a lovely view. The whitewashed island lay before them, with its shops and pale old houses, its unmistakable harbor. Like Key West itself, it was teeming: boats of every description, diving gulls, a small school of striped grunts lazing into the shadows.

"This is what it's really about," Bobby Freed proclaimed. "I love it."

He gestured toward a tall shrimp boat, inward bound, nets streeling like two outstretched webs in the sea.

As the shrimper pushed into the harbor, its steel arms suddenly lifted from the sea, jerking the first fingers of glistening net from the water.

"Beautiful, a poem," Laurie murmured, "A ballet," said Freed.

The boat was almost abeam now, the arms rising in a long vertical sweep, the net following faster.

"You could almost reach out and touch it," said Freed. "But I'd rather touch you."

He held her before him, his back to the sea, and then watched in a sickening instant as the love in her eyes faded to horror.

Laurie screamed.

From the starboard net, spread-eagled like a snared starfish, the bloated corpse of Winnebago Tom mocked them.

Chapter 24.

(From the deposition of Augustin Quintana, taken on the ninth day of October 1982, before Christine Manning, special counsel to the Governor. Also present was court reporter Mary Perdue.)

MISS M MANNING: Augie, when was the last time you saw Breeze Albury?

MR. QUINTANA: What's the difference, lady? He's gone.

Q: It's extremely important for this investigation.

A: Oh, really?

Q: Yes, Augie. The Governor expects a final report by the end of this month. There are many, many loose ends. Captain Albury is one. I think you know something about the others, too: the death of Tomas Cruz- A: A tragic accident.

Q: The murder of Drake Boone, the lawyer- A: Tom's work, of course.

Q: And there're those six unidentified Colombians in the morgue freezer up at Key Largo.

A: They are known to be terrible drivers.

Q: Augie, I don't have any more time for games. You know where Albury is, and I'm asking you, under oath. Tell me.

A: I don't like games either, lady. This is the second time you hauled me in here, and I still don't see the point. Breeze Albury is gone, and you can tell that to the Governor. I don't see the problem. They sent you down here as a special prosecutor, right? Well, now you got somebody to prosecute. He's fat and he's famous and his name is Barnett, and he's sitting in the Monroe County stockade right this minute. So go prosecute. Forget about Breeze Albury.

Q: Augie, did you know that the federal marine doc.u.mentation on the fishing vessel Diamond Cutter Diamond Cutter was altered? That the boat is now registered to yourself and James Cantrell, Jr.? The signature of Captain William C. Albury ratifies the transfer of ownership. Would you care to see for yourself? How did that happen? was altered? That the boat is now registered to yourself and James Cantrell, Jr.? The signature of Captain William C. Albury ratifies the transfer of ownership. Would you care to see for yourself? How did that happen?

A: Breeze is a generous man. Me and Jimmy will take d.a.m.n good care of that boat. It's a fine boat, lady.

Q: All right, Augie, one more time- A: No. No one more time. one more time. I'm gonna tell you again. I'm a fisherman, not a G.o.dd.a.m.n private eye. I don't know where the h.e.l.l Breeze is, and I don't know why you won't give up on it. I'll tell you about the last time I saw him. It was at the Seven Mile Bridge. I forget the exact night. We were all in the boat; me, Jimmy, Ricky, Breeze, and the girl, Laurie. Just out for a ride. One more run, Breeze said. He took her under the old turntable bridge at half-speed and split the seam between two nasty coral heads. It was sweet the way he ran that boat, lady. He took her straight out about two miles till we got to a line of lobster pots. Then he hopped down out of the pilothouse and turned the wheel over to Jimmy. He said it was time to go. I said, "Where to?" Breeze pointed back toward a little island about two-thirds of the way out, right under the old Seven Mile Bridge. That's where he wanted to go. He told Jimmy to take the I'm gonna tell you again. I'm a fisherman, not a G.o.dd.a.m.n private eye. I don't know where the h.e.l.l Breeze is, and I don't know why you won't give up on it. I'll tell you about the last time I saw him. It was at the Seven Mile Bridge. I forget the exact night. We were all in the boat; me, Jimmy, Ricky, Breeze, and the girl, Laurie. Just out for a ride. One more run, Breeze said. He took her under the old turntable bridge at half-speed and split the seam between two nasty coral heads. It was sweet the way he ran that boat, lady. He took her straight out about two miles till we got to a line of lobster pots. Then he hopped down out of the pilothouse and turned the wheel over to Jimmy. He said it was time to go. I said, "Where to?" Breeze pointed back toward a little island about two-thirds of the way out, right under the old Seven Mile Bridge. That's where he wanted to go. He told Jimmy to take the Diamond Cutter Diamond Cutter up close and let him and Ricky off there. Breeze said it was the perfect spot for him, and we all laughed our a.s.ses off. The name of the island is Pigeon Key. up close and let him and Ricky off there. Breeze said it was the perfect spot for him, and we all laughed our a.s.ses off. The name of the island is Pigeon Key.

Q: And you haven't seen him since?

A: Or heard from him. I wouldn't bother sending out a search party, either. He's just one Conch fisherman who made up his mind to get off the Rock. I know you want to find him, but I won't help. Forget about Captain Albury yourself. And now I gotta go, lady.

Q: If you should hear from Breeze-

Epilogue.

CHRISTINE MANNING stared at the telephone. These past few weeks, it hadn't stopped ringing. Groggily, she reached across the pillow and grabbed it. stared at the telephone. These past few weeks, it hadn't stopped ringing. Groggily, she reached across the pillow and grabbed it.

"Christine! You've done a wonderful job."

"Thank you, Governor."

"Seventeen indictments. But what's this I hear about you leaving?"

"In a week or two, sir. Just as soon as I get the files in shape for the new prosecutor."

"You can't be serious. This is one of the biggest cases we've ever had. The police chief, six officers-my G.o.d, it's a d.a.m.n miracle. Barnett's yakking his head off. Seventeen indictments in Key West!"

"n.o.bodies, sir. The big one got away."

"You mean the fisherman?"

"No, not him. I mean the one who ran the Machine, the one they call Manolo."

Yes, I mean the fisherman.

"Somebody always slips through the cracks," the Governor said. "That's no reason to be discouraged, Christine. We need you on our side when we go to court with these guys. Don't quit now."

"I'm sorry."

"For G.o.d's sake, it's an election year. Stick with it. Please. After November, I'll have a slot for a new deputy attorney general. What a homecoming to Tallaha.s.see that would be, huh?"

"Well, thank you, but a quiet private practice seems very attractive. I've heard from a couple of good firms."

"In Florida? They can wait. I'll speak to them...."

"No, one is in Chicago, the other in Boston."

The best surgeons were in Boston. That was what he had said the second night, their last night, as they embraced under a waning moon on the roof of her old Conch house. Boston, he had said. That was what he had said the second night, their last night, as they embraced under a waning moon on the roof of her old Conch house. Boston, he had said.

"DAD, WHEN YOU WERE in the Navy, was it integrated?" in the Navy, was it integrated?"

Breeze Albury had been staring out the window. Beyond the city lay the busy harbor. He had found the fishing port without trouble, between the Navy yard and a marina for pleasure boats. They were trawlers, bluff, rough-cut boats that looked as though they could take whatever the sea demanded. The men who ran them would be of the same breed.

"Integrated? Sure, I guess so. Why?"

"You told me back on the Rock that this doctor was the brother of a guy you were in the Navy with. I don't remember you ever mentioning any black sailors, that's all."

"Did I ever tell you I told you everything?"

Ricky laughed, a big, tanned, and rawboned kid about to become a man. He looked good, except for the cast on his arm. He had been thrilled by his first plane ride and the appraising attentions of a couple of young stewardesses. The hotel and its indoor swimming pool had equally impressed him. First-cla.s.s, all the way to the World Series, Albury had promised him.

"Doctor will see you now."

The surgeon's handshake was dry and firm. Albury liked him instantly. He cut off the cast and spent a long time examining Ricky's arm.

"Exactly how did this happen?" The question caught Albury unaware. The doctor seemed angry.

"Well, I was riding my bike ..." Ricky began.

"No, Rick, I'll tell him."

Albury told him the truth. The doctor ran a palm across his forehead.

"Had to be something like that. There's damage to the rotator cuff and the whole shoulder, as well as to the lower arm itself."

Then he turned to Ricky.