Nature Girl

In the other kayak, Eugenie Fonda could be heard saying, “Boyd, would you please find out where the hell this woman is taking us.”

Followed in short order by Shreave hollering: “Hey, Nature Girl, where we goin’? I gotta stop and unload some a that coffee.”

Honey picked up the pace. As she paddled harder, the songs in her head began to fade. “Stay close, and watch out for oyster bars,” she called over her shoulder. “We’ll be there soon.”

Fry showered quickly and threw on some semi-fresh clothes, then grabbed his book bag and skateboarded to the crab docks. Perry Ski

“I’ll check it out,” his father said, seemingly unconcerned. “You get along to school now, so you won’t be late.”

“But what if Mr. Piejack is after Mom?”

“Don’t worry about that asshole.”

As soon as his son had gone, Ski

Ski

Looking downriver he caught sight of two kayaks, one red and one yellow, heading more or less toward Chokoloskee Bay. The woman in the red kayak looked from a distance like Honey, which meant it probably was. Nobody else in the whole county looked like Honey. In the second kayak was a man in a wide-brimmed hat and a woman in a papaya-colored halter. Their teamwork with the paddles was not exactly fluid.

Ski

After taking the handgun home, he returned to the crab docks, where one of his young mechanics, Randy, was doing battle with the broken diesel. Ski

“I’m so psyched about tonight,” Sie

Ski

“Green Day, remember?” she said. “God, Perry, don’t tell me.”

“Sure, I remember. They’re playin’ in Fort Myers.”

“You said you liked ’em.”

“I meant it, too.” To Ski

Sie

“Please don’t pout. I already said we’re going.”

“Twice I went with you to see Willie Nelson. Twice.”

“Yes, you did.” Ski

“Hank Jr., too,” Sie

“No, I didn’t forget.” Ski

“Excuse me for a second,” he said, and stepped into the wheelhouse.

Randy was thumbing through a MotoCross magazine, his rubber boots propped on the console. Ski

In the back of the johnboat sat Louis Piejack, his undamaged hand holding the tiller stick of the engine. He never glanced once at the crab docks as he puttered past, so he was unaware that he was being watched. Otherwise, he might have made an effort to conceal the sawed-off shotgun, which lay in plain view on the deck of the boat, between his feet.

“Goddammit,” Perry Ski

Randy glanced up from his magazine. “What’s up, boss?”

There was no time to call the guys in Hialeah. Ski

“What’re you doin’ tonight, Randy?”

“Not a fuckin’ thing, boss.”

“You wa

“Far fuckin’ out!”

Dealey wasn’t a tough guy. He’d never been a cop or Feeb, unlike many other private investigators. Eighteen years Dealey had worked for an insurance company, knocking down phony disability claims, before going out on his own.

And usually it wasn’t dangerous work, spying on unfaithful spouses. Dealey had only been injured once, by a flying vibrator. It had happened while he was surreptitiously photographing an acrobatic young couple in Candleridge. The woman, having spotted Dealey, had snatched the nine-inch missile from a nightstand and spiraled it with unca

In all his many years of surveilling cheaters, layabouts and fraud artists, nobody had ever pointed a gun at Dealey, much less fired a round past his head. Louis Piejack was both vengeful and nuts, an unpromising combination.

“I’m not a great swimmer,” he’d warned Piejack as they got in the johnboat.

“Tough shit.”

Dealey’s hearing had returned to normal, so there was nothing fuzzy about Piejack’s response.

“Why don’t we wait for Honey to come back?” the investigator suggested. “What kind of sexy pictures you expect me to get when she’s paddling a kayak?”

“Shut your fat yap,” said Piejack.

Dealey had positioned the bulky Halliburtons on his lap to shield his vital organs from another gunshot, accidental or intended. As the small flat-bottomed craft headed downriver, he settled upon a strategy of falsely befriending Louis Piejack so that the man would let down his guard.