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The stranger did not seem as impressed, or deferential, as Chaz had hoped. He removed his artificial eye and, with a scrofulous pocket-knife, scraped a dried clot of algae off the polished glass.

Then he twisted the orb back into its socket and said, "What's your name again?"

"Perrone." Chaz spelled it.

"No, ace, your first name."

"Charles. But everybody calls me Chaz."

The stranger cocked his head. "Chad?"

"No, Chaz. With a z."

That brought an inexplicable laugh. "Small world," said the man in the shower cap.

"How so?" Chaz asked, though he was already dreading the answer.

"I met a lady friend of yours out here the other night," the man told him.

Chaz's stomach pitched and his tongue turned to sandpaper.

"Ricca was her name," the stranger went on. "She had quite a story to tell."

Chaz smiled weakly. "Well, she's got quite an imagination."

"Yeah? You think she imagined that thirty-eight-caliber hole in her leg?" The man fished into his dungarees, first one pocket and then another. He cackled when he located the bullet slug, which he held up for Chaz to inspect in the pink early-morning light.

The man said, "I dug it out with a bent fishhook and a pair of needle-nose. Hurt like hell, but she's a champ, that girl." He nicked the damaged bullet into the water.

Chaz Perrone stood slack and helpless in defeat. What were the stratospheric odds, he wondered, that this half-senile, cockeyed hippie was the same person who'd rescued Ricca?

The stranger said, "Let me address a couple of points, Mr. Perrone. First, I'm not that old a fellow that I can't snap your neck bones with my bare hands. Second, this isn't a hellhole, this is my home and I happen to think it's heaven. Third, if you're a real scientist, then I'm Goldie Hawn."

In a monotone Chaz recited his academic credentials, which caused the man to squint down at him in brutal incredulity.

"Won't you hear my side of the story, Captain? Please?" Chaz scarcely recognized his own voice.

The madman leaned back and frowned at the rising sun. "We need to be moving along. I expect somebody'll come searching for you soon."

"Nobody I'd ever want to find me."

"Then let's go, junior. There's no time for a pity party."

With dull obedience Chaz followed the one-eyed hermit away from the shaded knoll and into the broiling flat savanna. The saw grass sliced Chaz's flesh with every step, but the sensation no longer registered as pain. Not far away, crossing the same stretch of marsh, were two creamy-colored snakes as thick as tugboat cables; they moved with a fluid and fearless tropism, as energized by their wild new surroundings as Charles Regis Perrone was cowed by his.

"I realize I've been an asshole," he called ahead to the stranger, "but people do change if they get the chance."

"Haldeman didn't," the man snapped over his shoulder. "Besides, I don't think of you as a garden-variety asshole, Chaz. I think of you as a nullity."

Chaz wasn't sure what that meant, but given the context, he assumed the worst. Ricca had doubtlessly painted a most unflattering portrait.

As they advanced deeper into the hostile wasteland, the leaden weight of Chaz's predicament settled fully upon him. Christ, he thought, I can't catch a break to save my life.

Literally.

After what seemed like an hour, the derelict in the shower cap stopped marching and held out a dented canteen, for which Chaz lunged unashamedly. As he slugged down the water, it occurred to him that the hoary bushman would probably know precisely how many penises a bull alligator had.

Another question to which there was no soothing answer, Chaz decided upon reflection.

Still another: What happens to me now?

It was as if the crazed wanderer had been reading his thoughts.

"Did you ever study Tennyson? I'm guessing not," the man said. " 'Nature, red in tooth and claw.' That's a very famous line."

To Chaz, it didn't sound promising. "I'm not going back to Boca Raton, ami?"

"No, Dr. Perrone, you are not."

A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Carl Hiaasen was born and raised in Florida. He is the author often previous novels, including Sick Puppy, Lucky You, Stormy Weather, Basket Case, and, for young readers, Hoot. He also writes a regular column for the Miami Herald.


A NOTE ON THE TYPE

This book was set in Janson, a typeface long thought to have been made by the Dutchman Anton Janson, who was a practicing typefounder in Leipzig during the years 1668-1687. However, it has been conclusively demonstrated that these types are actually the work of Nicholas Kis (1650-1702), a Hungarian, who most probably learned his trade from the master Dutch typefounder Dirk Voskens. The type is an excellent example of the influential and sturdy Dutch types that prevailed in England up to the time WilCaslon (1692-1766) developed his own incomparable designs from them.

Composed by Creative Graphics,

Allentown, Pennsylvania Printed and bound by Berryville Graphics,

Berryville, Virginia Designed by Virginia Tan

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