Bernard Squires' livelihood, and in all probability his very life, depended on his talent for assembling investment portfolios in which vast sums could plausibly disappear. Naturally he had a fondness for real estate developments. Not for a moment did Bernard envision for Simmons Wood a thriving, profitable retail shopping center. Grange was a perfectly ridiculous location for a major mall – one of the only municipalities in Florida to have shrunk (according to incredulous census takers) during the boom years of the eighties and nineties. And while its puny population was augmented by a modest flow of highway tourists, the demographics of the average Grange visitor could most diplomatically be typed, from a retailer's perspective, as "lowlow end." No major anchor stores or national chains would dream of locating there, as Bernard Squires well knew.

His plan, from the beginning, was to create a very expensive failure. Acting as a bank, the pension fund would finance the purchase of Simmons Wood and enter into a series of contracts with construction companies secretly controlled by Richard Tarbone and his associates. Simmons Wood would be bulldozed and cleared, a foundation would be poured, and perhaps even a wall or two would go up.

Then: a run of bad luck. Shortages of labor and materials. Weather delays. Missed payments on construction loans. Contractors unexpectedly filing for bankruptcy. And as if that weren't enough, the leasing agent would dejectedly report that hardly anyone wanted space in the soon-to-be-completed Simmons Wood Mall. The project would sputter and die, and the site would become a ruin. Florida was full of them.

Whatever true sum was lost in the Simmons Wood venture would be doubled when it appeared as red ink on the books of the Central Midwest Brotherhood of Grouters, Spacklers and Drywallers International. That is how Bernard Squires hid the Tarbone family's skimming. If other union officials suspected skulduggery, they were wise enough not to make a peep. Besides, the pension fund made a profit, overall; Squires saw to that. Even the IRS auditors didn't challenge his numbers. Investing in real estate was a crapshoot, as everybody knew. Sometimes you won, sometimes you lost.

Once the write-off had outlived its usefulness, Bernard Squires would contrive to unload Simmons Wood on an insurance conglomerate or maybe the Japanese – somebody with enough capital to finish the stupid mall, or raze it and start over. For now, though, Bernard Squires was eager to lock up the deal.

It was Richard "The Icepick" Tarbone's desire to close on the Grange property as soon as possible. "And don't call me," he had told Squires, "until you got some good fucking news. Do whatever it takes, you understand?"

Bernard understood.

The visitation got off to a rocky start. Once again, Demencio's fiberglass Madonna wasn't weeping properly – this time due to a crimp in the plastic feeder lines between the reservoir bottle and the eyes. One tear duct was barren while the other gushed like an artery. A pilgrim from Guatemala, having been spritzed in the forehead, loudly challenged the legitimacy of the miracle. Luckily the tirade was in Spanish and therefore incomprehensible to the other visitors. Trish, who was manning the Madonna, relayed the details of the plumbing problem to Demencio at the breakfast table. He told her to lay off the pump, pronto; no more crying.

"But we got a bus coming," Trish reminded him. "The mission bus from West Virginia."

"Aw, shit."

Every week Demencio changed the Madonna's weeping schedule. It was important to have "dry" days as well as "wet" days; otherwise there was no sense of heavenly mystery. Moreover, Demencio had observed that some pilgrims actually were glad when the Virgin Mary didn't cry on their first visit. It gave them a reason to come back to Grange on a future vacation, just as tourists return to Yellowstone year after year in the hopes of spotting a moose.

So Demencio hadn't been alarmed when his wife told him the Madonna was malfunctioning. Usually midweek was slow for business, a good time for an unscheduled dry day. But he'd forgotten about the damn mission bus: sixty-odd Christian pilgrims from Wheeling. The preacher's name was Mooney or Moody, something like that, and every other year he roared through Florida with new recruits. Trish would bake a lime pie and Demencio would throw in a bottle of scotch, and in return the preacher would entreat his faithful followers to donate generously at Demencio's shrine. For such a dependable throng, Demencio felt obliged to provide tears.

Thus the Madonna's hydraulic failure was potentially a crisis. Demencio didn't want to interrupt the morning visitation to haul the statue indoors for repairs – to do so would arouse suspicion, even among the most devout. Peering through the curtains, Demencio counted nine victims in the front yard, hovering attentively around the icon.

"Got any ideas?" Trish asked.

"Quiet," said her husband. "Lemme think."

But it wasn't quiet. The sounds of crunching filled the room: JoLayne's cooters, enjoying breakfast.

Demencio's somber gaze settled on the aquarium. Instead of breaking the romaine into bite-sized pieces, he'd dropped the whole head of lettuce into the tank. The sight of it had pitched the baby turtles into a frenzy, and they were now chewing their way up the leafy slopes.

It was, Demencio had to admit, weirdly impressive. Forty-five marauding turtles. He got an idea. "You still got that Bible?" he asked his wife. "The illustrated one?"

"Somewhere, yeah."

"And I'll need some paint," he said, "like they sell for model airplanes at the hobby store."

"We only got two hours before the bus."

"Don't worry, this won't take long." Demencio walked over to the aquarium. He bent down and said: "OK, who wants to be a star?"

On the morning of November 28, with rain misting the mountains, Mary Andrea Finley Krome checked out of the Mona Pacifica Mineral Spa and Residential Treatment Center, on the island of Maui. She flew directly to Los Angeles, where the next day she auditioned for a network television commercial for a new home-pregnancy test. Later she flew on to Scottsdale to rejoin the road company for the Silence of the Lambsmusical, in which she starred as Clarice, the intrepid young FBI agent. Mary Andrea's itinerary was relayed by certain sources to Tom Krome's divorce lawyer, Dick Turnquist, who arranged for a process server to be waiting backstage at the dinner theater in Arizona.

Somehow Mary Andrea got word of the ambush. Midway through the finale, with the entire cast and chorus singing,

"Oh, Hannibal the Cannibal, How deliciously malicious you are!"

...Mary Andrea collapsed, convincingly, in a spastic heap. The process server stood back as paramedics strapped the slack-tongued actress on a stretcher and carried her to an ambulance. By the time Dick Turnquist learned the details, Mary Andrea Finley Krome had miraculously regained consciousness, checked herself out of the Scottsdale hospital, rented a Thunderbird and disappeared into the desert.

Dick Turnquist delivered the bad news to Tom Krome via fax, which Krome retrieved at a Kinko's across the highway from the University of Miami campus. He didn't read it until he and JoLayne Lucks were parked under a streetlight on what she called the Big Stakeout.

After scanning the lawyer's report, Krome ripped it into pieces.

JoLayne said: "I know what that woman wants."

"Me, too. She wants to be married forever."

"You're wrong, Tom. She'll go for a divorce. It has to be her idea, that's all."

"Thank you, Dr. Brothers." Krome didn't want to think about his future ex-wife because then he would no longer sleep like a puppy. Instead he would awake with marrow-splitting headaches and bleeding gums.