Later, in our suite, I tried to extract revenge by coming up behind her as she removed her makeup and lightly scratching her neck.

She squealed and shot to her feet, grabbing for me, and we ended up on the floor.

I got on top and tickled her some more. "Fascinating? All of a sudden I'm living with Spiderwoman? Shall we begin a new hobby when we get back?"

She laughed. "First thing, let's learn the recipe for those pellets… Actually, it was fascinating, Alex. Though now that I'm out of there, it's starting to feel creepy again."

"The size of some of them," I said.

"It wasn't a typical evening, that's for sure."

"What do you think of our host?"

"Mucho eccentric. But courtly. Sweet."

"Dear?"

"I don't mind that from him. He's from another generation. And despite his age, he's still passionate. I like passion in a man."

She freed an arm and ran it up mine. "Coochie-coo!"

I pinioned her. "Ah, my little Lycosa, I am passionate, too!"

She reached around. "So it seems."

I bared my teeth. "Hold me and crush me, Arachnodella- liquefy me."

"You scoff," she said, "but just think what I could do with six more hands."

The next morning swim fins, snorkels, towels, and masks were waiting for us at the breakfast table.

"Jeep's out in front," said Gladys.

We ate quickly and found the vehicle parked near the fountain. One of those bare-bones, canvas-top models that kids in Beverly Hills and San Marino favor when pretending to be rural. This one was the real thing: clouded plastic windows, rough white paint, no four-figure stereo system.

Just as I started the engine, the Pickers burst out of the house, waving.

"Hitch a ride into town?" Lyman called out. They were in khakis again, with bush hats. Binoculars hung around his neck and a big, yellow smile opened in his beard. "Seeing as this used to be our borrowed vehicle, don't see how you can decently refuse."

"Wouldn't think of it," I said.

They climbed in the back.

"Thanks," said Jo. Her eyes were bloodshot and her mouth looked tight.

From Robin's lap, Spike grumbled.

"Talk about brachycephaly," said Picker. "Is he able to breathe?"

"Apparently," said Robin.

"Where would you like me to drop you?" I said.

"I'll direct you. Terrible shocks on this thing, so watch for potholes."

I drove through the gates, the Jeep gliding on the fresh blacktop, speeding along the palm-lined road. Soon the ocean came into view, true-blue, unperturbed by breakers. As we neared the harbor, the water swooped toward us; driving toward it was like tumbling into a box of sapphires. I remembered Pam's comment about a big, blue slap in the face.

Picker said, "Did you notice the rotary phones in the house? Thank God it's not two cans and a string."

Robin put her hand on my leg and turned back to him, smiling. "If you don't like it, why stay?"

"We do like it," said Jo, quickly.

"Excellent question, Ms. Craftsperson," said her husband. "If it were up to me, we would not be staying. If it were up to me we would not be staying within a thousand miles of this isle. But Dr. Wife's research is urgent. Heard you saw the zoo-ette last night. Rich man's version of firefly in a jar. No systemization. Scientifically, it's a waste of time."

Spike reared his head and stared. Picker tried to pet him but he backed away and curled up in Robin's lap again.

"Male dogs," said Picker, "always go for the femmes."

"That's not true, Ly," said his wife. "When I was little we had a miniature schnauzer and he preferred my father."

"Because, dearest, he'd met your mother."

He didn't mind laughing by himself. "Hormones. Dogs go after women, men go after bitches."

He began humming. Spike growled.

"Not a music fan," said Picker.

"On the contrary," said Robin. "He likes melody but sour notes drive him wild."

At Front Street Picker said, "Go right."

I drove north, parallel to the waterfront. No boats were in dock and the gas station was still closed, a fuel-rationing schedule posted on the pump. A couple of children rode bikes up and down the waterfront, a woman pushed a baby stroller. Men sat with their feet in the water, and one lay stretched out on the dock, sleeping.

"Where's the airfield?"

"Just keep going."

We passed the shops. A saltwater tang hung in the air; the temperature was a perfect eighty. The windows of Auntie Mae's Trading Post were filled with faded T-shirts and souvenirs and signs above the entrance advertising postal service and snacks and check cashing. Next door was the Aruk Market- two open-air stalls of fruit and vegetables. A few women squeezed and bagged the merchandise. As we passed, a couple of them smiled.

The adjoining building was white and shuttered with a Budweiser sign long depleted of neon-SLIM'S ORCHID BAR. Skinny, ragged specimens slouched in front, long-necks in hand. The Chop Suey Palace facade was red with gold lettering, and stone Fu dogs guarded the door. Three outdoor tables were set up in front. A dark-haired man sat at one of them drinking a beer and pushing something around his plate with chopsticks. He looked up but didn't smile.

Next came more stores, all empty, some of the windows boarded, then a freshly whitewashed block structure with several cars parked in front and a sign claiming: MUNICIPAL CENTER.North Beach began as more barrier reef and palms, sand dunes spotted with clumps of white-flowered beach plum. To the right a paved road twisted up the hillside. The stucco houses at the top had been turned to vanilla fudge by the morning sun. I spotted a church steeple and a copper peak below it.

"Is that where the clinic is?"

"Yup," said Picker. "Keep going."

No more outlets appeared as we continued to hug the island's upper shore. No keyhole harbor on the north side, and the water was a little more active. Scattered swimmers stroked lazily and sunbathers offered themselves like bits of cookie batter, but birds outnumbered the human population by far, droves of them searching the water's edge for breakfast.

Front Street ended at a six-slot parking area. To the east was a fifteen-foot wall of untrimmed bamboo. Hand-lettered signs read PRIVATE PROPERTY and DEAD END NO OUTLET.

Picker leaned forward and pointed over my shoulder at a break in the bamboo. "In there."

I turned up a dirt path so narrow that bamboo brushed the sides of the Jeep. A hundred-yard drive brought a house into view.

More Cape Cod than Tahiti, its splintering planks hadn't been white in a long time. The front porch was piled high with junk, and a stovepipe vent spouted from the tar roof.

The property was wide and flat, maybe fifteen acres of red dirt walled by bamboo. The tall plants along the rear border looked puny backed by two hundred feet of sheer black rock.

The western edge of the volcanic range. The mountains hurled shadows so dark and defined they resembled paint splotches.

A smaller house sat fifty feet behind the first. Same construction and condition with a strange-looking doorway- bright white gingerbread molding that didn't fit.

Between the two buildings rested half the fuselage of a propeller plane, its sheet-metal edges sliced cleanly. The rest of the acreage was a grimy sculpture garden peppered with more plane carcasses, heaps of parts, and a few craft left intact.

As I pulled up a man wearing only dirty denim cutoffs came out of the bigger house knuckling his eyes and shoving limp yellow hair out of his face. The younger of the shark butchers we'd seen yesterday.