"What about through the forest?"

"The Japanese salted it with land mines."

His wife moved out from under his arm. "What kinds of things do you craft, Robin?"

"Musical instruments."

"Ah… drums and such?"

"Guitars and mandolins."

"Lyman plays the guitar."

Picker scratched his beard. "Took a guitar into the hoyos of central Ecuador – now that was a place- ocelots, tapir, kinkajou. Only indigenous thingies around here lack spines, and my bride despises spineless things, don't you?"

"He plays quite well," said Jo.

"Regular Segovia." Picker mimed a strum. "Sitting around the campfire with the Auca Indians, trying to charm them so they'd lead me to a juicy trove of Cordyceps militaris-fungal parasite, grows on insect pupae, they eat it like popcorn. Humidity loosened the glue on the thing, woke up the next morning to a stack of soggy boards." He laughed. "Used the strings to strangle my supper that night, the rest for toothpicks."

We reached the bottom of the stairs. Ben Romero was in the front room, KiKo on his shoulder. Picker eyed the animal. "I've eaten them, too. Gamy. Can't housebreak them, did you know?"

"Evening, Ben," said Jo. "Alfresco, as usual?"

Ben nodded. "Dr. Bill will be a little late."

"Surprise, surprise," said Picker.

We walked through the right-hand hallway. Raw silk walls were hung with yet more pale watercolors. Nature scenes, well executed. The same signature on all of them: "B. Moreland." Another of the doctor's talents?

Ben led us through a big, yellow living room with a limestone fireplace, brocade couches, chinoiserie tables, Imari porcelain lamps with parchment shades. An oil portrait of a black-haired woman took up the space over the mantel. Her haughty beauty evoked Sargent.

The room opened to a wraparound terrace where a banquet table was covered with bright blue cloth. Bone china set for seven. Nascent light from hanging iron lanterns was swallowed by the still-bright evening.

The sun nudged the horizon, spilling crimson onto the skin of the water, a lovely wound. Down in the village tin roofs glinted through the treetops like tiny coins. The road leading up to the estate was a sleeping gray snake, its head resting at the big front gates. I thought of the slaves storming up from the barracks. Some Japanese general watching, helpless, knowing how it would end.

Lyman Picker touched his throat and winked at Ben.

"Bourbon," Ben said in a tight voice. "Straight up."

"Excellent memory, friend."

"And for you, Mrs. Picker?"

"Just a soda, if it's no bother."

"No bother at all." Ben's jaw flexed. "Ms. Castagna? Dr. Delaware?"

"Nothing, thanks," I said.

Robin looked at me. "Me, neither."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

He left.

"Conscientious one, that," said Picker.

Jo began examining the flatware. Robin and I walked to the pine railing. Picker followed us and leaned against the wood, elbows resting on the cap.

"So you're here to work with the old man. Sun and fun, maybe a publication or two. He's lucky to get you. You wouldn't find a serious scientist here."

I laughed.

"No offense, man," he said, as if offended. "When I say serious, I mean us theoretical and oh-so-irrelevant types. Panhandlers with Ph.D.'s, rattling our beakers and praying stipends will drop in. This part of the globe, you want funding, you don't study a place like this, you go for Melanesia, Polynesia. Big, fat, fertile islands, plenty of flora, fauna, agreeably colorful indigenous tribes, serious mythology for the folklore crowd."

"Aruk doesn't have any of that?"

He coughed without covering his mouth. " Micronesia, my friend, is two thousand dirt specks in three million square miles of water, most of them uninhabited bumps of coral. This bump's one of the most obscure. Did you know there were no people till the Spanish brought them over to grow sugar? The crop failed and the Spanish sailed away, leaving the workers to starve. Then came the Germans, who, for all their authoritarianism, hadn't a clue about colonizing. Sat around reading Goethe all day. Then the Japanese trying the same damn sugar thing, slave labor."

He laughed. "So what was the payoff? MacArthur bombs them to hell and the slaves say payback time. Night of the long knives." He drew a finger across his beard.

Jo came over. "Is he regaling you with tales of his far-flung adventures?"

"No," said Picker, grumpily. "Reviewing local history." He coughed again. "Where's that drink?"

"Soon, Ly. So what led you to become a craftswoman, Robin?"

"I love music and working with my hands. Tell us about your research, Jo."

"Nothing very exciting. I was sent to do a wind survey of several islands in the Mariana complex and Aruk's my last stop. We were renting a teeny place in town till Bill was kind enough to invite us up here. We're leaving in a week."

"Don't make it sound like the weather service, girl," said Picker. "Defense Department pays her bills. She's an important national asset. Marry an asset, get an all-expense-paid vacation."

He slapped his wife on the back, none too gently. She stiffened but smiled.

"Do you live in Washington?" said Robin.

"We have a town house in Georgetown," said Jo, "but most of the time we're both gone."

She recoiled. A lizard, just like the one I'd seen at the window, raced along the top of the railing. Her husband flicked a finger at it, laughing as it disappeared over the side.

"Still jittery?" he reproached her. "I told you it's harmless. Hemidactylus frenatus. House gecko, semidomesticated. People feed them near the house, so they'll stick around and eat all the buggies."

He wiggled his fingers in his wife's face. In grade school, he'd probably been a pigtail yanker.

She tried to smile. "Well, I just can't get used to them doing push-ups on my screen."

"Squeamish," Picker told us. "Meaning I can't bring my work home."

Jo colored beneath her tan.

The young housekeeper, Cheryl, came out with a tray. On it were the drinks the Pickers had ordered and mineral waters with lime for Robin and me.

"Retarded, that," Picker said when she was gone. Tapping his temple. He raised his glass. "To spineless things."

Red light bounced off the ocean and bloodied his beard.

His wife looked the other way and sipped.

Robin drew me away to the opposite corner.

"Charming, huh?" I said.

"Alex, why were you so adamant about not ordering drinks?"

"Because Ben's teeth were clenched when Picker ordered his. He's a nurse, doesn't want to be thought of as a butler. Notice he sent Cheryl with the tray."

"Oh," she said. "My psychologist." She slipped her hand around my waist and lowered her head to my shoulder.

"Lovers' secrets?" Picker called out. His glass was empty.

"Let them be, Ly," said Jo.

"Looks like they're being just fine."

"Welcome to paradise," I muttered.

Robin quelled a laugh. It came out sounding like a hiccup.

"Hitting the sauce, girl?" I whispered. "Tsk, tsk. Damned self-indulgent."

"Stop," she said, biting her lip.

I leaned close. "Great fun ahead, wench. Cooked flesh and spirits, and after dinner he'll regale us with tales of the giant-penised Matahuaxl tribe. Human tripods, they are. Very virile."

She licked her lips and whispered back: "Very, indeed. As they trip their way over the roots of the variegated crotchweed. 'Cause let's face it, when it comes to tribes, bigger is better."

"Ah, love…," Picker called from across the terrace. "Need another drinkie, I do."

But he made no move to get one and neither did his wife. Welcome silence, then light footsteps sounded from behind. I turned and saw a lovely-looking blond woman walk toward us.