Only the mosquitoes and horseflies lingered to harass Chaz Per-rone, and their impassive humming was all he heard when he finally reached the pond where the first monitoring station stood. Otherwise the swamp had gone mute and lifeless, which was how Chaz preferred it. He stood at the edge of the deeper water, catching his breath and waiting for the wavelets he'd made to subside.

Here Chaz was required to immerse up to his armpits, surrendering what little mobility he had. The stiff rubber leggings that protected him so reliably from the razor-sharp saw grass and lethal moccasin fangs were not designed for swimming, and would in fact fill up and drag him down like an anchor if Chaz wasn't careful.

So he waited for the water to calm, intently scanning the surface for ominous log-like snouts. In his nightmares this is where the gators always nailed him-in the pond-because he was exposed and helpless, a sitting duck. On more than one occasion Chaz had retreated in a blind froth from the monitoring station, certain he was being pursued by one or more of the flesh-eating saurians. Today the only specimen to be seen was a vividly banded newborn that would have fit easily in a shoe box. Chaz bravely stepped forward and whaled away with the two-iron, failing (as usual) to land a blow. As soon as the baby alligator was gone, Chaz made his move.

Wielding the golf club over his head, he skated his feet heavily across the muddy bottom. He was prepared to clobber anything that came to the surface, no matter how small or harmless, but nothing rose to challenge him. Along the way, he diligently paused to uproot several fresh sprouts of cattails, a small act of tidiness that Chaz believed was crucial to his future wealth and comfort.

It took only three minutes to remove a water sample from the monitoring station. Chaz made it look good, even though he was fairly certain that nobody from the district was within thirty miles of the site. Red Hammernut said they sometimes sent up helicopters to spy on the biologists in the field, but privately Chaz was doubtful. He acted out the charade of sample collecting only because it was Red's wish, and Red was the last person on earth Chaz wanted to cross.

Following his freshly cut path, he crashed and howled his way back to the levee without incident. After placing the quart-size container upright in the back of the Hummer, he kicked and wriggled out of his waders, which stunk of sweat and ripe muck. He grabbed a mango-flavored Gatorade from the cooler and sat on the bumper, the two iron propped within lunging distance. With a dirty shirtsleeve Chaz mopped the perspiration from his brow, thinking: What a steaming shithole this is! To think that the taxpayers of America are spending 8 billion bucks to save it.

Suckers, Chaz thought. If they only knew.

With the binoculars he checked in both directions along the rutted embankment. No other vehicles were visible. He squinted up at the sky and saw the omnipresent buzzards, circling clockwise, but no choppers or planes.

Satisfied, Charles Regis Perrone finished off the Gatorade and lobbed the bottle into the saw grass. Then he unscrewed the lid from the sample jar and poured the tea-colored water into the dirt at his feet.

River of grass, my ass, he thought.

Chaz was sitting in the bathtub, scrubbing off the swamp grime, when Ricca showed up.

"Are you nuts?" he said.

"Nope. Just lonely." She stepped out of her oxblood heels.

"Did anybody see you drive up? Where'd you park?"

Ricca unfastened her hoop earrings and set them next to Chaz's stick deodorant on the vanity. "What are you so jumpy about? I thought you'd be happy to see me."

In a moment she was out of her clothes, straddling him imperiously.

"But I'm not finished," Chaz said.

"Damn right you're not."

Ricca placed her palms against his chest and pushed. Chaz took a quick breath, squeezing his eyes closed as he submerged. Being a clean freak, he was concerned about the health risks of rough sex in dirty bathwater. Who knew what pernicious tropical microbes had hitched a ride back from the Everglades?

It was too late to protest. He felt like he'd been thrown into a blender with a live coyote. The bare tile amplified Ricca's feral yips and howls to soul-chilling decibels, the racket seeming louder every time Chaz came up for air. Meanwhile she was pounding against him with such zest as to generate a seismic rhythm of concussive smacks. Chaz feared that his eardrums might blow out underwater. With both arms he helmeted himself, not only to save his hearing but to prevent his skull from cracking against the brass drain plate. Ricca was as speedy as she was rambunctious, and Chaz was confident that he could outlast her, providing he didn't drown.

True to form, she was done in less than four minutes. Chaz disentangled and stork-stepped out of the bathtub, which by then was nearly empty. He grabbed a couple of towels and began mopping up the floor and the walls.

"You're somethin' else," Ricca gasped.

She was splayed in the tub like a broken doll, one foot hooked on the soap tray and the other braced against the spigot. Jet-black hair fell in a dripping tangle across half her face.

"My God, Chaz. That was fantastic."

He said, "Yeah. You damn near killed me."

"Hey, you're still hard. What's the matter?"

"Not a thing." He snatched a robe off the hook on the door.

"Didn't you come?"

"Sure I did," he lied. "All over the place."

"So that means"-Ricca pointing-"you're ready to go again? Already?"

He shrugged. "Let's get some dinner."

"You are seriously amazing." She stood up and wrung out her hair. "Wanna b.j. or something?"

Chaz peered quizzically at her crotch. "What'd you do to yourself?"

"It's a shamrock. You like it?"

"A shamrock." He hadn't noticed earlier.

"For good luck," Ricca explained. "I wanted four leaves, but I only had enough pubes for three."

Chaz was trying to remember if she was Irish.

"It took, like, an hour to do. With two mirrors," she added.

"And they make green hair dye these days?"

"You bet."

"Well, I'm impressed," Chaz said.

"Then we're even. Come here, lemme take care of that."

Chaz was unnerved to realize that he wasn't in the mood. He glanced down at himself and wondered: What the hell's the matter with me?

"I think I heard the phone," he said, and hurried to get dressed.

A few minutes later, Ricca found him slouched on a corner of the bed. He wore one brown sock and a misbuttoned shirt, and he was staring dully into an open closet.

"What's wrong?" she asked, touching his shoulder.

He shook her off dismissively.

"Baby, I was thinking," she said. "Are you gonna have a service for Joey? You probably should."

"I hate funerals. Besides, there's no body to bury."

Ricca said, "A memorial service, I mean. They do it all the time for people who get burnt up in plane crashes, or when a ship sinks and everybody's lost at sea."

Chaz insisted there was no point. "Joey's only family is some hermit brother who lives on the other side of the world."

"What about her friends?"

"So, I'll put a notice in the paper. They can make donations to the World Wildlife Mission. Save the endangered yaks or whatever."

Ricca smoothed her skirt and sat beside him on the bed. "What happens next? I guess you've gotta have her declared legally… you know…"

"Dead?"

"Right."

"Christ, Ricca, it's only been a few days."

"Eventually, I mean."

"There's no rush," Chaz said.

That damn detective, Rolvaag, would be scrutinizing him for a while. Chaz didn't want to appear in a hurry to be single.

"How long, then?" Ricca asked.