"Well, look who's here," she said. "Pull up a chair. Larry King is interviewing Julie Andrews. What a doll she is."

"I brung you some supper." Tool placed a covered dish on the bed tray. "It ain't very hot. Do they got a microwave somewheres?"

"Why, thank you, Earl." Maureen lifted the lid and said, "It smells grand. What is it?"

"Uh, chicken. Swamp chicken, they call it."

"Doctor says I'm supposed to steer clear of fried foods, but I can't honestly see the harm. Since I'm dying anyway, right?" She picked up a piece of fried alligator and popped it in her mouth.

"Good, huh? "Tool said.

Maureen nodded eagerly as she chewed. And chewed.

"The food they serve us in here is a horror," she whispered. "Fresh poultry is a real treat."

"Well, I'm glad you like it. Now I better go."

"Already? Please sit and visit."

"I got a 'portant bidness meetin'."

"At night? What kind of business, if I might ask."

"Bodyguardin'," Tool said.

Maureen's blue eyes sparkled. "That's so interesting, Earl. What sorts of people do you guard? Dignitaries? Diplomats? Show business types, I bet."

"Not hardly."

"Oh." She sounded disappointed.

"The job I'm on now, he's a doctor," Tool said, though he considered the title a hype job, as attached to Chaz Perrone.

"A doctor-well, that's something!"

"Only he don't work on people. He's, like, some kinda scientist."

Maureen said, "He must be very important, to need personal protection."

"Don't get me started."

"Is he with you now? I'd enjoy meeting him."

Tool said, "He ain't no charmer, trust me. Thinks the world of his-self but, I swear, the nigras and spies used to pick tomatoes for me had more common sense than-"

Maureen's bony fist shot out and nailed Tool in the soft declivity below the sternum. He bent double and heard himself deflate like a tractor tire.

"Earl! Shame on you!" she said. "Don't you ever use that kind of hateful language around me."

He hung on to the bed rail, slowly straightening himself.

"What would your mother do," Maureen went on, "if she were alive to hear you talk like that?"

"Sh-sh-she's the one I learnt it from," he wheezed. "Her and my daddy both."

"Then shame on them, too. Here"-she handed him a Dixie cup from the bed tray-"drink up. You'll feel better."

"Damn," Tool said, gulping at the water. The crazy old witch had really thumped him. In his whole life he couldn't remember anybody ever throwing a punch at him and getting clean away with it. Once he'd damn near crippled a couple of sorry beaners just for lookin' at him funny-like in the package store.

Staring now at Maureen, as frail and brittle as a fallen leaf, Tool knew he could have killed her with the back of his hand. Strangely, though, he didn't want to. And it wasn't as if he was holding back the urge, he just plain had no desire to harm the woman, despite what she'd done. He wasn't pissed, either, which was even more confusing. What he felt-and he wasn't sure why-was sorry.

He heard himself say so.

Maureen reached out and plucked at his sleeve. "And I'm sorry, too, Earl, for striking you. It wasn't very Christian of me," she said. "How are you fixed for medicine?"

"Fine, ma'am. The patches you give me this mornin' ought to last for the weekend."

"You know, my husband was a Chicago police officer."

"You tole me, yes'm."

"One time he used the word nigger. I heard him let it slip," Maureen said. "He was on the phone to his sergeant or somebody. He said, 'Some nigger robbed a Korean grocery and we chased him into Lake Michigan.' When he hung up, I tapped him on the shoulder-he was a big fella, too-and I said, 'Patrick, if I ever hear you use that hateful word again, I'm taking the kids and moving back to Indianapolis to live with Aunt Sharon.' And you know what?"

"He never done it again."

She smiled. "That's right, Earl. Do you believe God made each of us in His own image?"

Tool said, "I ain't always so sure." He crossed his arms across his belly in case she took another swipe at him.

"To be honest, some days I wonder myself," Maureen said. "They've got one nurse here, Earl, I swear she's on loan from the depths of hell. Talk about the b word! But here's what I believe-can I tell you? Then you're free to be on your way."

"Sure," Tool said.

"I believe it's never too late to change. I'm eighty-one years old, but I still think I can be a better person tomorrow than I am today. And that's what I'll believe until I run out of tomorrows," she said. "Oh, one more thing-you promised to go see a surgeon."

"Yeah, I know."

"About the bullet in your you-know-what."

"I been real busy," Tool said.

"Young man, you listen here. Life's too darn short to be dragging around that kind of a personal burden."

"Yes'm."

"Now get a move on, before you miss your meeting," she said. "And be careful tonight."

"Don't worry."

"Whatever it is you're up to." Maureen flashing him a sideways glance. "Go on now, Earl."

She flicked a papery hand toward the door, and returned her attention to the television.

They got all the way to Florida City before Tool spoke, which was fine with Chaz Perrone. He wasn't thinking about the blackmail meeting; he was fantasizing about what it would be like to have $13 million, in the stupefying event that the will bearing Joey's name turned out to be authentic. The irony would be epic, for she wouldn't have left Chaz a nickel if she'd suspected him of forging the Everglades data. Since it was dated only weeks ago, the will could be legitimate only if Joey hadn't figured out Chaz's deal with Red…

Meaning he had murdered her for no reason, or at least the wrong reason.

Contemplating the possibility made him light-headed and queasy. Unless otherwise convinced, he'd stick to the more plausible hypothesis that Karl Rolvaag had fabricated the document to intimidate him.

"I'm hungry," Tool grumbled, wheeling sharply into the parking lot of a Miami Subs shop.

"Bring me a Coke and some fries," said Chaz.

"Git it yourself."

Chaz hid the.38 under the front seat and followed Tool into the restaurant. Chaz had begged and pestered for a new bodyguard, but Red Hammernut had refused, saying Tool was rock-solid.

Rock-headed is more like it, Chaz thought. They sat in a booth, Tool wolfishly attacking a turkey sub the size of a football.

"Where's the gun?" Tool, spraying half-mulched lettuce.

Chaz pointed at the car through the window.

"Ever shot anybody?" Tool asked.

"No."

"Ever shot anything?"

"Birds," Chaz said.

As a kid, he'd used a BB rifle to snipe at the sparrows and warblers that woke him in the mornings.

Tool said, "You got no bidness with a gun 'less you practice. I been shot by a joker once already and that's plenty."

"Stop worrying."

At the entrance of Everglades National Park, a ranger inquired about their lack of fishing gear and camping equipment. A notice taped to the kiosk warned against bringing firearms inside the park.

"We're meeting some friends," Chaz said. "The Thornburghs. They're in a brand-new Airstream, Michigan plates. Got an Irish setter named Mickey that rides up front. Did they come through here yet?"

"Couldn't say. I just now came on duty."

"Well, I'm sure we'll find 'em." Chaz, waving pleasantly.

A mile down the road, Tool spoke up. "Where the fuck'd you come up with that one?"

"Pretty good, huh?"

"What's a Airstream?"

Chaz said, "A motor home. You know, like a Winnebago, only not so clunky. He sure went for it, didn't he?"

"And that bullshit about the dog-you just all of a sudden thought that up?"

"Yep." Chaz couldn't tell if Tool was impressed or disgusted.