I rolled to my knees and sat up too fast. As I waited for the dizziness to go away, I noticed a dark, powdery tracing on the concrete slab under the sewage tank-something so small that the pollution inspectors might never have noticed. I touched it and, in the faint light from the docks, saw red on my fingers.

Rust. The old tank was rusting away.

I reached underneath and found a patch of pitted metal that crumbled like stale crackers. Peeling it away, I made a hole so large that I could stick my fist inside.

The sewer tank wasn't just empty, it was wrecked and useless-a phony prop in Dusty Muleman's scam.

Suddenly the knot on my head didn't hurt so much. I stuffed a handful of rust into my pocket, and took off.

The next afternoon Mom insisted on driving all the way to Homestead for groceries because nobody there knew who she was. Dad's TV interview was the buzz of the Keys, and she didn't want to deal with the stares and whispers at the local market.

After she and Abbey left, I sat down and watched the tape. My father was in rare form. He looked straight into the camera and declared: “I sunk the Coral Queen as an act of civil disobedience.” He said he was protesting the destruction of the oceans and rivers by “ruthless greedheads.”

The jailhouse jumpsuit didn't look half bad on television, I had to admit. Dad had also combed his hair and put on his wire-rimmed glasses, so he came off more like a college professor than a boat vandal. This time he had the good sense not to compare himself to Nelson Mandela (or if he did, the TV people were nice enough to cut that part out). My father ended the interview by saying he intended to stay locked behind bars until the law dealt squarely with Dusty Muleman.

Next to show up on camera was a rodent-faced man who identified himself as Dusty's attorney. In a righteous tone he described his client as an experienced boat captain, respected businessman, and “pillar of the community.” He said that Dusty would never purposely contaminate the waters where his own son played. The lawyer concluded by calling my father a “mentally unbalanced individual,” and challenged him to prove his “reckless and slanderous allegations.”

As I was rewinding the tape, somebody knocked on the front door. It was Mr. Shine, Dad's lawyer. For once he didn't look like he was on his way to a funeral.

“Hello there, Noah,” he said.

“Mom's not here.”

“Oh. I should've called first, but I just received some important news.”

“About Dad? What is it?”

Mr. Shine sucked air through his teeth. “Sorry. I'm obliged to tell your mother first.”

“Is it bad news?” I asked.

“No, I should think not.”

“Then tell me. Please?”

“I wish I could,” Mr. Shine said.

Thanks a bunch, I thought. Couldn't he even give me a hint?

“Did you see him on TV last night?” I asked.

Mr. Shine nodded with a sickly expression. “I strongly advised your father against doing that interview.”

“But he's right, you know-about Dusty Muleman flushing the holding tank into the basin. Everything Dad said was true.”

“I'm sure he thought so at the time.”

“It's all going to come out sooner or later. You just wait.”

Mr. Shine plainly didn't believe me. “Please tell your mother that I'll call later,” he said, and turned to leave.

“Can I ask one more question?”

“Of course, Noah.”

“Is my mom going to divorce my dad?”

Mr. Shine looked like he'd swallowed a bad clam. “What?” he croaked. “Where in the world did you get that idea?”

“Well, is she?”

He licked nervously at his lips. “Noah, quite frankly, I'm not comfortable with this conversation.”

“Hey, I'm not comfortable with the idea of Mom and Dad splitting up,” I said, “but Abbey and I have a right to know. Don't we?”

By now Mr. Shine was backing away from the door. “You should speak directly with your parents about these concerns,” he said, “and in the meantime, don't jump to conclusions…”

For an older guy he could move pretty fast. In a matter of moments he had hustled to his car and sped away.

I went back inside and replayed the videotape of Dad's interview. I kept wondering what Mr. Shine had come to tell my mother, although I had a feeling that his definition of good news might be different from mine.

Later I climbed up on the roof to readjust the TV dish, or try. I wiggled the darn thing around so that it was aimed upward at the sky, although I had no idea exactly where the satellites were orbiting. It wouldn't have surprised me to start getting MTV from Kyrgyzstan.

I unhooked the incriminating bucktail jig from the dish and started scaling down the rain gutter. Just then I heard honking, and a green Jeep Cherokee wheeled into our driveway. Shelly poked her blond head out the window and hollered my name.

I dropped to the ground and went to see what she wanted.

“Hop in,” she told me, “and hurry it up. I'm not gettin' any younger.”

I got in because I was scared to say no. The thought of Shelly chasing me down and dragging me feet-first into her Jeep was not appealing.

As I fumbled to put on the seat belt, she peeled out of the driveway and raced toward Highway One. It was a while before I got up the nerve to ask where we were going.

“Why? You got a hot date or somethin'?” she said.

I decided not to mention the silver-barreled gun that lay on the console between us.

“Shelly, is something wrong?”

She laughed sourly. “You don't miss a trick, do you?”

Even though she was wearing black sunglasses, I could tell she'd been crying. She was still sniffling and her voice sounded scratchy.

“'Member what I told you about Lice runnin' away?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Well, turns out I had it wrong,” she said.

“Did he come home?” I asked.

Shelly shook her head. “They finally towed the Jeep back from Cutler Ridge. Two hundred bucks-I had to pawn my promise ring to pay for it,” she said. “Know how I spent my morning, Noah?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Scrubbing bloodstains off the upholstery!”

I had thought it felt damp on the seat. “Blood? You sure?”

“See, I missed a spot.” Shelly pointed to a dark reddish smudge on the dashboard. “I don't think Lice ran away,” she confided. “I think he got snatched. And”-here she made a hard left turn, nearly spilling the gun onto my lap-“I think whoever snatched him killed him.”

“What!”

“That's right, Noah.” She buried her nose in a tissue. “And I think it's all 'cause of your daddy and that gamblin' boat.”

I'd never been so close to a woman with a tattoo-or, I should say, a tattoo I could see for myself. Rado claimed that his older sister had gone off to college and gotten a tiny zebra butterfly tattooed on her butt. Thom and I had to take his word for this, since neither of us had ever seen enough of Rado's sister to confirm the story.

Strange as it sounds, the more I stared at the tattoo on Shelly's arm, the more natural it looked. The barbed wire definitely suited her personality.

“Relax. The pistol ain't real,” she said. “It's a lighter.”

When she pulled the trigger, a bright blue flame flared from the barrel.

“It looks pretty bad, though, huh? Bad enough to scare anybody tries to give me trouble,” Shelly said.

For more than an hour we'd been heading down the highway, obviously to nowhere in particular. Shelly kept saying she had more to tell me, but then she'd get worked up about Lice Peeking and what a “total zero” he was, and how she must be a fool to care about him. Afterward she'd cry and sniffle for a while, but just when I thought she had a grip on herself it would start all over again.

We were all the way to Sugarloaf Key before she turned the Jeep around and grumbled, “Where the heck was I goin'?” On the way back she pulled into the parking lot on the Marathon end of the old Seven Mile Bridge. The place was full of tourists who were tinkering with their cameras, getting ready to shoot pictures of the sunset. It was too cloudy for a green flash, and besides, I was too distracted to stand there and look for it.