Staring up at the pinched, angry face of Jasper Muleman Jr.

“Hey, dorkbrain, where's your training wheels?” he said.

I heard a dumb hick laugh that was unmistakably Bull's. He and Jasper Jr. must have spotted me coming and ducked into the woods to wait. I sat up and saw my bike on the ground, a freshly snapped gumbo-limbo branch sticking out of the front spokes.

“That's original,” I said to Jasper Jr.

Bull snatched me up by the collar and dragged me into the trees. I could hear Jasper Jr. running after us. When we got to a clearing, Bull straightened me up, spun me around, and pinned my arms.

Jasper Jr. got right in my face. “So where's your big white-trash bodyguard? The one who knocked over my wheelbarrow.”

I wondered if he already knew that something bad had happened to Lice Peeking.

“He wasn't my bodyguard,” I replied. “He was my personal chauffeur.”

Jasper Jr. said I was a real comedian. Then he hauled off and slugged me in the gut.

“That's for Snake Creek,” he snarled, “for making me sink my johnboat.”

The punch knocked the wind out of me, and I went limp as a noodle in Bull's grip. I remember thinking of something clever to say, but all I could do was squeak like a leaking balloon. It seemed to take forever to catch my breath, and right away Jasper Jr. slugged me again.

“And that's for your crazy father sinking my father's boat,” he said.

At that point the world turned fuzzy and gray, and I thought I was history. My mouth was flapping but absolutely nothing was coming out.

I heard Jasper Jr. say, “Bull, you wanna turn?”

“No, bro, I'm good,” Bull said, and let me drop to the ground.

Immediately I closed my eyes and let my tongue hang out and pretended I was dead. It might work fabulously for possums, but it sure didn't work for me.

Jasper Jr. kicked me so hard in the thighbone that his big toe made a sharp popping sound. He started hopping around and hollering that I'd busted his foot. Bull remarked that it was usually a smart idea to put on shoes before you started kicking somebody. Jasper Jr. told him to shut up and gimped away, moaning. I heard Bull chuckling as he followed his wounded friend back to the road.

I would've been chuckling, too, if it hadn't hurt so much.

It isn't easy pretending everything's wonderful when you feel like you've been thrown off the roof of a building. Luckily, there weren't any bruises that Mom or Dad could see because this time Jasper Jr. had socked me in the stomach (not my eye), and the ugly knot on my thighbone was covered up by my pants.

I didn't tell my parents what happened because they would've freaked and gone straight to Dusty Muleman, or maybe even the police, which was not how I wanted to handle it. So I just sat around like a lump in front of the television, trying not to move. In the summer I'm always outdoors-fishing or snorkeling or skateboarding-so Abbey got suspicious about me hanging around the house every day. Mom thought it was weird, too, but she was busy keeping an eye on my father.

Mr. Shine had arranged for Dad to return to the jail and surrender himself. The sheriff couldn't wait to send him back home, although a judge put him under “house arrest” until the Coral Queen case was settled. To keep track of his whereabouts, they clipped an electronic bracelet on Dad's right ankle. If he stepped so much as three inches past our front door, a signal would beep at the sheriff's station and they'd come after him again.

For a week we were like a seminormal family, except that my father wasn't allowed out of the house. One of us always stayed with him, not just to keep him company but also to make sure he didn't try anything cute, like prying off the ankle bracelet.

We played lots of video games and watched fishing shows on ESPN and didn't talk at all about Dusty's casino boat. Abbey's new project was building an Olympic village for hermit crabs, and Dad really got into it. Abbey and I collected the crabs (there were scads of them in the woods along the Old Highway) while my father sat at the kitchen table working with his tools. Before long he'd put together a miniature track, a lap pool, a pole vault, even a hurdle run.

Unfortunately, the average hermit crab isn't particularly athletic, having to haul a clunky seashell around on its back, so the sports competition part of Abbey's project sort of fizzled. Most of the crabs hunkered down and refused to budge. Still, it gave Dad something to do that kept his mind off the Coral Queen.

Until Shelly showed up late one afternoon.

Abbey watched her get out of the Jeep and said, “This oughta be good.”

Shelly was dressed in her casino-boat bartender's outfit, which was loud and skimpy. She wore high heels and stockings that looked like they were made from a mullet net. As I opened the door to let her in, I decided it was probably a good thing that Mom wasn't home.

“Long time no see,” Shelly said to my father, and gave him a brisk, businesslike hug. Then she introduced herself to Abbey, who was gawking at the barbed-wire tattoo on Shelly's bare arm.

“How about something cold to drink?” Dad offered.

“Iced tea would be super. I can't stay long,” Shelly said.

We all sat down in the living room, Shelly crossing her legs and sipping her tea. My father was on the edge of his seat, looking like he was dying to pepper her with questions.

“How you doin', Noah?” Shelly said to me.

“Great.”

“Feelin' okay?” She gave me a narrow look to let me know that she knew I wasn't telling the truth. It was creepy how sharp her radar was.

“So, how's work?” I said, eager to change the subject.

“Work is work,” Shelly replied. Then, turning to Dad: “Paine, what's that thing on your leg?”

My father explained about the electronic bracelet. “I'm on house arrest. You believe it?”

“Boy, that really sucks,” Shelly said.

Out of nowhere Abbey asked about the tattoo. That's one thing about my sister, she's not afraid to say anything.

Shelly smiled and traced one finger along the dark blue links. “That's a story for when you're older,” she said. “It was a long night and a bad party.”

“But why barb wire?” Abbey always called it “barb” wire.

“To show the world how rough and tough I was,” said Shelly. “To be honest, I wish it was daisies instead. This thing's gonna look mighty stupid when I'm eighty years old and my grandkids are askin' how come I got a cow fence painted on my arm. Hey, Paine, can you take a bath with that ankle gizmo, or would you get all electrocuted?”

Dad laughed. “Naw, it's waterproof.”

“Amazing,” Shelly said.

“Any word from Lice?” I asked hopefully.

She shook her head. “But I got some other news. That's why I stopped over.”

We waited as she glugged a long drink from her glass.

“They're at it again,” she said. “Dumpin' the toilet tanks into the water. Last night I stayed late to restock the bar, and I saw it for myself. Dusty was already gone with the money, and I guess the crew didn't know I was still there.”

I noticed that my father's fists were clenched on the arms of his chair. Abbey saw it, too.

“They just hung the hose off the side of the boat,” Shelly went on, “like it was business as usual.”

“What time was this?” Dad asked.

“Between one and one-thirty. The marina was empty,” Shelly said.

Abbey spoke up again. “That man is major scum.”

“No doubt,” said Shelly. “And here's what else. The big bald guy with the Z-shaped nose? The one who came to see Lice that night before he went missing? His name's Luno, and he's Dusty's main muscle. I think he's from Morocco or someplace like that.”

I purposely didn't look at Abbey. Neither of us had told my father that she'd bitten Dusty's goon that night at the marina when he snuck up and grabbed her. Dad would've gone bonkers if he found out.