Jesus Bernal cut Keyes loose and stood him up.

Skip Wiley said, "Brian, this is Mrs. Kimmelman."

"Skip, are you nuts?" Keyes said. "This is kidnapping! You and your merry men are gonna wind up at Raiford."

"Mrs. Kimmelman and her late husband discovered South Florida in 1962," Wiley said, "when they spent two weeks on gorgeous sundrenched Miami Beach. Stayed at the Beau Rivage, shopped at Lincoln Road. Went to see a Jackie Gleason show live, right, Mrs. Kimmelman?"

Ida Kimmelman nodded.

"Had such a good time, they came back again and again," Wiley said, "and when Mr. Kimmelman, rest his soul, retired, they moved down here for good. Bought a unit out at Otter Creek Village, forty-two-five at twelve percent. A very tasteful place, Mrs. Kimmelman, I must say."

"Mmmmmm," Ida Kimmelman protested through the tape.

"Skip, let her go."

"Can't do that, Brian."

Viceroy Wilson held one of Ida Kimmelman's pale arms, and Tommy Tigertail the other. Wiley jerked his head and they led her out of the clearing into the darkness.

"Skip, I don't need to see any more. Let her go and I'll do what you want. I'll go back and tell the cops you mean business."

"No, I think you need to be convinced," Wiley said. "I know Iwould. Skeptics, you and I both, Brian. Take nobody's word for anything. First law of good journalism: if your mom says she loves you, check it out first."

Jesus Bernal handed Brian Keyes his trousers and said something sternly in Spanish.

"Put your pants on," Wiley translated, "and follow me."

In great strides Wiley crashed through the brush while Keyes struggled to keep up. Saw-grass and grape-sized pine burs bit into his bare feet, but Jesus Bernal stayed close enough to prod him with his beloved knife whenever Keyes faltered.

Ahead Wiley broke from the shelter of the hammock and took a ragged trail through an open, flat expanse of swamp. A juggernaut of noise, he was just as easy to track by sight, the cream-colored smock fluttering in the gray night.

Keyes found himself trotting faster to escape the insects, but dreading what awaited him. Jesus Bernal gave no clues, grunting with each step.

After ten minutes the sprint ended abruptly at water's edge. Keyes caught his breath and studied the scene by yellow lantern light: Mrs. Kimmelman, whimpering on the ground where they had laid her; Wiley, looking haunted but anticipatory; Viceroy Wilson, cool, unexerted, and bored; Tommy Tigertail, up to his knees in the water, his back to the light; and Jesus Bernal, swatting bugs off his sweaty arms.

"Tommy," Wiley said, panting, "do the honors, please."

Tommy Tigertail splashed the water with both hands and began to clap.

"Skip?" Keyes whispered.

"Shhhh!"

Tommy cupped his hands to his mouth and barked in a deep gravelly voice: "Aaaarkk! Aaaarkk!" He slapped the water at his feet.

Skip Wiley extended the lantern and peered into the marsh. "Here, boy!" he sang out.

"Oh God," said Brian Keyes.

A massive shadow cut a clean V in the silky water and made no noise as it swam. Its eyes shone ruby-red, and the snaking of its prehistoric tail cast a roiling wake.

Now Brian Keyes knew what had happened to Sparky Harper.

"His name is Pavlov," Wiley said. "He is a North American crocodile, one of only about thirty left in the entire world. He's a shade over seventeen feet and weighs about the same as a Porsche 915. All that tonnage with a brain no bigger than a tangerine. Isn't nature wonderful, Brian? Who said God doesn't have a sense of humor?"

Keyes was awestruck. He watched Tommy Tigertail lean over to stroke the giant reptile's armored snout. From where he stood Keyes could hear its breath hissing.

"Is it ... tame?"

Wiley laughed. "Lord, no! He knows Tommy brings the food but there's no loyalty there, Brian. See, crocodiles are different from alligators. Tommy grew up around gators and he could tell you better than I."

Without taking his eyes off the beast, Tommy said, "Crocs are meaner, more aggressive. Gators get fat and lazy."

Wiley said, "You won't ever see a Seminole wrestle a crocodile, will you, Tommy?"

"Never," Tommy agreed. "Have to be crazy."

Keyes was afraid that anything he said might hasten the ceremony, so he said nothing. If only Wiley would keep jabbering, maybe the damn crocodile would get bored and swim away. Meanwhile Ida Kimmelman was sobbing and Jesus Bernal hovered watchfully, in case she tried to get up and run. Keyes wondered if Ida had figured out the plan by now.

"This is not murder," Wiley declared, "it's social Darwinism. Two endangered species, Pavlov there and Mrs. Kimmelman, locked in mortal combat. To the victor goes the turf. That's how it ought to be, Brian."

"It's not fair, Skip."

"Fair? There are nine million Mrs. Kimmelmans between here and Tallahassee, and thirty fucking crocodiles. Is that fair? Who has the legitimate right to be here? Who does this place really belong to?"

Wiley was hitting warp speed. Keyes backed off and tried another strategy.

"Mr. Wilson," he said, "please don't let this happen."

Viceroy Wilson just wanted the whole thing to be over so he could go back to the campfire and sleep off a couple joints. It wasn't his idea to do it quite this way; this was something cooked up by Wiley and the Indian. Viceroy Wilson went along to expedite the revolutionary process and also to avoid irritating the Indian, who, after all, was very generous with his Cadillac.

So Viceroy Wilson said to Keyes: "You don't like it, close your goddamn eyes." Which was exactly what Viceroy Wilson planned to do.

As for Pavlov, he seemed to drift leisurely in the pond not far from Tom Tigertail's ankles. The leviathan's eyes, two burning barbecue coals, gave nothing away. Keyes imagined he saw bemusement there—as if the carnivorous dinosaur were just playing along with Skip Wiley's schemes.

At Wiley's instruction, Jesus Bernal tore the hurricane tape from Ida Kimmelman's mouth and cut the ropes on her wrists. Immediately she began bellowing so loudly that the crocodile was drawn closer to shore.

"Please be quiet!" Wiley commanded.

"Who do you think you are—"

"Shut up, Mrs. Kimmelman! This is going to be a fair contest, despite what Mr. Keyes says. You and Pavlov are going for a swim. If you survive, you can go home."

"But what's the meaning of this?" Ida cried.

Wiley clenched his jaw and rubbed at his temples. "It is a contest, pure and simple. You and Pavlov have laid claim to the same territory"—he waved his hand at the Glades—"and always such disputes must be settled by battle. Two primitive animals fighting for elemental needs. It's the natural order. How's that for meaning?"

"But I can't swim!" Ida Kimmelman said.

"So what? Pavlov can't play bridge. Sounds like you're even to me." Wiley snapped his fingers. "Viceroy!"

Viceroy Wilson seized Mrs. Kimmelman by the shoulders and firmly guided her toward the water. Tommy Tigertail stepped out of the pond, drying his arms with the towel.

"Brian, this may get a little rough," Wiley cautioned. "You'd better sit down."

Keyes felt shaky and nauseated. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He took one queasy step toward Viceroy Wilson, then another, and finally a scream came to his throat and he was able to launch himself at the football player.

He grabbed on with both hands, snarling as he dug his fingernails into the jet flesh. By the look on his face, Viceroy Wilson obviously was surprised at Keyes's strength.

Keyes felt the athlete's neck cords tighten in his grip, and saw Mrs. Kimmelman wilt to the ground between them. The lantern strobed, and then came shouting: "No, Jesus! Stop!"

Skip Wiley's voice, but not in time.

Keyes felt the fiery rip beneath his right armpit and, on the inside, something metal scrape his ribs. His hands turned to cork and he fell back, gasping. A rush of heat drenched his flank. Even with Wiley and the Cuban on his back, Keyes somehow held his balance until Viceroy Wilson put him down with a vengeful right cross to the jaw.