He said: "I'm a wreck. I need to shave."

Then he said: "I don't know if I can do this."

And then he decided to just shut up and let things happen, because he really couldn't be sure that this wasn't some splendid Dilaudid dream, and that Jenna wasn't just your usual breathtaking nude mirage in white hospital stockings.

She studied him from an artist's pose, arms folded, a finger on her lips. "This is going to be tricky. I guess I'd better get on top." And she did.

Smothered in delight, Keyes kissed Jenna's neck and throat and collarbone and whatever else he could get his mouth on. He half-hugged her, using the arm that wasn't attached to the intravenous tube, and played his fingers down her spine. Jenna seemed to enjoy it. She arched, then pressed down hard with her hips. Her aim was perfect.

"Have you missed me, Brian?"

"Yup." Which was all the breath he had left.

Jenna sat up, straddling him. Her eyes were liquid and, for once, not so far away. She swayed gently with a hand on each bed rail, as if riding a sled.

"Am I hurting you?" she asked with one of those killer smiles. "I didn't think so."

Partly out of passion and partly to get the weight off his tortured diaphragm, Keyes pulled her down. He kissed her lightly on the mouth and right away she closed her eyes. At first she was tentative, maybe even nervous, but soon she started doing all the amazing things she used to do when they were lovers; things he'd never forgotten but never thought he'd experience again.

Lovemaking with Jenna had always been an emotional workout for Brian Keyes—shock therapy for the heart. True to form, his brain shut down the moment she pressed against him. He totally forgot where he was and why he was there. He forgot his stitches, he forgot his collapsed lung, and he forgot the tube gurgling out of his side. He forgot the nurse, who was pounding on the door. He even forgot Ida Kimmelman and the goddamn crocodile.

He forgot everything but Jenna and Wiley.

"What about Skip?" he whispered between nibbles. "I thought you were madly in love with Skip."

"Hush now," Jenna said, guiding his free hand. "And try not to kick the I.V."

Jesus Bernal finally got a chance to build another bomb, thanks to Ricky Bloodworth.

On the morning of December 12, the Miami Sunpublished its first front-page story about Las Noches de Diciembre.It was not a flawless piece of journalism but it stirred excitement at Skip Wiley's Everglades bivouac.

The lead of the story focused on the ominous El Fuegoletter discovered in Ida Kimmelman's condominium mailbox. A trusting Broward County detective had read the contents to Ricky Bloodworth (Dear Otter Creek Shuffleboard Club. Welcome to the Revolution!)and Bloodworth realized he had a hot one. He worked the phones like a boiler-room pro, pestering every cop he knew until he unearthed the fact that this Fuegoletter was the fourth of its kind. Thus the murder of B. D. "Sparky" Harper finally was linked to the disappearance of the Shriner, the abduction of the Canadian woman at the Seaquarium, and now the unsolved kidnapping of Ida Kimmelman. Of course, neither the police nor Ricky Bloodworth knew precisely what had happened to the last three victims—who could have guessed?—but it was still quite a list. Especially if you tacked on the savage stabbing of private investigator Brian Keyes.

This front-page attention thrilled Skip Wiley, and in a brief campfire ceremony he thanked his fellow radicals for their patience. "Remember ye this day!" he told them. "On this day we are born to the eyes of America. Today the Miami Sun,tomorrow USA Today!"

None of the conspirators were identified in Bloodworth's story, and Brian Keyes's description of his "Slavic" abductors was repeated as if it were an established fact. Wiley admired the yarn as a stroke of originality.

There was one significant error in Ricky Bloodworth's story which, when read aloud by Jesus Bernal, made Skip Wiley roll his eyes, Viceroy Wilson laugh out loud, and Tommy Tigertail shrug. It was a shrug Tommy saved for extremely stupid behavior by white people. Somehow Ricky Bloodworth had managed to screw up the name of Wiley's group and referred to it throughout the story as Las Nachos de Diciembre,which translates exactly as one might suppose. Skip Wiley had been in the newspaper business too long not to be tickled by this mistake, but Jesus Bernal was apoplectic. "Nachos!" he shrieked. "This is your brilliant publicity coup? We are now world-famous nachos!" With that Jesus Bernal shredded the newspaper and declared that he'd never experienced such humiliation in all his days in the underground. Skip Wiley suspected that, more than anything, Bernal resented the Mexican insinuation.

"Relax," he told Jesus. "We'll straighten this out soon enough, won't we?"

Several persons were deeply displeased to see Ricky Bloodworth's story. One was Cab Mulcahy, who sensed Skip Wiley's demented hand behind the El Fuegocaper. Mulcahy could see disaster looming. For the newspaper. For himself. For all Miami. He shriveled at the vision of a handcuffed Wiley being led up the steps of the Dade County Courthouse—wild-eyed and foamy-mouthed, bellowing one of his dark axioms. Every major paper in America would cover the extravaganza: Columnist Goes on Trial as Mass Murderer.It would be better than Manson because Skip Wiley was more coherent. Skip Wiley was a hell of a quote.

Despite his premonitions, Cab Mulcahy knew there was little he could do until he was absolutely sure.

Another person who cringed at the sight of Richard L. Bloodworth's byline was Detective Harold Keefe, who'd nearly succeeded in convincing the police hierarchy that a renegade cop had dreamed up those crazy letters. Harold Keefe had refused to speak with Bloodworth the night before and now was sorry he hadn't. Keefe could have used the opportunity to drop the dime on Al Garcia and derail all this freaky Las Nochescrap. Now it was too late, a veritable disaster. The chief was furious, I.A.D. was on red alert, and the Chamber of Commerce was handing out cyanide capsules.

As Harold Keefe studied the front page of the Miami Sun,he decided to retaliate swiftly, utilizing the police department's vast apparatus for equivocation. He would compose a public statement to put the whole Nacho case in a sober perspective. The wording would be dicey, considering the publicity, but Keefe would stick to the original platform: The murder of B. D. Harper is unrelated to the subsequent disappearance of tourists ... No evidence of foul play ... The Fuegoletters are a sick hoax perpetrated by a disgruntled policeman (for support, quote from Dr. Remond Courtney's report to the chief) ... Close by saying the whole matter remains under investigation ... an internalinvestigation. Pretty tidy, Keefe thought.

He recorded two versions of the statement, a thirty-second loop for radio and two fifteen-second sound bites for TV. The tapes were copied and the cassettes distributed to broadcast reporters in the lobby of police headquarters. Full texts of the press release (in English, Spanish, and Creole) were hand-delivered to all Miami newspapers; a studio eight-by-ten of Harold Keefe was conveniently included in the package.

Keefe' s statement was released just in time for the noon news on radio and television.

Tommy Tigertail was driving east on Alligator Alley when he heard the broadcast. He turned around and cruised back to tell Skip Wiley.

"I'll be damned, a cover-up!" Wiley exclaimed. The Indian had found him fishing near the secret campsite. Wiley was dressed in a buckskin jacket and Fila tennis shorts; he wore an Australian bush hat with a red emblem on the crown. He listened closely to Tommy Tigertail's account of the police press release, and winced at the mention of Dr. Remond Courtney.