On the way through the gate I paused and spoke to the uniformed cop there, a large heavy man with black hair and a very low forehead. "Could you keep one eye on my kids there?" I asked him.

He stared at me. "What am I, day-care patrol?" "Just for a few minutes," I said. "They're very well behaved."

"Lookit, sport," he said, but before he could finish his sentence there was a rustle of movement and Deborah was beside us.

"God damn it, Dexter!" she said. "Get your ass on the boat!" "I'm sorry," I said. "I have to find somebody to watch the kids."

Deborah ground her teeth together. Then she glanced at the big cop and read his name tag. "Suchinsky," she said. "Watch the fucking kids." "Aw, come on, Sarge," he said. "Jesus Christ." "Stick with the kids, goddamn it," she said. "You might learn something. Dexter-get on the goddamn boat, now!"

I turned meekly and hurried for the goddamn boat. Deborah strode past me and was already seated when I jumped on, and the cop driving the boat headed for one of the smaller islands, weaving between the anchored sailboats.

There are several small islands on the outside of Dinner Key Marina that provide protection from wind and wave, one of the things that makes it such a good anchorage. Of course, it's only good under ordinary circumstances, as the islands themselves proved. They were littered with broken boats and other maritime junk deposited by the many recent hurricanes, and every now and then a squatter would set up housekeeping, building a shack from shattered boat parts.

The island we headed for was one of the smaller ones. Half of a forty-foot sports fisherman lay on the beach at a crazy angle, and the pine trees inland of the beach were hung with chunks of Styrofoam, tattered cloth, and wispy shreds of plastic sheeting and garbage bags. Other than that, it was just the way the Native Americans had left it, a peaceful little chunk of land covered with Australian pines, condoms, and beer cans. Except, of course, for Kurt Wagner's body, which had most likely been left by someone other than Native Americans. It was lying in the center of the island in a small clearing, and like the others, it had been arranged in a formal pose, with the arms folded across the chest and the legs pressed together. The body was headless and unclothed, charred from being burned, very much like the others-except that this time there had been a small addition. Around the neck was a leather string holding a pewter medallion about the size of an egg. I leaned closer to look; it was a bull's head.

Once again I felt a strange twinge in the emptiness, as if some part of me were recognizing that this was significant, but didn't know why or how to express it-not alone, not without the Passenger.