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old now, Nemo had developed a taste for Corona and anything else he could swallow.
    â€œManolo’ll be back soon with some food . . . alimento ,” he said, petting the hot fur on the dog’s black head. It was a wonder the sun didn’t cook its brains, but an old mestizo had once told Gabe that what kept out the cold, kept out the heat too. He grabbed the dog by the ears and wriggled its head. “Thermos-brain,” he teased as he held out his hand. “Gimme your paw, buddy.”
    Ears perking, Nemo cocked his head at Gabe, ignoring his hand and wriggling fingers. It was hopeless. Nemo had a mind of his own. He still did what he pleased, when he pleased.
    At the end of the rickety dock where a bait shop and market conducted a fair business with the local fishermen and two wooden charter boats, a delivery truck distracted Gabe. When the sport fishing and nature boom spread from the Boca Paila peninsula to Punta Azul, it would ruin the place in Gabe’s opinion.
    From his vantage, Gabe could see the large thatched roof of the ecolodge, recently replaced after a hurricane caved in the old one. It protruded from the thick green jungle surroundings. The rectangular building, constructed on raised pilings to protect it from a prospective storm surge, contained the office, kitchen, and dining room. A wooden bridge crossing a small pond led to a dozen guest cottages, which were scattered around a central bath and shower house containing facilities for men on one side and women on the other.
    Gabe could envision settling down in a place like this, off the beaten path—with a good hot water heater, of course. Maybe—
    The beep of a horn drew Gabe’s attention to the dirt road leading to the village. A dark blue SUV braked for a mother hen and her chicks to scurry into the lush thicket. Loaded inside and out, the Chevy Suburban crossed the cleared lot behind the bait shack and market and headed toward the Las Palapas lodge. The vehicle had hardly come to a stop when its doors swung open, spilling out passengers—on the side facing Gabe, a skinny kid with glasses and Dr. Jeanne Madison.
    Clad in khaki shorts, a red tank top, and a baseball cap, the lady PhD stretched the kinks out of what had been a long ride from the northeast, reaching for the treetops and then bending down to touch her toes.
    â€œNow, there’s a sight for sore eyes,” Gabe muttered to his tail-wagging companion.
    As she straightened, Jeanne placed her hands firmly at her waist and surveyed her surroundings as though ready to take on the world. And undoubtedly the world would be taken, Gabe mused, scratching Nemo’s head. If there was a snowball’s chance in the Yucatán that this gig would pan out, it was definitely with her.
    Gabe had done his homework on Dr. Jeanne Madison and Genesis Corporation. She could have been the son his parents wanted, an overachiever to whom fate seemed to bow. Not many had a doctorate at the age of twenty-six, and fewer still managed to put together an expedition like this on their first year out. And no one ever got the Mexican government to cooperate fully with her plans in six months.
    With a swing of a golden brown ponytail, the subject of Gabe’s attention met his gaze with her own. Recognition burst on her face like the sun on the eastern horizon, and Jeanne waved with unbridled enthusiasm.
    â€œCaptain Avery!”
    Mistaking her excitement as intended for him, Nemo lunged forward before Gabe could stop him, leaping across the short span between the ship and the dock. With a throaty “Woof!” he answered, his big paws thundering down the dried, warped planking landward bound.
    Seeing Jeanne’s expression waver at the sight of seventy pounds of slobbering flesh intent on an exuberant greeting, Gabe suddenly came to. “Nemo!” he shouted, taking a similar leap for the dock in hot pursuit.
    But Gabe’s long stride was no match for the