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imperative that they find the dead man’s missing partner as soon as possible.
    W HEN THE GREATER MOON SLIPPED behind the clouds that had tiptoed north from Cuba, the owl’s eyes appeared as two smaller substitute satellites. Killing claws locked it firmly in place on the mangrove branch overhanging the water as it hooted softly. Below, a brace of two-meter-long white caiman lay motionless as scabrous logs, waiting for something edible and unaware to come drifting by. The air was still, heavy, and saturated. A steady chorus of nocturnal insects voiced their approval.
    Whispr was likewise wringing wet, but he was most definitely not still. Though lanky beyond imagining, he was neither weak nor feeble. His muscles were thin but strong strings and he powered his way through the water and reeds with a determination and knowledge born of frequent flights from the law.
    He had tried to tell Jiminy that the dead man’s hand was bad news. The quality of it, the superb workmanship, all hinted that its owner was no ordinary citizen, just as the prosthetic was no ordinary meld. Whispr did not doubt for a minute that the sudden and unexpected arrival of so many police was connected with the hand they had tried to sell. Dwelling as it did on the cusp of legitimacy as well as the edge of town, Swallower’s business was hardly unknown to the authorities. Were they so inclined they could have shut it down anytime they wished. On technicalities if not on straightforward charges. The presence of custom-tailored poisonous snakes and scythe-clawed cats notwithstanding, it would not require multiple police floaters to close him up.
    Had he not been on the lookout for ancillary police apparatus like the searcher drone, Whispr probably would not have seen it coming his way. Gliding silently through the air a few meters above the treetops, only its small subdued red ident lights indicated its presence. Fortunately, he had noticed its approach while he was still just out of range. Its fan-shaped detectors had not yet reached his location. He could not outrun the drone, of course. With his powerful melded legs Jiminy might be able to do so. Whispr’s alters were of a different nature.
    But not necessarily less effective.
    A range of hardy, salt-tolerant trees rose from the swamp. Choosing the densest grove, Whispr forced himself into its center. The nearly dry land from which they sprang beckoned to traditional North American water moccasins, copperheads, and coral snakes, not to mention dangerous intertidal immigrants from much farther south like the occasional anaconda. At the moment, serpents were the least of his worries.
    Finding a suitable groove in the trunk of a stately old oak, he half closed his eyes and set in motion a pair of melds that were wholly internalized. Half physical adjustment, half mental, when activated in combination they allowed him to dramatically moderate his heart rate. So much so that within moments his blood flow had been considerably slowed. Responding, his body restricted and concentrated the flow to the most important organs. One result was that unless it flew right over the top of him a police scanner would be hard-pressed to identify his greatly reduced heat signature as that of a human being.
    Sure enough, the searcher drone passed well off to the left without pausing to focus in his direction. A running man, or even one standing and breathing hard, would immediately have drawn the attention of the drone’s sensors. Concealed within the protective fold of his oak, Whispr did not.
    Nevertheless, he remained where and as he was until the scanner had vanished in the direction of the western horizon. Reviving himself and restoring the full flow of blood to his body, he noticed a faint glow in the scanner’s wake. Having nothing to do with the police search that was obviously in full swing, the faint light heralded the approaching dawn.
    Breaking from the cover of the trees he resumed his muddy slog cityward.