“Neither,” he said, “I was thinking along the lines of Stephen King.”
“A horror story?”
“Sure. The Estrangement. What do you think?”
JoLayne said, “Scary.”
She told him her idea to make a nature preserve of Simmons Wood. She intended to speak to a lawyer about inserting a conservation easement in her deed, so the property could never be developed.
“Even after I’m dead,” she said. “That’ll fix the greedy bastards.”
“Will you stay in Grange?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether there’s any other black folks in Alaska,” she said. “Doesn’t have to be many—one would be fine, as long as it’s Luther Vandross.”
“Might as well aim high,” Tom said.
“Hey, I’m inviting myself, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
He wondered if she was serious. It sounded like it.
“Try to control yourself, Tom.”
“I was just thinking it’s too good to be true.” He slipped an arm around her.
“You mean it?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“Let’s say I do. Say we both mean it,” JoLayne said. “What happens if we don’t find the lottery ticket? If we’re broke and bummed out.”
“We’ll go anyway. Don’t you want to see a grizzly before they’re all gone?”
JoLayne loved the thought of a northern wilderness, but she wondered about the redneck quotient. Alaska was almost as famous for its shitkickers as for its wildlife.
Tom said, “And the place is loaded with eagles, according to what I’ve read.”
“That would be something.”
She fell asleep with her head against his shoulder. He remained awake, listening for intruders. With his free arm he moved the Remington closer. A cool gust made him shiver. Sixty-three degrees, he thought, and already my bones are cold. Perhaps the Kodiak scenario needed more thought. Also, he’d gotten the impression JoLayne wasn’t bowled over by his idea for the divorce novel. He had a feeling she was humoring him.
He was tinkering with the plot when he was startled by flapping behind him—the stately heron, returning. This time it stood on the bow of the boat. Tom Krome saluted. The bird paid no attention; a small silvery fish wriggled in its beak.
Nice work, Krome thought, especially in a deluge.
Then the heron did something unexpected. It let go of the fish, which bounced off the slick deck and landed on the grass-covered beach. The bird made no move to retrieve its meal. Instead it froze like an iron weather vane, its head erect and its snakelike neck extended.
Uh-oh, Krome said to himself. What does it hear?
He didn’t have to wait long. Between the stutter of the gunshots and the woman’s scream, the great blue flared its wings and took off. This time it flew away from the island, into the teeth of the squall, and this time it made no sound.
Amber had never witnessed gunfire.
She’d heard it before, of course; everyone who lived in Dade County knew the sound of a semiautomatic. Yet she’d never actually seen a flameblue muzzle flash until Shiner cut loose with the TEC-9. Her shriek was involuntary but hair-raising, cutting like a sickle through the respective stupors of Bodean Gazzer and Chub. Spewing curses, they lumbered bleary-eyed into the clearing—first Bodean Gazzer, brandishing the .380 stolen off the Colombian motorist; then Chub, in his droopy underwear, stoned and waving the Colt.
Shiner met them at the edge of the clearing. “I seen somebody! I did!” He radiated uncertainty and shame.
Bode snatched the TEC-9 and turned to Amber. “Tell the damn truth,” he said.
“There was something out there. I heard it.”
“A man? A critter?”
“I couldn’t say—it’s too dark.”
Chub said, “Un-fucking-believable.” He coughed up something that landed near Shiner’s feet.
The kid knew he was in trouble. After the earlier fiasco at the trailer, the colonel had given him a stern lecture about wasting ammo. “It was a human bean,” Shiner insisted in a mumble. “A nigger is what it looked like, a small un.”
Impatiently Bode Gazzer motioned for the flashlight. Amber handed it to him. He ordered everyone to stay put and stalked into the trees. Ten minutes later he returned to report finding no signs of a human prowler, Negro or otherwise.
“Figgers.” It was Chub growling. With a difficulty born of distaste and insobriety, he was attempting to insert his legs and arms into a set of Bode’s camos. His own clothes were soaked by the rain, and he was freezing his ass off in the Jockey shorts.
Amber saw Shiner’s stock sliding and tried to help. “It was making all kinds of noise. Right over there.” Pointing where Shiner had fired.
“Yeah, I bet it did,” said Bode Gazzer. From the pocket of his parka he produced a bloodied tuft of brown fur. “Got this off a leaf.”
Amber declined an offer to inspect the evidence. Shiner shrunk away in embarrassment.
“You shot a mean ole bunny rabbit,” Chub, with a sneer. “Or maybe a killer mouse.”
Amber rose. Chub asked her where she was going.
“To get some sleep. You mind?” She walked to the lean-to and lay down beneath the tarp.
Chub said, “We got us a Girl Scout. She made her own tent.”
Bode told Shiner to go back out in the boat. “I need to talk to Major Chub alone.”
“Don’t call me that,” Chub grumped. The camos looked absurd; the cuffs were six inches short, and the seat was about to rip out of the trousers. Yet he couldn’t work up much indignation, he was still so high from the marine glue. He announced he was beat and headed for the lean-to to join his dream girl.
Bode intercepted him. “Not right now.” Then, under his breath: “You got the tickets, right?”
“Yeah. Somewheres.” Chub gingerly probed at his nose, which felt scaled on the inside. “I think they’s still in the boat.”
“You think.” Bode wheeled and called to Shiner: “Hey, sergeant, change of plans!” Motioning toward the tarp. “You go ahead and sleep there. Chub and me’ll take the perimeter.”
Wordlessly Shiner did what he was told. He stretched out next to Amber, whose lovely eyes were closed. The wind had dropped off noticeably, and the rain had waned to an irregular drizzle that made whispers on the oilskin. Shiner was half dozing when he heard Amber’s voice:
“It’s going to be OK.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself,” she told him.
Nothing could have puzzled Shiner more.
They waited until the kid and the waitress were asleep before checking the Reel Luv. The lottery tickets were safe in the console. Bodean Gazzer returned the precious condom to his wallet. Chub rolled up the other ticket, the stolen one, and slipped it into an empty bullet chamber in the .357. He laughed dopily at his own cleverness.
“Bang bang,” he said.
Bode was buoyed by the sight of Chub in camouflage, even if it wasn’t a tailored fit. At least they were finally dressed like an honest-to-God militia; Bode, Chub, Amber and Shiner.
Shiner, God Almighty …
They’d lucked out again. Thanks to the heavy weather, nobody seemed to have heard the kid’s reckless shooting or the girl’s scream. No planes or boats had come out to the island to investigate. The group’s secret position seemed safe, for now.
Bode said to Chub: “The dumb fuckup, he’s gonna get us killed.”
“No shit.”
“I say we cut him loose.”
“You got my vote.”
They agreed Shiner had outlived his usefulness to the White Clarion Aryans. While he’d faithfully backed up their story for the Lotto scam and delivered Amber to Jewfish Creek as ordered, he had become a security risk. It was only a matter of time before he’d blow away one of them by mistake.
“Maybe even the girl,” Chub said, though
in truth he was more worried about Shiner putting the moves on Amber than shooting her. Not that she’d ever sleep with a zit-faced skinhead, but she did seem awful protective of the kid. Chub didn’t go for that one bit.
He said, “We kick him out, he’s like to rat on us. How ’bout we kill him.”
Bode flatly said no. “I’ll never shoot no Christian white man, I can help it.”
“Then let’s pay the fucker off.”
“How much?”
“I dunno. A grand?” Glue fumes always made Chub generous.
Bode Gazzer said, “You gotta be jokin’.”
A thousand dollars wouldn’t put a ding in the $28 million, but it was still too much money for a half-wit. Especially since Bode still suspected Shiner as a possible leak in the organization. What if the kid was working undercover for the Black Tide? What if the nutball shooting sprees were an act and he was actually using the guns to signal the Negroes? Bode had no proof, but the doubts nagged at him like an itch.
He said, “How about this: A thousand bucks, less what it costs for a new quarter panel on my pickup. On account a the bullet holes he made.”
“Fair by me. Tell him he gets his money soon as we get ours,” Chub said, “long as he keeps his trap shut.”
The decision was made to inform Shiner of his expulsion first thing in the morning. Chub would transport him by boat to the Overseas Highway, where he could hitch a ride up to Homestead and retrieve his car.
“Meanwhiles I can pick up s’more beer,” Chub said.
“Cigarets, too. And ice.”
“And A-1 sauce for my scrambly eggs.”
Bode Gazzer said, “I better make a list.”
“You do that now.”
Chub took out the grocery bag containing the tube of marine adhesive. He squeezed out a moist curlicue and offered a hit to Bode, who declined. Chub buried his face in the bag and luxuriantly sucked in the vapors.
Bode said, “Easy.”
Chub whooped. He had a rubber patch stuck on one eye and a rotting crab claw poking through one hand, and still he felt fucking wonderful. He wasn’t the least tiny bit worried about the Black Tide or NATO or the Tri-fucking-Lateral Commission, no siree. Nobody was gonna find ’em out here on this faraway island, not even the trickiest niggers. It was OK to get wasted tonight because him and Bode was white and free and well-armed, and best of all they was goddamn m-millionaires.
“You imagine?” Chub wheezed with glee.
Bode refrained from reminding him that the lottery proceeds were to be used strictly for militia building. There would be a better time for that conversation.
“Little Amber,” Chub was saying. “You shoulda seed her face when I tole her about the money. All of a sudden she wants to go for a walk in the woods tomorrow, just her and me.”
“Aw, shit,” Bode said. He should’ve seen it coming. “What all did you tell her?”
“Only that I’s worth fourteen million dollars. You might say it changed her opinion a me.”
So would a bath, Bode thought.
“That look she give me,” Chub went on dreamily, “like she could suck a golf ball through a garden hose.”
“Careful what you say to her. Understand?”
With a hiccup Chub thrust the paper bag to his face.
“Knock that shit off!” Bode said. “Now listen: Pussy’s fine, but there’s a time and a place. Right now we’re in a battle for the heart and soul of America!”
Chub made a noise like a tire going flat. “Hilton Head,” he rasped euphorically.
“What?”
“I wanna buy Amber and me a condo up at Hilton Head. That’s a island, too, and it beats the hell outta this one?”
“You serious?”
But later, after Chub had nodded off, Bode Gazzer caught himself warming to his partner’s fantasy. Strolling a sunny Carolina beach with a half-naked Hooters girl on your arm sounded much more appealing than sharing a frigid concrete pillbox with a bunch of hairy white guys in Idaho.
Bode couldn’t help wondering what Amber’s attitude toward him might be if she knew that he, too, was about to become a tycoon.
When JoLayne Lucks woke up, Tom Krome was sighting the shotgun across his kneecaps. That’s when she realized the screaming wasn’t part of a dream.
“What do you see?” she asked in a low voice. “Honey, don’t forget the safety.”
“It’s off.” He squinted down the barrel, waiting. “Did you hear the shots?”
“How many?”
“Five or six. Like a machine gun.”
JoLayne wondered if the rednecks shot the waitress. Or possibly they shot each other while fighting over the waitress.
As long as the waitress didn’t shoot them. Not until I get my Lotto ticket back, JoLayne thought.
Tom said, “Listen!”
His shoulders tightened; he moved his finger on the trigger.
JoLayne heard it, too—in the woods, something running.
“Wait, it’s small.” She touched Tom’s elbow. “Don’t fire.”
The rustling got closer, changed direction. Krome followed the noise with the barrel of the Remington. The movement came to a halt behind an ancient buttonwood trunk.
JoLayne grabbed the flashlight and crawled out of the makeshift blanket. She said, “Don’t you go shooting me by accident. I blend in pretty good with the night.”
There was no stopping her. Tom lowered the gun and watched her sneak up to the tree. She was met by an unearthly, high-pitched chittering that descended to a low snarl. Tom got goose bumps.
He heard JoLayne saying: “Now hush and behave.” As if talking to a child.
She came back holding a runty-looking raccoon. There was a smear of blood on the breast of her sweatshirt; one of the animal’s front paws had been grazed by a bullet.
“Assholes,” said JoLayne. With the flashlight she showed Tom what had happened. When she touched the coon, it growled and bared its teeth. Krome believed the animal was well-equipped to rip open his throat.
He said, “JoLayne—”
“Could you get me the first-aid kit?”
She’d bought a ten-dollar cheapo at the grocery store before renting the boat.
“You’re going to get bit,” Tom said. “We’re both going to get bit.”
“She’s just frightened, that’s all. She’ll settle down.”
“She?”
“Could you find the bandages, please?”
They worked on the raccoon’s leg until nearly daybreak. They both got bit.
JoLayne beamed when the animal scurried away, feisty and muttering. As Tom dressed a punctured thumb, he said, “What if she gave us rabies?”
“Then we find ourselves somebody to chew on,” Jolayne replied. “I know just the guys.”
They tried to light another fire but the rain swept in, harder than before, though not as chilly. Huddling beneath the boat canvas, they worked to keep the food and the shotgun shells dry. Soon after the downfall stopped, the damp blue-gray darkness faded to light. JoLayne lay down and did two hundred crunches, Tom holding her ankles. The eastern rim of sky went pink and gold, ahead of the sun. They snacked on corn chips and granola bars—everything tasted salty. In the dawn they moved the Whaler out of the mangroves to a spit of open shore, for an easier getaway. From camp they gathered what they needed and began making their way to the other end of the island.
22
When Mary Andrea Finley Krome stepped off the plane, she thought she was at the wrong airport. There were no news photographers, no TV lights, no reporters. She was greeted only by a brisk, sharp-featured man with prematurely graying hair. He introduced himself as the managing editor of The Register.
Mary Andrea said, “Where’s everybody else?”
“Who?”
“The reporters. I was expecting a throng.”
The managing editor said, “Consider me a throng of one.”
He picked up Mary Andrea’s bag. She followed him outside to the ca
r.
“We’re going to the newspaper office?”
“That’s right.”
“Will the media be there?” Mary Andrea, peevishly twirling her rosary beads.
“Mrs. Krome, we are the media.”
“You know what I mean. Television.”
The managing editor informed Mary Andrea that the interest in her husband’s tragic death was somewhat less avid than anticipated.
She said, “I don’t understand. A journalist gets burned to smithereens—”
“Tell me about it.”
The managing editor drove at excessive speed with one hand on the wheel. With the other he poked irritably at the radio buttons, switching between classical music stations. Mary Andrea wished he’d settle on something.
“I know it’s made the papers,” she persisted, “all the way out to Montana.”
“Oh yes. Even television,” said the managing editor, “briefly.”
“What happened?”
“I would describe the public reaction,” he said, “as a mild but fleeting curiosity.”
Mary Andrea was floored. A despondency settled upon her; it might have been mistaken for authentic grief, although not by those aware of Mary Andrea’s background as an actress.
The managing editor said: “Don’t take it personally. It’s been a humbling experience for all of us.”
“But they should make Tom a hero,” she protested.
The managing editor explained that the job of newspaper reporter no longer carried the stature it had in the days of Watergate. The nineties had brought a boom in celebrity journalism, a decline in serious investigative reporting and a deliberate “softening of the product” by publishers. The result, he said, was that daily papers seldom caused a ripple in their communities, and people paid less and less attention to them.
“So your husband’s death,” said the managing editor, “didn’t exactly generate an uproar.”
Gloomily Mary Andrea stared out the car window. If only Tom had made it to The New York Times or The Washington Post, then you’d have seen a damn uproar.
“Was he working on something big?” she asked hopefully.
“Not at all. That’s part of the problem—it was just a routine feature story.”