Carl Hiaasen – Lucky You

“Great blue,” JoLayne whispered.

The bird was really something. Tom said, “Hey, big guy. What’s up?”

The heron took off, croaking and bellowing across the treetops.

JoLayne said, “He’s pissed. We must be in his spot.”

“That, or something spooked him.”

They listened for movement in the mangrove. The shotgun was positioned under the canvas at JoLayne’s feet.

She said, “I don’t hear a thing.”

“Me, neither.”

“They’re not exactly Green Berets, these guys. They won’t be sneaking around in this weather.”

“You’re right,” said Tom.

To pass the time until the skies cleared, they compared futures. He told her his plan to move to Alaska and write a novel about a man whose wife wouldn’t divorce him, no matter what he did. JoLayne said she liked the premise.

“It could be very funny.”

“Funny wasn’t the direction I was going,” Tom said.

“Oh.”

“I had a darker tone in mind.”

“I see. More Cheever than Roth.”

“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 flame-blue 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.