22
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.
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 car.
“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.