Amber believed that keeping Shiner in the equation would improve her chances of avoiding a rape, and also of escape.
To that end, she’d devised for the young man a strategy of rudimentary blackmail. She was astounded he hadn’t thought to demand a cut of the lottery prize—he was like a half-witted busboy, too thick or too shy to ask for his tip-out at the end of the night. The hammer (as Amber patiently explained to Shiner) was the security video from the Grab N’Go.
She had only one misgiving about helping the kid get a piece of the Lotto jackpot: It was somebody else’s money. Some black chick, according to Shiner. A girl from his hometown. Amber felt crummy about that, but decided it was premature to get the guilts.
For now the priority was emplacing the blackmail plan. It wasn’t a bad one, either, concocted on short notice under adverse conditions, with an accomplice of limited cognitive range. The made-up business about the phone call to Shiner’s mother, about her readiness to retrieve the videotape in the event of a double cross—those were nifty touches. The plan’s chief flaw, as Amber now realized, was the time line. It gave Bode and Chub almost a whole day’s grace, enough of a window to leave the island, destroy the incriminating tape and bolt to Tallahassee to claim the lottery.
Which is what they were preparing to do when she confronted them at the boat after her morning swim.
“Take those ridiculous pants off your face.” One hand zipping up the top of the jumpsuit, the other clenching Chub’s pistol, which earlier Amber had removed from the Reel Luv and concealed in some bushes near the campfire.
“Take ’em off. You look like a pervert.” Then shooting once at Chub’s feet, just to find out what it felt like; a huge heavy gun going off. And also to make the rednecks understand she was serious and would not negotiate with any grown man wearing shorts over his face.
“Now, what did you guys do with Shiner?”
Nothing, they replied.
“He went off to have a piss,” Bodean Gazzer said.
“Well, he’s gone.”
“Bull,” said Chub.
“Let’s go find him. Get some clothes on,” Amber said.
“Not jest yet.” Chub, grinning lopsidedly. “Sure you don’t see some-thin’ you like? Somethin’ hot ‘n’ tasty?”
He waggled his sunburned peter, inspiring Amber to fire once again. This time the Colt nearly jumped out of her hand. The slug passed between Bode and Chub, snapping through the mangroves and splooshing in the water.
As leaves and twigs fluttered into the boat, the demon crab unaccountably dropped off Chub’s ripening hand. The animal was long dead, it turned out. Chub jabbed the rancid blue husk with a bare toe and muttered, “Motherfucker.”
Bode Gazzer raised his arms for Amber. “OK, sweet thing, quit with the damn gun. You made yer point.”
“Tell your friend.”
“Don’t worry. He’s on board.”
Chub said, “Like hell. Not till we play some lollipop, her and me.”
Bode scowled disgustedly. The man was unbelievable; no sense of priorities. No sense at all.
Amber said, “He’s pushing it, Colonel.”
“What can I say? Sometimes he’s a complete fuckhead.”
“Think I should shoot him?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
Chub was studying his infected hand like it was a busted carburetor. “I still got the damn claw, though.”
“One thing at a time,” Bode Gazzer told him. “Put on your clothes and let’s go find the skinhead.”
“Not until my darling Amber blows me.”
“She’s gonna blow you, awright. She’s gonna blow your sorry ass to kingdom come.”
Chub said, “No, I don’t believe so. I believe I’m due for some good luck.”
“Hell’s that mean?”
“It means Amber ain’t gone shoot nobody. That’s azackly what it means.”
He stepped toward her; an exaggerated Hitler-style goose step. Then another. By now she was gripping the pistol with both fists.
“He’s asking for it,” she warned Bode.
“So I see. My opinion, it’s the damn glue.”
Chub clucked. “It ain’t the glue, Colonel. It’s true fucking love.”
With a giddy warble he attacked. Amber pulled the trigger but all she heard was a flat harmless click. The gun didn’t fire—the cylinder turned, the hammer fell, but no slug came out.