“We learned the hard way,” Bode said.
Chub cut in: “You say you got a gun?”
“Yep,” Shiner said. “Marlin.22.”
Chub snorted. “No, boy, I said a gun.”
In more detail Bode Gazzer explained about the impending invasion of NATO troops from the Bahamas and their mission of imposing a totalitarian world regime on the United States. Shiner’s eyes grew wide at the mention of the White Rebel Brotherhood.
“I’ve heard of ’em!” the young man exclaimed.
“You have?” Chub shot a beady look at Bode, who shrugged.
Shiner said, “Yeah. It’s a band, right?”
“No, dickbrain, it’s not a band. It’s a militia,” Chub said.
“A well-regulated militia,” Bode added, “like they talk about in the Second Amendment.”
“Oh,” said Shiner. He hadn’t read the first one yet.
In a low confiding tone, Bode Gazzer said the White Rebel Brotherhood was preparing for prolonged armed resistance—heavily armed resistance—to any forces, foreign or domestic, that posed a threat to something called the “sovereignty” of private American citizens.
Bode laid a hand on the back of Shiner’s neck. With a friendly squeeze: “So what do you say?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“You want into the WRB?”
“You’re kiddin’!”
Chub said, “Answer the man. Yes or no.”
“Sure,” Shiner chirped. “What do I gotta do?”
“A favor,” Chub said. “It’s easy.”
“More like a assignment,” said Bode Gazzer. “Think of it like a test.”
Shiner’s expression clouded. He hated tests, especially multiple choice. That’s how he’d blown the SATs.
Chub sensed the boy’s consternation. “Forget ‘test,’ ” he told him. “It’s a favor, that’s all. A favor for your new white brothers.”
Instantly Shiner brightened.
When Tom Krome saw JoLayne’s living room, he told her (for the fourth time) to call the police. The house was a mother lode of evidence: fingerprints, footprints, plenty of blood to be typed. JoLayne Lucks said absolutely not, no way, and started cleaning up. Reluctantly Krome helped. There wasn’t much to be done about the gutted piano, or the bullet hole in the wood floor. The blood mopped up with ammonia and water.
Afterwards, while JoLayne took a shower, Krome buried the dead turtle under a lime tree in the backyard. When he came back inside, she was standing there, bundled in her robe.
Dripping water. Shredding lettuce into the aquarium.
“Well, the others seem fine,” she said quietly.
Krome led her away from the turtles. “What’ve you got against calling the cops?”
JoLayne pulled free, snatched up a broom. “They wouldn’t believe me.”
“How could they not? Look in the mirror.”
“I’m not talking about the beating. I’m talking about the Lotto ticket.”
“What about it?” Krome said.
“I’ve got no proof I ever had it. Which makes it damn hard to claim it was stolen.”
She had a point. Florida’s lottery computer kept track of how many winning tickets were bought and where, but there was no way of identifying the owners. That’s because Lotto numbers were sold over the counter with the beer and cigarets; trying to keep track of customers’ names—hundreds of thousands—would have been impossible. Consequently the lottery bureau had one intractable criterion for claiming the jackpot: possession of the winning ticket. If you didn’t have it, you didn’t get the money—no matter what your excuse. Over the years, once-in-a-lifetime fortunes had been lost to hungry puppies and teething infants and washing machines and toilets and house fires.
And now robbers.
Tom Krome was torn between his sympathy for JoLayne Lucks and the realization that he’d stumbled into a pretty good news story. He must have done a poor job of masking his anticipation, because JoLayne said: “I’m begging you not to write about this.”
“But it’ll flush the bastards out.”
“And I’ll never, ever get the money. Don’t you see? They’d burn the damn ticket before they’d go to jail. Burn it or bury it.”
Krome lifted his feet to make way for JoLayne’s fierce, metronomic sweeping.
“If these guys get spooked,” she went on, “that fourteen-million-dollar stub of paper is garbage. They see a newspaper headline about what they did… well, it’s all over. Same if I go to the police.”
She probably was right, Krome thought. But wouldn’t the robbers assume JoLayne would report the theft? That’s what most people would do.