“Once there were even flamingos,” she informed him. “Guess what happened to them.”
Krome didn’t respond. He was watching Bodean James Gazzer strip and clean a large semiautomatic rifle. Even from a distance of a hundred yards, the barrel glinted ominously in the noon sun.
“Tom, you don’t even care.”
“I like flamingos,” he said, “but what we have here is a rare green-breasted shithead. Broad daylight, he’s playing with guns.”
“Yes, I can see.”
Tom had rejected her latest plan, which involved ambushing Bodean Gazzer alone, jamming her twelve-gauge into his groin and demanding under threat of emasculation that he return the stolen lottery ticket.
Not here, Krome had told her. Not yet.
They were parked on a bleached strip of limestone fill, along a rim of lush mangroves. Not far away was a gravel boat ramp, blocked at the moment by Bodean Gazzer’s red pickup. The driver’s door was open and he stood in full view; neck-to-knees camouflage, cowboy boots, mirrored sunglasses. He had a chamois cloth spread on the hood, the assault rifle in pieces before him.
“Steel balls. I give him that,” Krome said.
“No, he’s just a fool. A damn fool.”
JoLayne feared a cop would drive by and see what Bodean Gazzer was doing. Once the idiot got himself arrested, the chase would be over. The thing would boil down to JoLayne’s word against the redneck’s, and he’d never produce the ticket.
A small black bird landed in the trees and began to sing. Krome said, “OK, what’s that one?”
“Redwing,” JoLayne answered stiffly.
“They endangered?”
“Not yet. Don’t you find it obscene—their presence in a place like this? They’re like… litter.” She was talking about the two robbers. “They don’t deserve this—to feel the sun on their necks and breathe this fine air. It’s completely wasted on men like that.”
Krome rolled down the car window and took in the cool salt breeze. In a sleepy voice he said, “I could get used to this. Maybe after Alaska.”
JoLayne, thjnking: How can he act so relaxed? She could no longer distract herself with the island wildlife, so unnerving was the spectacle of Bodean Gazzer toiling ritually at his gun. She couldn’t shake the memory of that awful scene in her house—not just the man’s punches and kicking, but his voice:
Hey, genius, she can’t talk with a gun in her mouth.
Talking to his filthy, ponytailed friend:
You wanna make a impression? Look here.
Snatching one of the baby turtles from the glass tank, putting it on the wooden floor, coaxing his ponytailed friend to shoot it. That’s what Bodean Gazzer had done.
Yet here he was, fit and free in the Florida sunshine. With a $14 million Lotto ticket hidden somewhere, possibly inside a rubber.
JoLayne said to Tom: “I can’t just sit here doing nothing.”
“You’re absolutely right. You should drive to the grocery.” Krome took out his wallet. “Then you should stop at one of those motels and rent a boat. I’ll give you some money.”
JoLayne said she had a better idea. “I’ll stay here and keep an eye on the archpatriot. You go get the boat.”
“Too risky.”
“I can handle myself,” she insisted.
“JoLayne, there’s no doubt in my mind. I was talking about me. Dead persons should always keep a low profile—my face has been in The Herald, probably even on TV.”
She said, “It was a shitty picture, Tom. Nobody’ll recognize you.”
“I can’t take that chance.”
“You looked like Pat Sajak on NyQuil.”
“The answer is no.”
Tom didn’t trust her, of course. Didn’t trust her not to mess with the redneck. “This is ridiculous,” she complained. “I’ve never driven a boat.”
“And I’ve never fired a shotgun,” Krome said, “so we have something new to learn from each other. Just what every romance needs.”
“Please.”
“Speaking of which.” He got out, popped the trunk and removed the Remington. “Just in case.”
JoLayne said, “Bad news, Rambo. The shells are in my purse.”
“Just as well,” he said. “I figure we’ve got another forty-five minutes, maybe an hour. Ice is priority one. Get as much ice and fresh water as you can carry.”
“Forty-five minutes until what?”