Evidently Tom was sticking with her, shotgun and all. She couldn’t help but wonder why, a riddle she’d been avoiding since the first day. Why was he doing this? What was in it for him? Krome had said nothing in particular to trigger these doubts in JoLayne; it was only the backwash from a lifetime of being let down by men she trusted.
As the skiff floated closer to the mangroves, she heard Tom say: “Hang on.” Then they were tilting, and she saw he was over the side and wading for shore. He held the bow rope in one fist, pulling the Whaler quietly across the flat toward the tree line.
JoLayne sat forward. “You be careful,” she whispered.
“Water’s nice.”
“Skeeters?”
Krome, keeping his voice low: “Not too bad.”
It’s the breeze, JoLayne thought. Mosquitoes like hot still nights. If this were August, they’d be devouring us.
“See any place to tie off?” she asked. “What about over there?”
“That’s where I’m headed.”
The opening wasn’t much wider than the skiff itself. Krome advised JoLayne to lie flat and cover her face as he led them through a latticework of mangroves. The branches raked at her bare arms, and a gossamer fragment of a spider’s web caught in her hair. She was more alarmed by the sound of the roots screaking along the hull, but Tom seemed unconcerned. He hauled the skiff to the bank and helped her step out.
In fifteen minutes they had the gear unpacked and sorted. By flashlight they wiped down the Remington and loaded two shells. It was the first time since sunset that JoLayne had been able to see Tom’s face, and it made her feel better.
She said, “How about a fire?”
“Not just yet.” He stood the gun against a tree and clicked off the light. “Let’s just sit and listen.”
The vibrant quiet was a comfort; nothing but the hum of insects and the whisk of wavelets against the shore. The peacefulness reminded JoLayne of the evening at Simmons Wood when she and Tom had stopped to watch the deer.
Except this time he was squeezing her hand. He was tense.
She told him: “This is a good place you found. We’ll be safe here.”
“I keep hearing noises.”
“It’s just the wind in the trees.”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s the wind, Tom.” She could tell he hadn’t spent much time in the outdoors. “Let’s have a fire.” “They’ll smell the smoke.”
“Not if they’ve got one burning, too,” she said, “and I’ll bet you five bucks they do. I’ll bet that cute little waitress is freezing her buns in those shorts.”
Tom broke up some driftwood while JoLayne dug out a small pit in the sand. For tinder they used handfuls of the crispy, dried-out seaweed that ringed the shore. It didn’t take long for a spark to catch. JoLayne stood close, enjoying the heat on her bare arms. Tom unsnapped the faded blue canvas from the skiffs Bimini top and spread it on the ground. JoLayne tactfully suggested he should move it to the upwind side of the fire, so the smoke wouldn’t blow in their eyes.
“Good thinking,” he said tightly.
They sat close to the flames—Tom with a Coke and a granola bar; JoLayne with a Canada Dry, a box of Goldfish crackers and the Remington.
She said, “All the comforts of home.”
“Yeah.”
“Except a radio. Wouldn’t Whitney hit the spot right now?” JoLayne, trying to loosen him up, singing in a tinny voice: “Aaahheeeayyyyy will all-ways love you-aaaooooo… ”
A small laugh; not much. “Something wrong?” she asked.
“I guess I’m just tired.”
“Well, it’s about time.”
“We should do some scouting at dawn, while they’re still asleep.”
“They might be up early.”
“I doubt it. They bought a shitload of beer,” Tom said.
“Dawn it is. Then what?”
“We get as close as possible to their camp—close enough to see and hear what’s going on. That way we’ll know when things go sour.”
JoLayne said, “I sure hope you’re right about that. OK, then what happens?”
“We get them one by one.”
“You serious?”
“Not with the shotgun, JoLayne. Not unless they leave us no choice.”