"You haven't slept." Dana, affecting a motherly tone.
"Pollens. Mold spores." Arthur Battenkill took a sip of coffee. "I sleep fine."
It was the scene at breakfast that had disturbed him – Katie gobbling down four huge buttermilk flapjacks and a bagel, a clear signal she was no longer grieving. Clearing the dishes, she'd exhibited a perkiness that could have at its root only one explanation: She'd come to believe her precious Tommy wasn't dead.
Reluctantly the judge had already reached the same conclusion. The strongest evidence was the uncharacteristic lack of communication from Champ Powell, who by now should have called to seek Arthur Battenkill's praise and gratitude for the arson. Nearly as ominous: Champ's Harley-Davidson motorcycle had been found and towed from a Blockbuster parking lot three blocks from Tom Krome's house. The judge was certain Champ never would have abandoned the bike were he still alive.
The unexpected upswing of Katie's mood had clinched it for Arthur Battenkill. Picking indifferently at his pancakes, he'd recalled hearing the telephone ring while he was in the shower – probably Krome, calling to tell Katie not to worry. The mannerly motherfucker.
Now Dana, arms folded: "You've got that emergency hearing in ten minutes. Would you like me to press your robe?"
"No. Who is it?"
"Mrs. Bensinger."
"God. Let me guess."
Dana dropped her voice. "Another alimony problem."
Arthur Battenkill said, "I hate those horrible people. Thank heaven they never had children."
"Not so loud. She's out in the hall."
"Yeah?" The judge cupped his hands to his mouth: "Greedy freeloading twat!"
Dana looked at him blankly.
The judge said, "Her husband's a thieving shit, too."
"Yes, he is."
"By the way, I've decided to take some time off. I suppose you and Willow will survive without me. I get that impression."
Dana fixed her gaze safely on the coffeepot. "How long will you be gone?"
"I can't say." Mrs. Battenkill and I are going away together." The judge thumbed his appointment book. "See if Judge Beckman will cover for me starting late next week. Can you do that?"
"Certainly."
"And, Dana, this is supposed to be a surprise for my wife, so don't blow it."
Willow buzzed on the speakerphone to report that Mr. Bensinger had arrived and that the atmosphere in the hallway was growing tense.
"Fuck 'em." Arthur Battenkill snorted. "I hope they slaughter each other with blunt objects. Save the taxpayers a few bucks. Dana, isn't it Judge Tigert over in Probate who's got the bungalow in Exuma?"
"The Abacos."
"Whatever. See if it's available."
The notion of the judge taking his wife on a romantic trip to the Bahamas was stupefying. Obviously the man was suffering a breakdown. Dana could hardly wait to share the gossip with Willow.
As she was leaving his chambers, Arthur Battenkill called out: "Dana, darling, you're doing a superb job of concealing your amusement."
"What on earth are you talking about."
"Don't pretend to know everything about me. Don't pretend to have me figured out. I dohave feelings for Mrs. Battenkill."
"Oh, I believe you," Dana said. "By the way, Art, how'd she like the new necklace?"
The judge's smug expression dissolved. "Send in the goddamn Bensingers," he said.
JoLayne Lucks hadn't been to the Keys since she was a small girl. She was amazed at how much had changed, the homey and congenial tackiness supplanted by franchise fast-food joints, strip malls and high-rise resorts. To take her mind off the riffraff, JoLayne recited for Tom Krome a roster of local birds, resident and migratory: ospreys, snowy egrets, white herons, blue herons, kingfishers, flycatchers, cardinals, grackles, robins, red-tailed hawks, white-crowned pigeons, flickers, roseate spoonbills ...
"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. Yougo 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."