And then he'd calmly escorted Shiner back to the shore and helped him into the boat. JoLayne Lucks had been waiting with the shotgun, watching over Bodean Gazzer and Chub. The white guy had waded in, shoving the stern into deeper water so Shiner and Amber could lower the outboards without snagging bottom.
"Have a safe trip," the black woman had sung out. "Watch out for manatees!"
An hour later Shiner finally heard what he'd been dreading – a helicopter. But it was blaze orange, not black. And it wasn't NATO but the U.S. Coast Guard, thwock-thwocking back and forth in search of a woman overdue in a small rental boat; a woman who'd said she was going no farther than Cotton Key.
Shiner had no way of knowing this. He was convinced the chopper had been sent to strafe him. He dove to the deck, yanking Amber with him.
"Look out! Look out!" he hollered.
"Would you please get a grip."
"But it's them!"
The helicopter dipped low over the boat. The crew spotted the couple entwined on the deck and, accustomed to such amorous sightings, flew on. Clearly it wasn't the vessel they'd been sent to find..
Once the chopper disappeared, Shiner sheepishly collected himself. Amber shoved the chart under his chin and told him to quit behaving like a wimp. An hour later, the Jewfish Creek drawbridge came into view. They nosed the Reel Luvinto the slip farthest from the dockmaster (its owner would be puzzled but pleased to find it there, and the theft would be ascribed to joyriding teenagers). Mindful of his throbbing thumbs, Shiner struggled to tie off the bow rope. Amber scouted for the marine patrol, just in case. She was relieved to spot her car, undisturbed in the parking lot.
Shiner gave a glum wave and said, "See ya."
"Where you going?"
"To the highway. Try and hitch a ride."
Amber said, "I'll drop you in Homestead."
"Naw, that's OK." He was worried about her boyfriend, jealous Tony. Maybe she was setting him up for an ass-whupping.
"Suit yourself," she said.
Shiner thought: God, she's so pretty. To hell with it. He said, "Maybe I will bum along."
"That's a good way to describe it. You drive."
They were halfway up Highway One to Florida City when Amber took Chub's pistol out again, leading Shiner to believe he'd misjudged her intentions.
"You're gone kill me, ain't you?"
"Oh right," Amber said. "I'm going to shoot you in broad daylight in all this traffic, when I had all morning to blow your head off in the middle of nowhere and dump your body in the drink. That's what a dumb bimbo I am. Just drive, OK?"
The way Shiner was feeling, a hot slug in the belly couldn't have hurt much worse than her sarcasm. He clamped his eyes on the road and tried to cook up a story for his Ma when he got back to Grange. The next time he glanced over at Amber, she'd gotten the Colt open. She was spinning the cylinder and peering, with one eye, into the chambers.
"Hey," she said.
"What's that?"
"Stop the car."
"OK, sure," said Shiner. Carefully he guided the gargantuan Ford to the grassy shoulder, scattering a flock of egrets.
The gun lay open on Amber's lap. She was unfolding a small piece of paper that had fallen from one of the bullet chambers.
Shiner said, "Lemme see."
"Just listen: Twenty-four ... nineteen ... twenty-seven ... twenty-two ... thirty ... seventeen."
Shiner said, "God, don't tell me it's the damn Lotto!"
"Yup. Your dumb shitkicker buddies hid it inside the gun."
"Oh man. Oh man. But – d-damn, what do we do now?"
Amber snapped the revolver shut and slipped the lottery coupon in a zippered pocket of her jumpsuit.
"You want me to keep drivin'?" Shiner asked.
"I think so, yes."
They didn't speak again until Florida City, where they stopped at a McDonald's drive-thru. They were fifth in the line of cars.
Amber said, "We've got a decision to make, don't we?"
"I always get the Quarter Pounder."
"I'm talking about the Lotto ticket."
"Oh," said Shiner.
"Fourteen million dollars."
"God, I know."
"Sometimes there's a difference," Amber said, "between what's right and what's common sense."
"Good."
"All I'm saying is, we need to think this out from all angles. It's a big decision. Order me a salad, would you? And a Diet Coke."
Shiner said, "You wanna split some fries?"
"Sure."
Later, sitting at the traffic light near the turnpike ramp, Shiner heard Amber say: "What do you think they did to your buddies? Back on the land, I mean. What do you think happened after we left?"
Shiner said, "I don't know, but I can guess." Sadly he examined the mutilated militia tattoo on his arms.
"Light's green," Amber said. "We can go."
26
Bodean Gazzer watched the Negro woman pick through his wallet until she found the condom packet. How could she have possibly known?
Another mystery, Bode thought despondently. Another mystery that won't matter in the end.
As nonchalant as a nurse, the woman unrolled the rubber and plucked out the lottery ticket, which she placed in a pocket of her jeans.
"That ain't yours," Bode Gazzer blurted.
"Pardon?" The Negro woman wore a half smile. "What'd you say, bubba?"
"That one ain't yours."
"Really? Whose might it be?"
"Never mind." Bode didn't like the way her eyes kept cutting to the shotgun, which she'd handed to the white guy while she searched the wallet.
"Funny," she said. "I checked the numbers on that ticket. And they were mynumbers."
"I said never mind."
Chub began to moan and writhe. The white guy said, "He's losing lots of blood."
"Yes, he is," said the Negro woman.
Bode asked, "Is he gone die?"
"He most certainly could."
The white guy said to the woman: "It's your call."
"I suppose so."
She walked briefly out of Bode's view. She reappeared carrying a flat white box with a small red cross painted on the lid. She knelt beside Chub and opened it.
Bode heard her saying: "I wish I could stand here and let you die, but I can't. My whole life, I've never been able to watch a living thing die. Not even a cockroach. Not even a despicable damn sonofabitch like you ... "
The words lifted Bode's hopes for reprieve. Covertly he began rubbing his wrists back and forth, to loosen the rope that held him to the tree.
The shotgun blast had excavated from Chub',s left shoulder a baseball-sized chunk of flesh, muscle and bone. He was not fortunate enough to pass out immediately from pain. The woman's touch ignited splutter and profanity.
Firmly she told him to be still.
"Get away from me, nigger! Get the hell away!" Chub, wild-eyed and hoarse.
"You heard the man." It was the white guy, holding the Remington. "He wants to bleed out. You heard him, JoLayne."
Another agitated voice. Sounded like Bode Gazzer. "For God's sake, Chub, shut up! She's only trying to save your life, you stupid fuck!"
Yep. Definitely the colonel.
Chub shook himself like a dog, spitting blood and sandy grit. The bicycle patch had peeled, so now he had two open eyes with which to keep a bead on the nigger girl; more like one and a half, since the unhealed lid drooped like a ripped curtain.
"What're you gone do to me, if I might ast?"