There was no stopping her. Tom lowered the gun and watched her sneak up to the tree. She was met by an unearthly, high-pitched chittering that descended to a low snarl. Tom got goose bumps.
He heard JoLayne saying: "Now hush and behave." As if talking to a child.
She came back holding a runty-looking raccoon. There was a smear of blood on the breast of her sweatshirt; one of the animal's front paws had been grazed by a bullet.
"Assholes," said JoLayne. With the flashlight she showed Tom what had happened. When she touched the coon, it growled and bared its teeth. Krome believed the animal was well-equipped to rip open his throat.
He said, "JoLayne "
"Could you get me the first-aid kit?"
She'd bought a ten-dollar cheapo at the grocery store before renting the boat.
"You're going to get bit," Tom said. "We're bothgoing to get bit."
"She's just frightened, that's all. She'll settle down."
"She?"
"Could you find the bandages, please?"
They worked on the raccoon's leg until nearly daybreak. They both got bit.
JoLayne beamed when the animal scurried away, feisty and muttering. As Tom dressed a punctured thumb, he said, "What if she gave us rabies?"
"Then we find ourselves somebody to chew on," JoLayne replied. "I know just the guys."
They tried to light another fire but the rain swept in, harder than before, though not as chilly. Huddling beneath the boat canvas, they worked to keep the food and the shotgun shells dry. Soon after the downfall stopped, the damp blue-gray darkness faded to light. JoLayne lay down and did two hundred crunches, Tom holding her ankles. The eastern rim of sky went pink and gold, ahead of the sun. They snacked on corn chips and granola bars everything tasted salty. In the dawn they moved the Whaler out of the mangroves to a spit of open shore, for an easier getaway. From camp they gathered what they needed and began making their way to the other end of the island.
When Mary Andrea Finley Krome stepped off the plane, she thought she was at the wrong airport. There were no news photographers, no TV lights, no reporters. She was greeted only by a brisk, sharp-featured man with prematurely graying hair. He introduced himself as the managing editor of The Register.
Mary Andrea said, "Where's everybody else?"
"Who?"
"The reporters. I was expecting a throng."
The managing editor said, "Consider me a throng of one."
He picked up Mary Andrea's bag. She followed him outside to the car.
"We're going to the newspaper office?"
"That's right."
"Will the media be there?" Mary Andrea, peevishly twirling her rosary beads.
"Mrs. Krome, we arethe media."
"You know what I mean. Television."
The managing editor informed Mary Andrea that the interest in her husband's tragic death was somewhat less avid than anticipated.
She said, "I don't understand. A journalist gets burned to smithereens "
"Tell me about it."
The managing editor drove at excessive speed with one hand on the wheel. With the other he poked irritably at the radio buttons, switching between classical music stations. Mary Andrea wished he'd settle on something.
"I know it's made the papers," she persisted, "all the way out to Montana."
"Oh yes. Even television," said the managing editor, "briefly."
"What happened?"
"I would describe the public reaction," he said, "as a mild but fleeting curiosity."
Mary Andrea was floored. A despondency settled upon her; it might have been mistaken for authentic grief, although not by those aware of Mary Andrea's background as an actress.
The managing editor said: "Don't take it personally. It's been a humbling experience for all of us."
"But they should make Tom a hero," she protested.
The managing editor explained that the job of newspaper reporter no longer carried the stature it had in the days of Watergate. The nineties had brought a boom in celebrity journalism, a decline in serious investigative reporting and a deliberate "softening of the product" by publishers. The result, he said, was that daily papers seldom caused a ripple in their communities, and people paid less and less attention to them.
"So your husband's death," said the managing editor, "didn't exactly generate an uproar."
Gloomily Mary Andrea stared out the car window. If only Tom had made it to The New York Timesor The Washington Post,then you'd have seen a damn uproar.
"Was he working on something big?" she asked hopefully.
"Not at all. That's part of the problem it was just a routine feature story."
"About what?"
"Some woman who won the lottery."
"And for that he got blown up?"
"The police are skeptical. And as I said, that's part of our problem. It's far from certain Tom was killed in the line of duty. It could have been a robbery, it could have been ... something more personal."
Mary Andrea gave him a sour look. "Don't tell me he was doing somebody's wife."
"Just a rumor, Mrs. Krome. But I'm afraid it was enough to spook Ted Koppel."
"Shit," Mary Andrea said. She would've gargled battery acid to get on Nightline.
The managing editor went on: "We gave it our best shot, but they wanted it to be a mob hit or some cocaine kingpin's revenge for a frontpage expose. They were disappointed to find out Tom was just a feature writer. And after the adultery rumor, well, they quit returning our calls."
Mary Andrea slumped against the door. It was like skidding into a bad dream. That the media had already lost interest in Tom Krome's murder meant vastly reduced exposure for his bereft wife and a wasted plane fare, Mary Andrea thought bitterly. Worse, she'd put herself in position to be humiliated if the fatal "mystery blaze" was traced to a jealous husband instead of a vengeful drug lord.
Damn you, Tom, she thought. This is my career on the line.
"How's the hotel?" she asked glumly.
"We got you a nonsmoking room, like you requested." Now the managing editor was chewing on a toothpick.
"And there's a gym with a StairMaster?"
He said: "No gym. No StairMaster. Sorry."
"Oh, that's great."
"It's a Hojo's, Mrs. Krome. We put up everybody at the Hojo's."
After a ten-minute sulk, Mary Andrea announced she'd changed her mind; she wished to return to the airport immediately. She said she was too grief-stricken to appear at the newspaper to accept the writing award Tom had won.
"What's it called again the 'Emilio'?"
"Amelia," said the managing editor, "and it's quite a big deal. Tom's the first journalist to win it posthumously. It would mean a lot if you could be there in his place."
Mary Andrea sniffed. "Mean a lot to who?"
"Me. The staff. His colleagues." The managing editor rolled the toothpick with his tongue. "And possibly your future."
"Come on, you just told me "
"We've got a press conference scheduled."
Mary Andrea Finley Krome drilled him with a stare. "A realpress conference?"
"The TV folks will be there, if that's what you mean."
"How do you know for sure?"
"Because it's a safe story."
"Safe?"
"Fluff. Human interest," the managing editor explained. "They don't want to get into the murky details of the murder, but they're thrilled to do twenty seconds on a pretty young widow receiving a plaque for her slain husband."
"I see."
"And I'd be less than frank," the managing editor added, "if I didn't admit my paper could use the publicity, too. This is a big award, and we don't win all that many."
"When you say TV, are we talking network?"
"Affiliates, sure. CBS, ABC and Fox."
"Oh. Fox, too?" Mary Andrea, thinking: I'll definitely need a new dress, something shorter.
"Will you do it?" the managing editor asked.
"I suppose I could pull myself together," she said.
Thinking: Twenty seconds of airtime, my ass.