Like most criminals who relocate to South Florida, Bodean Gazzer had spent little time familiarizing himself with the native fauna. He was keenly aware that lobsters had a weakness for lobster traps, but otherwise his knowledge of marine wildlife was sketchy. A minimal amount of scholarship say, a visit to the Seaquarium would have provided two lifesaving facts about the common southern stingray.
One: It doesn't actually sting. The detachable barb on the end of its tail, although coated with an infectious mucus, is used defensively as a lance.
Two: Should one encounter a ray dozing in the shallows, the worst possible thing to do is kick it.
Which is what Bodean Gazzer (mistaking it for an extremely large flounder) did. The agony he experienced was the result of the stingray barb penetrating deep flesh. The blood he saw in the water jetted from his own femoral artery.
Once Bode poked up for air, he saw the white guy wading doggedly in pursuit of the boat, which was drifting away. Bode aimed himself toward dry land but discovered he couldn't stand upright, much less walk. A chill shook him to the marrow, and suddenly he felt woozy.
What now? he thought. Then he keeled sideways.
"Wake up," JoLayne said to the moaning redneck.
"It might be too late," Tom Krome told her.
"No, it's not."
Bodean Gazzer cracked his eyelids. "Get the fuck away."
"Told you," JoLayne said.
"Get away!"
"No, I've got a question. And I'd like an honest answer, Mr. Gazzer, before you die: Why'd you pick me? Of all people, why me? Because I'm black, or because I'm a woman "
Tom said, "He's out of it."
"Hell I am," the redneck murmured.
"Then please answer me," JoLayne said.
"It wasn't none a them reasons. We picked you on account a you won the damn Lotto. It just worked out you was a Negro hell, we didn't know." Bode Gazzer chuckled weakly. "It just worked out that way."
"But it made it easier, didn't it? That I was black."
"We believe in the s-s-supremacy of the white race. If that's what you mean. We believe the Bible preaches genetic p-p-purity."
They'd hauled him up on shore and peeled off his hunting camos. Once they saw the gushing leg wound, they knew it was over.
The redneck said, "You tell me I'm dyin' I look dumb enough to fall for that?" His eyelids closed. JoLayne cupped his cheeks and urged him to stay awake.
"Please," she said, "I'm trying to understand the nature of your hatefulness. Let's sort this out."
"Oh, I got it. You ain't gonna shoot me, you're gonna talk me to death."
"What did I ever do to you?" she demanded. "What did any black person ever do to you?"
Bodean Gazzer grunted. "Prison once, there was a Negro stole the magazines out from under my whatchacallit. My bunk. Plus some NRA decals."
Tom said, "He's going into shock."
JoLayne nodded disappointedly. "I wish I understood there was no cause for all this. Man doesn't even know me, comes to my house and does what he did "
" 'Nother time they got my car stereo." Bode's voice trailed. "Happened in Tampa, either them or Cubans for sure ... "
Tom said, "It won't be long, Jo. Let's go."
She stood up. "Lord have mercy," she said to the dying man. "There's nothing I can do for you."
"No shit." The redneck tittered. "Nothin" anybody can do. I'm on God's shit list, that's the story my whole damn life. Numero uno on God's shit list."
"Goodbye, Mr. Gazzer."
"You ain't gonna shoot me? After all this?"
"Nope," said JoLayne.
"Then I sure don't understand."
Tom Krome said, "Maybe it's just your lucky day."
The helicopter pilot decided to make one more pass and call it quits. The ride-along said he understood; the Coasties were on a bare-bones budget like everybody else.
Search conditions were ideaclass="underline" a cloudless sky, miles of visibility and a light clean chop on the water. If the lost boat was anywhere on Florida Bay, they probably would've found her by now. The pilot was certain of one thing: There was no sixteen-foot Boston Whaler near Cotton Key. Either the woman who'd rented it had gotten lost in the foul weekend weather or she'd lied to the man at the motel marina.
Flying at five hundred feet, the pilot took the chopper on a sinuous course from the Cowpens along Cross Bank toward Captain Key, Calusa, the Buttonwoods and Roscoe. Then he arced back across Whipray Basin toward Corinne Key, Spy and Panhandle. He was coming up fast on the Gophers when he heard his spotter say: "Hey, we've got something."
It was an open skiff, zipping through a stake channel on Twin Key Bank. The Coast Guard pilot throttled down and put the bird in a hover.
"Whaler sixteen?"
"Roger," said the spotter. "Two aboard."
"Two? Are you sure?"
"That's a roger."
The ride-along said nothing.
"They OK?" the pilot asked the spotter.
"Seem to be. Heading for Islamorada, it looks like."
The pilot leaned toward the jump seat. "What do you think, sir?"
The ride-along had brought his own binoculars, weatherproof Tascos. "A little closer if you can," he said, peering.
Perched in the chopper door, the spotter reported it was a man and a woman. "She's waving. He's giving us a thumbs-up."
The Coast Guard pilot said, "Well, Mr. Moffitt?"
"That's her. Definitely."
"Good deal. You want us to hang by?"
"Not necessary," the agent said. "She's as good as home."
27
Shiner never contemplated stealing the Lotto ticket from Amber and cashing it for himself. He was too infatuated; they'd spent so much time together, he felt they were practically a couple. Moreover, he was by nature an accomplice; a follower. Without someone to boss him around, Shiner was adrift. As his mother often said, this was a young man who needed firm direction. Certainly he hadn't the nerve to travel alone to Tallahassee and attempt to claim the lottery jackpot. The idea was petrifying. Shiner knew he made a poor first impression, knew he was an unskilled and transparent liar. The vile tattoo could be concealed, but how would he explain his corkscrew thumbs and the skinhead haircut? Or the crankcase scar? Shiner couldn't conceive a circumstance in which the State of Florida willingly would hand him $14 million.
Amber, on the other hand, could pull off anything. She was smooth and self-confident, and her dynamite looks sure couldn't hurt. Who could say no to a face and a body like that! Shiner figured the best thing to do was concentrate on the driving (which he was good at) and let Amber handle the details of collecting the Lotto winnings. Certainly she'd cut him in for something probably not fifty percent (on account of the kidnapping and then what happened on the island with Chub), but maybe four or five million. Amber did need him, after all. It would be foolish to turn in the lottery ticket without first destroying the videotape from the Grab N'Go, and only Shiner could take her where it was hidden. He resolved to be the best damn chauffeur she ever saw.
"Where's this trailer?" she asked.
"We're almost there."
"What's all that, corn or something?"
"The colonel said corn, tomatoes and I think green beans. You grow up on a farm?"
"Not even close," Amber said.
Shiner thought she seemed a little cranky. To loosen her up, he sang a few lines from "Nut-Cutting Bitch," tapping a beat on the dashboard and hoping she'd join in. He gave up when he ran out of lyrics.
Amber blinked impassively at the passing crop fields. "Tell me about the black girl," she said. "JoLayne."
"What's to tell."
"What does she do?"
Shiner shrugged one shoulder. "Works at the vet. You know, with the animals."
"She got any kids?"
"I don't think so."
"Boyfriend? Husband?" Amber, biting her lower lip.
"Not that I heard of. She's just another girl around town, I don't know much about it."