Carl Hiaasen (34 page)

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
both
going 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.

W
hen 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
are
the 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 Times
or
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 front-page exposé. 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
real
press 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.

Katie Battenkill made a list of things for which she had forgiven Arthur, or overlooked, because he was a judge and being married to a judge was important. The inventory included his annoying table manners, his curtness to her friends and relatives, his disrespect for her religion, his violent jealousy, his cheap and repeated adulteries, his habit of premature ejaculation and of course his rancid choice of cologne.

These Katie weighed against the benefits of being Mrs. Arthur Battenkill Jr., which included a fine late-model car, a large house, invitations to all society events, an annual trip to Bermuda with the local bar association, and the occasional extravagant gift, such as the diamond pendant Katie was now admiring in the vanity mirror.

She hadn’t thought of herself as a shallow or materialistic woman, but the possibility dawned upon her. Art was quite the unrepentant sinner, yet for eight years Katie had put up with it. She’d spent little time trying to change him, but allowed herself to be intimidated by his caustic tongue and mollified by presents. Ignoring what he did became easier than arguing about it. Katie told herself it wasn’t a completely loveless marriage, inasmuch as she honestly loved being the wife of
a circuit court judge; it was Arthur himself for whom she had no deep feelings.

Many Sundays she’d gone to church and asked God what to do, and at no time had He specifically counseled her to start an illicit affair with an itinerant newspaperman. But that’s what had happened. It had caught Katie Battenkill totally by surprise and left her powerless to resist—like one of her uncontrollable cravings for Godiva chocolate, only a hundred times stronger. The moment she’d laid eyes on Tom Krome, she knew what would happen….

She was in a walkathon for attention-deficit children when all of a sudden this good-looking guy came jogging down James Street in the opposite direction, weaving through the phalanx of T-shirted marchers. As he approached Katie, he slowed his pace just enough to smile and press a five-dollar bill in her palm. For the kids, he’d said, and kept running. And Katie, to her astonishment, immediately turned and ran after him.

Tom Krome was the first man she’d ever seduced, if that’s what you call a hummer in the front seat.

Now, looking back on those wild and guilt-ridden weeks, Katie understood the purpose. Everything happens for a reason—a divine force had brought Tommy jogging into her life. God was trying to tell her something: that there were good men out there, decent and caring men whom Katie could trust. And while He probably didn’t intend for her to have torrid reckless sex with the first she met, Katie hoped He would understand.

The important thing was that Tom Krome made her realize she could get by without Arthur, the lying snake. All she needed was some self-confidence, a reordering of priorities and the courage to be honest about the empty relationship with her husband. There hadn’t been enough time to fall in love with Tommy, but she certainly
liked
him better than she liked
Arthur. The way Tom had apologized for forgetting to call that night from Grange—Katie couldn’t remember hearing Arthur say he was sorry for anything. Tom Krome wasn’t special or outstanding; he was just a kind, affectionate guy. That’s all it took. The fact that Katie Battenkill was so easily drawn astray portended a dim future for the marriage. She decided she had to get out.

Katie recalled a line from an Easter sermon: “To tolerate sin is to abet it, and to share in the sinning.” She thought of Arthur’s many sins, including Dana, Willow and others whose names she never knew. That was bad enough, the adultery, but now the judge had commissioned an arson and a man was dead.

Not an innocent man, to be sure; an evil little shit. Yet still precious in the eyes of a benevolent God.

That was a sin Katie could not tolerate, if she hoped to save herself. What to do now?

In the mirror the diamond necklace glinted like a tiny star among her many freckles. Of course it was nothing but a bribe to ensure her silence, but dear God, was it gorgeous.

The bathroom door opened and out came her husband with
The Register
folded under one arm.

“Art, we need to talk.”

“Yes, we do. Let’s go to the kitchen.”

Katie was relieved. The bedroom was no place to drop the bomb.

She noticed her hands fluttering as she filled the coffeemaker. Over her shoulder she heard Arthur say, “Katherine, I’ve decided to retire from the bench. How would you like to live in the islands?”

Slowly she turned. “What?”

“I’ve had enough. The job is killing me,” he said. “I’m up for
reelection next year but I don’t have the stomach for another campaign. I’m burned out, Katie.”

All she could think to say was: “We can’t afford to retire, Art.”

“Thank you, Ms. Dean Witter, but I beg to differ.”

In that acid tone of voice that Katie had come to despise.

“Shocking as it may seem,” the judge went on, “I made a few modest investments without consulting you. One of them’s paid off very handsomely, to the tune of a quarter-million dollars.”

Katie gave no outward sign of being impressed, but it was a struggle to remain composed. “What kind of investment?”

“A unit trust. It’s a bit complicated to explain.”

“I bet.”

“Real estate, Katherine.”

She made the coffee and poured a cup for Arthur.

“You’re forty-three years old and ready to retire.”

“The American dream,” said the judge, smacking his lips.

“Why the islands? And which islands?” Katie, thinking: I can’t even get him to take me to the beach.

Arthur Battenkill said, “Roy Tigert has offered to loan us his bungalow in the Bahamas. At Marsh Harbour, just to see if we like it. If we don’t, we’ll try someplace else—the Caymans or St. Thomas.”

Katie was speechless. Bungalow in the Bahamas—it sounded like a vaudeville song.

Awkwardly her husband reached across the table and stroked her cheek. “I know things haven’t been perfect around here—we need to make a change, Katherine, to save what we’ve got. We’ll go away and start over, you and me, with nobody else to worry about.”

Meaning Tom Krome—or Art’s secretaries?

Katie asked, “When?”

“Right away.”

“Oh.”

“Remember how much you liked Nassau?”

“I’ve never been there, Arthur. That must’ve been Willow.”

The judge sucked desperately at his coffee.

Katie said, “This isn’t about saving our marriage, it’s about Tommy’s house burning down with a dead body inside. You’re scared shitless because it’s your fault.”

Arthur Battenkill Jr. stared blankly into his cup. “You’ve developed quite an imagination, Katherine.”