Shiner listened as the men explained where America had gone wrong, allowing Washington to fall into the hands of communists, lesbians, queers and race mixers. Shiner was annoyed to learn he probably would have ownedthe Grab N'Go by now if it weren't for something called "affirmative action" – a law evidently dreamed up by the commies to help blacks take over the nation.

Pretty soon Shiner's universe began to make more sense. He was pleased to learn it wasn't all his doing, this sorry-ass excuse for a life. No, it was the result of a complicated and diabolical plot, a vast conspiracy against the ordinary working white man. All this time there'd been a heavy boot on Shiner's neck, and he hadn't even known! Out of ignorance he'd always assumed it was his own damn fault – first quitting high school, then crapping out of the army. He'd been unaware of the larger, darker forces at work, "oppressing" him and "subordinating" him. Enslavinghim, Chub added.

Thinking about it made Shiner angry, but also oddly elated. Bode Gazzer and Chub were doing wonders for his self-esteem. They gave him a sense of worth. They gave him pride. Best of all, they gave him an excuse for his failures; someone else to blame! Shiner was invigorated with relief.

"How come you guys know so much?"

"We learned the hard way," Bode said.

Chub cut in: "You say you got a gun?"

"Yep," Shiner said. "Marlin .22."

Chub snorted. "No, boy, I said a gun."

In more detail Bode Gazzer explained about the impending invasion of NATO troops from the Bahamas and their mission of imposing a totalitarian world regime on the United States. Shiner's eyes grew wide at the mention of the White Rebel Brotherhood.

"I've heard of 'em!" the young man exclaimed.

"You have?" Chub shot a beady look at Bode, who shrugged.

Shiner said, "Yeah. It's a band, right?"

"No, dickbrain, it's not a band. It's a militia," Chub said.

"A well-regulated militia," Bode added, "like they talk about in the Second Amendment."

"Oh," said Shiner. He hadn't read the first one yet.

In a low confiding tone, Bode Gazzer said the White Rebel Brotherhood was preparing for prolonged armed resistance – heavilyarmed resistance – to any forces, foreign or domestic, that posed a threat to something called the "sovereignty" of private American citizens.

Bode laid a hand on the back of Shiner's neck. With a friendly squeeze: "So what do you say?"

"Sounds like a plan."

"You want into the WRB?"

"You're kiddin'!"

Chub said, "Answer the man. Yes or no."

"Sure," Shiner chirped. "What do I gotta do?"

"A favor," Chub said. "It's easy."

"More like a assignment," said Bode Gazzer. "Think of it like a test."

Shiner's expression clouded. He hated tests, especially multiple choice. That's how he'd blown the SATs.

Chub sensed the boy's consternation. "Forget 'test,' " he told him. "It's a favor, that's all. A favor for your new white brothers."

Instantly Shiner brightened.

When Tom Krome saw JoLayne's living room, he told her (for the fourth time) to call the police. The house was a mother lode of evidence: fingerprints, footprints, plenty of blood to be typed. JoLayne Lucks said absolutely not, no way, and started cleaning up. Reluctantly Krome helped. There wasn't much to be done about the gutted piano, or the bullet hole in the wood floor. The blood mopped up with ammonia and water.

Afterwards, while JoLayne took a shower, Krome buried the dead turtle under a lime tree in the backyard. When he came back inside, she was standing there, bundled in her robe.

Dripping water. Shredding lettuce into the aquarium.

"Well, the others seem fine," she said quietly.

Krome led her away from the turtles. "What've you got against calling the cops?"

JoLayne pulled free, snatched up a broom. "They wouldn't believe me."

"How could they not? Look in the mirror."

"I'm not talking about the beating. I'm talking about the Lotto ticket."

"What about it?" Krome said.

"I've got no proof I ever had it. Which makes it damn hard to claim it was stolen."

She had a point. Florida's lottery computer kept track of how many winning tickets were bought and where, but there was no way of identifying the owners. That's because Lotto numbers were sold over the counter with the beer and cigarets; trying to keep track of customers' names – hundreds of thousands – would have been impossible. Consequently the lottery bureau had one intractable criterion for claiming the jackpot: possession of the winning ticket. If you didn't have it, you didn't get the money – no matter what your excuse. Over the years, once-in-a-lifetime fortunes had been lost to hungry puppies and teething infants and washing machines and toilets and house fires.

And now robbers.

Tom Krome was torn between his sympathy for JoLayne Lucks and the realization that he'd stumbled into a pretty good news story. He must have done a poor job of masking his anticipation, because JoLayne said: "I'm begging you not to write about this."

"But it'll flush the bastards out."

"And I'll never, ever get the money. Don't you see? They'd burn the damn ticket before they'd go to jail. Burn it or bury it."

Krome lifted his feet to make way for JoLayne's fierce, metronomic sweeping.

"If these guys get spooked," she went on, "that fourteen-million-dollar stub of paper is garbage. They see a newspaper headline about what they did ... well, it's all over. Same if I go to the police."

She probably was right, Krome thought. But wouldn't the robbers assume JoLayne would report the theft? That's what most people would do.

He no longer heard the manic whisk of her sweeping. She was in the kitchen, leaning on the broom in front of the open refrigerator, letting the cool air soothe the cuts and bruises on her face.

Tom Krome said, "I'll put some ice in a bag."

JoLayne shook her head. The house was silent except for the drone of the aquarium pump and the turtles' steady munching of lettuce.

After a few moments, she said: "All right, here it is. They said they'd come back and kill me if I told anyone about the lottery ticket. They said they'd come back and shoot my babies, one at a time. Then me."

A chill went down Krome's arms.

JoLayne Lucks went on: "They told me to say my boyfriend beat me up. That's what I'm supposed to tell the doctor! 'What boyfriend?' I say. 'I don't have a boyfriend.' And the short one goes, 'You do now,' and he punches me in the tits."

Suddenly Krome couldn't breathe. He stumbled out the back door. JoLayne found him on his knees in the tomato patch. She stroked his hair and told him to take it easy. Before long, the crashing in his ears faded away. She brought him a glass of cold juice, and they sat together on an iron bench facing a birdbath.

In a raw voice, Krome said: "You can identify these guys?"

"Of course."

"They belong in jail."

"Tom – "

"Here's what you do: Go to the cops and the lottery bureau, and tell them everything that happened. About the robbery and the death threats. Give a statement, file a report. And then let the authorities wait for these bastards – "

"No."

"Listen. These guys will surface soon. They've only got six months to claim that jackpot."

"Tom, that's what I'm trying to tell you. I don't have six months. I need the money now."

Krome looked at her. "What in the world for?"

"I just do."

"Forget the money – "

"I can't."

"But these guys are monsters. They're going to hurt someone else the way they hurt you. Maybe worse."

"Not necessarily," JoLayne said. "Not if we stop them first."

The incredible part was, she meant it. Krome would have laughed except he didn't want to hurt her feelings.