Smith leaned over, tapped Bentas on the arm to get his attention. He yelled, “Shut him up!” jabbing his finger toward Gordo.
Bentas bent forward, smacked Gordo’s hood hard with the butt of his rifle, and yelled, “Oye, puto! Sigue asì y vas a echar las entrañas. Y si vomitas ahì, te vas a ahogar!”
Gordo’s head jerked forward and stayed there, craning away from the unseen club. Smith couldn’t hear the blubbering anymore.
“What did you say?”
Bentas grinned. “A little joke. But he understands.”
Smith turned back to stare out to the horizon, looking for the big island of trees. He wondered if it had a name; Tony claimed to be an eighth Miccosukee, maybe he knew.
The airboat was almost idling now, edging slowly forward. A snowy egret roused, skittering across the surface of the water before launching awkwardly into the air.
The airboat swung into a wide curve; Tony whistled and nodded to the right. The humped shape of the hammock, rising like the back of an elephant out of the marsh, maybe a quarter-mile further. A couple of acres of dark loam covered by thick swamp forest.
As the boat drew closer, a handful of vultures rose from the canopy and flapped high into the air to wheel and glide over the tree tops.
As Tony let the airboat float in toward the bank, Tarver lifted the camcorder and shouted, “Guys, guys! Let me out first so I can get them coming off the boat!”
Before Smith could stop him, he’d scrambled out and onto the island, almost sliding to his knees in the mud before grabbing a branch and hauling himself up onto the solid ground. He turned, lifted his camcorder to his face, and yelled, “Okay! Come on!”
Tony climbed down from his seat and stepped nimbly up onto the bank. When Smith pulled the hoods off the two men, they looked around wildly, blinking in the light. Gordo’s black hair was now slick with blood from when Bentas had hit him.
Bentas prodded them to their feet with his rifle, nudging them toward the front of the boat. Wrists bound behind their backs, necks leashed together, they hobbled clumsily forward, frantically overbalancing as the boat gently tipped and slid under their moving weight. They slowed to a shuffle, so Bentas gave Gordo another tap.
Joaquin went down first, but missed the bank, his feet slipping back out from underneath him as he fell face-forward into the bank, toppling Gordo, who fell on top of him. The two writhed together in the mud, Joaquin kicking as he slowly slid back toward the water.
Tony pushed Tarver out of the way and reached down to haul the fat one up onto solid ground, while Bentas stepped down into the muck to grab Joaquin.
Smith let them catch their breath before going on toward the clearing.
They moved in single file through the thick undergrowth, crashing through the tangles of muscadine and devil’s claw as the ground firmed under their feet. They squeezed past tall gumbo-limbo trees and into the heart of the island, where the gumbo-limbo gave way to a few dozen towering mahogany trees. A long time ago, timber poachers had carved a hollow into the small forest, leaving a moss-covered clearing at the center; the deep green shadow flickered with light when the wind stirred the canopy high overhead.
As they entered the clearing, Gordo slipped on the moss, pulling Joaquin down to his knees. Gordo lay there rigid on the ground, not moving as Bentas and Tony tried to get him to his feet, Joaquin being dragged back and forth as they struggled. Finally Bentas swung the butt of his gun into Gordo’s head one more time, connecting with a low, hollow pock! that resonated dully through the dead air of the clearing.
Joaquin muttered, “Tenemos que hacerlo, vamos ya de una vez. Como quiera, nos van a matar. Haz tu paz, mi hermano.” It’s going to happen. Let’s get it over with. They’ll just hurt you more, and then kill you anyway. Make your peace now, brother.
Bentas grunted, “Hazle caso a tu hermano, cabron. Es inteligente.” Listen to your brother, asshole. He’s smart.
But it didn’t take, and Gordo began to writhe and kick again as Smith and Bentas dragged him forward across the moss, Joaquin scrambling forward on his knees as best he could.
Tony had set the chairs against a big mahogany, the rust-pitted metal backs pressed firmly against the thick gray trunk. He stepped forward, and, with Smith and Bentas holding Gordo down, quickly loosened the rope. He pulled the noose tight around Joaquin’s neck so that he couldn’t run, then dragged him over to the tree.
He motioned for Joaquin to get up on the chair.
When the Mexican hesitated, Tony wordlessly pulled out the knife he’d used to cut Gordo earlier.
Joaquin straightened. They had lost, and now it would happen, but he was a man: he wasn’t going out like some little bitch.
He was calm now, the clearing hovering around him like water, distant and separate. He was moving through the air, he was stepping up onto the chair, he was leaning forward to steady himself against the trunk, he was turning to watch them drag Gordo to the other chair, punching him and clubbing him as they went. He was. He was. He was.
Tony threw the free end of the rope up and around a thick branch, looping it over before retying the noose. The others wrestled Gordo to him, Smith yelling at Tarver to put the camera down and help.
Tarver, muttering, slung the camera around his neck and walked over to the foot of the tree, where he stood and watched them wrestle with Gordo.
Tarver sighed, opened a folding knife, and stuck the blade deep into Gordo’s flank. Gordo howled and flailed as he backed onto the chair; it took Tony a second to get the noose around his neck, and then to knock the chair out from under Joaquin. After that, Gordo’s body rose more easily as they lifted him. Tarver had the camera out and was filming before Gordo was fully suspended.
Afterward, Tarver whined about how he’d missed Joaquin’s drop, but when he watched the tape later, he admitted it wasn’t the end of the world.
CHAPTER 2
PORT FONTAINE, DOUGLAS COUNTY, SOUTHWEST FLORIDA
TWO WEEKS LATER
Jenner watched the old man push the shopping cart across the motel parking lot. The man wore shorts and sneakers only, his shirtless chest leathery and nut-brown, fading blue military tattoos scattered across his torso and arms. There was no way he’d get the cart’s wheels up onto the sidewalk in front of the rooms—the curb rose barely three inches above the tarmac, but the man was so drunk that Jenner was amazed he’d made it across the lot without falling.
He rammed the wheels against the concrete lip, the foraged cans in his cart rattling like tin maracas. He kept banging the curb until Jenner put down his copy of The Kite Runner and stepped off his porch.
“Hey, sir. Can I give you a hand with that?”
The man eyed Jenner warily; his jutting jaw and narrow, toothless mouth gave his face a skeletal air. He looked Jenner up and down, squinting at the grubby T-shirt and running shorts.
Jenner waited.
Finally the man nodded. Jenner lifted the cart onto the sidewalk, then followed the old man’s pointing directions. As Jenner pushed the rattling cart along the breezeway, the man puffed along behind, muttering something about immigrants and liquor stores and respect.
They stopped at the man’s room, next to the ice box and vending machines under the stairs. He nodded at Jenner again, turned, and disappeared through the door.
And just like that, Jenner had been accepted—now he belonged at the Palmetto Court Motel.
The Palmetto Court, his home for two weeks now, was a strip of two-story concrete buildings, flanked by a cluster of weather-battered cottages in front of a dismal little creek. While Port Fontaine’s white sand beaches had made it a playground for the wealthy since the 1920s, the Palmetto Court was in the Reaches, the part of the town half-sunk in the mosquito jungles that rimmed the Everglades.
The motel was classic faded Reaches chic, the sort of place shot by hipster photographers for ironic coffee table books about rotting mid-century Americana. It was painted the garish green of a funhouse ride, and Jenner was conv
inced it was only a question of time before he found a dead snake in the pool.
He sat on the porch of his cottage, and picked up his book. But he couldn’t concentrate and soon put it back down. He sat there in front of his Hyundai Accent, staring at the dented fender that had earned him a 30 percent discount on the rental.
Jenner had needed that discount—he was running on fumes. After they suspended his New York license, the consulting work for insurance companies—his bread and butter—had dried up. The week before he came to Florida, he’d had to borrow money from his friend Jun because the check for his electric bill had bounced. If Marty Roburn, the Douglas County medical examiner, hadn’t hooked him up with three months of work, Jenner would be out there picking up cans, too. The Roburns were going on a world cruise—a reward for almost a decade without a real vacation—but Jenner knew Roburn was hoping he would fall in love with the place and stay on as his successor.
Still, as he sat on the porch, looking across the motel parking lot toward State Road, out over the battered sedans and pickup trucks (Fords and GMCs and Chryslers, with bumper stickers paying homage variously to God, the U.S.A., and the Grateful Dead), Jenner found it hard to feel lucky.
There was a soft rattle, and he turned to see the old man emerge from his room, dressed now in long black slacks and a yellowed but clean and pressed white shirt, long-sleeved, the sleeves buttoned at the wrist, the collar closed. He waited at his open door, and then a tiny old woman in a powder-blue pants suit, dyed black hair marcelled against her scalp, stepped out. She took his arm, and they walked along the pavement, their gait stiff and stately.
As they passed, Jenner gave a friendly nod; the couple ignored him.
Jenner watched them pass; so much for being accepted.
They moved toward the end of the lot, out of his sight.
It was already past noon, and it would only get hotter and wetter. He should run before the rain started.
CHAPTER 3
Out in the Everglades, Jenner ran along the old canal road, pounding the four-mile stretch in the early afternoon heat. He’d been doing it most days for almost three weeks; at first, each breath had ripped out of his chest, jagged and wet, but now his body had its own rhythm, and his feet steadily beat the ground, working the bellows of his lungs. He could feel his body tightening, distilling down to muscle, sinew, and bone, an increasingly elemental structure moving over the earth, through the air, by the water.
Jenner was healing—not physically, the way the knife slash across his left arm had become a smooth purple scar, but the other healing, his body fusing with whatever particular metaphysical energy powered it across the surface of the world. He was becoming whole again; he was getting better.
He had told the staff at the medical examiner’s office to reach him by cell if they needed him. But they wouldn’t need him—they never needed him. Douglas County was a place where old money went to die, a place where no one ever died violently. At least, so everyone kept telling him.
Jenner saw no one for two miles, not even a fisherman. The Faxahatchee Canal was a straight line carved across the Everglades to contain the wilderness, to mark the start of farmland and tract housing. But on the far side of the dark water, the canal bank was crumbling and overgrown, now barely recognizable as man-made. The Everglades had fought back against the imposition of order, spilling over the edges, forcing through the boundary of concrete and blacktop.
On his runs, Jenner would pass white herons hunting frogs in the shallows, and packs of cormorants posing in the branches, facing the sun immobile, black wings like widow’s weeds draped wide to dry. And occasionally, on the far side, where smaller tributaries trickled sluggishly through the undergrowth into the canal, he’d catch sight of a gator, half-hidden in the dark, glassy gaps in the pale green lace covering of water plants.
The path ahead fell into shadow as the sun slipped behind clouds. Jenner’s mood shifted with the light, and, once again, he found himself running blind, the path, the water, everything falling back until he could see nothing but the man he’d killed. He carried the dead man awkwardly, trailed him along like a sagging helium balloon, the cord somehow entangled around his neck.
He’d talked about it with Dr. Rother, the government-supplied therapist he started seeing after 9/11. Rother said it was a stress symptom, chatter from his unconscious about something being wrong.
But Jenner didn’t understand why—he wasn’t afraid of that man, nor did he feel guilty for killing him. The man had been a monster. He’d killed one of Jenner’s friends and carved up another; he’d done it while Jenner lay gasping in front of them. And he would’ve killed Ana de Jong too.
Ana. The man had kept her prisoner in the warehouse for days, then hunted her like an animal through the decaying space, stabbing at her with a big iron spike. Jenner remembered her lying there on the couch afterward, too weak to cry as he plucked nails from her filthy skin.
Jenner’s jaw tightened. Thinking about what the man had done to Ana made it easier for Jenner to remember how he’d killed him. How he’d driven that spike through his chest and held on as the man rattled out his last bloody breaths. The way the spike shuddered with his twitches as he died. The heat of the man’s blood coursing down the iron to slick Jenner’s fists, locked white-knuckled to the cold, rusted shaft.
And the thing that scared Jenner was that, sometimes, it actually felt good.
There was a feathery squeak, and Jenner turned to see a blue heron take off, swooping low over the water, the long legs ticking the surface to set spreading ripples in motion. Or was it an egret? No, a heron: the guide at the Everglades park said herons fly with their necks bent.
The world flooded back in. In the distance, Jenner could see the East Farm Road bridge. He’d stop there, catch his breath, look for alligators in the water below. Act like a tourist.
Something was happening up ahead. As the canal path rose up to East Farm, Jenner slowed to a walk.
A sheriff’s department Special Response van was parked on the far side, and beyond it an olive-green SUV with the Florida State Parks logo. A tow truck was backed up to the water’s edge; by the truck, a uniformed deputy was shouting down into the water.
Jenner walked up onto the bridge to get a better look.
In the canal, a diver was bobbing next to the tow truck cable. The cable disappeared into the water, plunging toward a pale, ghostly shape that billowed faintly beneath the surface.
They were recovering a car.
The diver attached the cable to the frame or axle, then swam to the other side of the sunken car, grabbed the line, and dragged it down into the dark green water.
The hoist motor howled, and the steel cable stiffened, but the car didn’t break the surface. The diver popped up again to yell to the deputy on the bank; the driver cut the hoist motor.
“Dr. Jenner! Doctor!”
The deputy was waving up at him, the diver looking up too, treading water as he floated over the pallid shadow of the drowned car.
“We got a body!”
CHAPTER 4
Jenner climbed the concrete barrier and scrambled down the embankment. It was an unpaved feeder road, a place where people from the Reaches came to drink beer and fish for bluegill and turtles.
He recognized the deputy from a motor vehicle accident out on Pelican Alley the week before.
They shook hands. “Nash, right?”
“Hi, doc.” Nash glanced at Jenner’s sweaty Pixies T-shirt and worn Nike shorts, and grinned. “Good thing you were in the neighborhood.”
Jenner joined the deputy and the park ranger at the bank, and peered into the water. He could see the car clearly—a light-colored, late-model compact. The boom slowly pulled up. The cable snapped taut, then the car trunk lurched visibly under the water. The hoist whined away as the car rose, the rear bumper finally breaking the surface in a rush of eddies.
The grinding turned to a howl as the car continued to rise, now tipped vertical. The diver ab
ruptly raised a flat palm; the driver killed the winch.
Beneath the canal’s shivering surface, Jenner saw the diver smash the window repeatedly until it was riven by a web of fracture lines. He pushed in the shattered window, then shoved off, kicking away from the car.
He swam to the bank, and, aided by his partner, climbed the rope ladder up onto dry land. He sat down heavily on a flat log.
Jenner and the park ranger watched him catch his breath. She turned to Jenner and said, “Excuse me, doctor? Were you at the visitor center over at Magic Bend Park yesterday?”
He nodded. “My day off.”
She held out a hand. “Deb Putnam.” She had a no-nonsense grip, and a pistol on her hip.
The diver had dropped his weight belt and was unstrapping his harness. Jenner approached him.
“So, what can you see, deputy?”
“You’re the ME?” He blew into his regulator a couple of times, then slipped the harness off his back and eased the tank to the ground. “Doctor…?”
Nash said, “Dr. Jenner. Doc, my partner here is Norris.”
They shook hands. Norris took the Mountain Dew the ranger offered, popped the top, and chugged it down in big gulps. He breathed out, and grinned. “Thanks, Deb.”
She tipped her baseball cap back, and Jenner saw she was pretty. Tan, blue-eyed and freckly, blond ponytail—a real Florida girl.
Norris turned back to Jenner. “Well, doc, we’ve got a big ole swelled-up sonuvagun in there, floating around in the driver’s compartment.”
“Is the body intact?”
“It’s really murky down there—I can’t hardly see him through the window. Best I can tell, he’s by himself.” He shook his head. “Don’t see any damage to the car, though. Windshield’s intact.”
He took another swig of soda. Jenner said, “Why did the tow-truck operator stop? With the hoist, I mean?”
Nash jerked his thumb toward the car. “Tell the truth, this truck’s a little bit small for this. That car is just a two-ton bucket holding another ton of water, doc. Norris will go back in, unroll the windows so it can drain right as it comes up.”
A Hard Death Page 2
