A Hard Death

by Jonathan Hayes

  And then everything had changed.

  Adam had stopped a block from his street to take a bite of his taco when a small, white Mitsubishi mini-pickup truck pulled up next to him. Adam recognized the blue insignia on the hood, and nodded warily.

  The driver was a small, gaunt Mexican with a graying goatee, face partly hidden under the stiff bill of his Grulla Blanca baseball cap. He spoke in heavily accented English.

  “We will help you. Okay? We tell you, you go to police, okay…?”

  Adam nodded, his heart suddenly pounding.

  “Okay, I go to police. What can you tell me?”

  “Not here. Not good place. Meet me at six hours, in the…pantéon? En el cementerio?”

  The cemetery. Adam shook his head, uncertain. “Six hours? Or six o’clock?” He pointed at his watch. “Que hora?”

  The man nodded and said, “A las seis.” Six p.m.

  “Okay. A las seis. Pero, donde en el cementerio?”

  The man thought for a second, then said, “En las tumbas de los niños.”

  “Okay. A las seis.”

  And with that, the pickup accelerated and disappeared down the end of the street.

  Adam went home, showered, started to pack, then called the sheriff’s office; he would tell the detective what was happening, ask him to meet at the cemetery at six thirty—any sooner, and he’d spook the informant. But the detective was out, so Adam left a message on his voice mail.

  As he hung up, the feeling came back: he shouldn’t have meddled. This wasn’t his business. The police could take care of it.

  But Adam had no choice. He’d left his house at a quarter to six; it took him ten minutes to reach the cemetery. And now the man was nowhere to be seen.

  He wasn’t going to show. He was already more than a half hour late.

  Adam relaxed, only then realizing how tense he’d been.

  The detective would be there soon. He’d tell him to look for an older Mexican man with a gray goatee at La Grulla Blanca, suggest he offer the guy immunity or something so he could testify.

  Leaving Adam out of it.

  He walked back to his bike. It was cooler now—funny to think of seventy-five degrees as “cool”—and the trees at the far end of the cemetery were deeply shadowed.

  And he was going home.

  He pedaled toward the exit, picking up speed, faster and faster, and soon his bike was flying across the tarmac, the chain a smooth whir under his pumping feet, heading toward his cottage, then to Miami, then home to New York.

  And then the pickup truck slipped into the cemetery through the western gate—Adam’s gate—turning onto the track in front of him with a dry crunch of gravel.

  CHAPTER 38

  The truck seemed larger; Adam dismissed it as a trick of the light. In the setting sun, he couldn’t see the interior of the cab well, but it looked like there were two men there now.

  Adam coasted to a stop, let his bike down onto the grass, and walked over to the pickup, approaching the driver’s side.

  It was a different man, younger, bigger. Muscular.

  Adam said, “Hey, how’s it going?”

  The driver nodded, grinned widely, and said, “Fine. Everything’s fine.”

  He paused, then added, “You?”

  Adam nodded, also struggling for casual. “Good, just heading home. Long day.”

  Beyond the driver, he recognized the camcorder on the lap of the man in the front passenger seat.

  Grin unchanged, the driver said, “Can I help you with something?”

  Adam shrugged. “Nope, I’m good.”

  The man said, “Oh. Well, you came up to us…”

  “Oh, no problem, I thought you were someone else.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Oh, some guy who…who was going to tell me the best spot…” Adam grinned sheepishly. “He was going to tell me where I could buy some pot around here. You guys don’t know, do you?”

  “Some pot? As in marijuana? That’s pretty pathetic.” The man shook his head. “My friend, this is Florida. In Florida, only pussies smoke pot…”

  The passenger stifled an excited giggle.

  “You a pussy?”

  The driver cracked the door as Adam backed away.

  Adam said, “Okay, well, I guess I’ll have to keep looking.”

  “Oh, not so much.”

  Adam was walking back to his bike.

  “Kid.”

  He turned. The man was ten feet from him.

  “Kid? You lost.”

  Adam shook his head, as if not understanding.

  “You lost. You lose. You played, but you lost. Time to pay up.”

  Adam’s feet were rooted to the ground. He stammered, “There seems to be some kind of misunderstanding, sir.”

  “Sir? I like that!” The man was grinning now. “That’s pussy talk!”

  “I think you think I’m someone I’m not.”

  The man cocked his head. “Really? You’re not Adam Weiss?”

  Adam stammered, but nothing came out.

  “Put the bike in the truck.”

  Adam was shaking.

  “Kid, it’s over.” The man pulled a black automatic out of his waistband. “Now put the fucking bike in the fucking truck before I fucking gut-shoot you and let you bleed shit right here in the cemetery. All we want is to talk with you.”

  He watched the boy pull the bike up and wheel it to the truck. In the flatbed, several stacked bags of feed and canisters of pesticide peeked out from under a weathered tarp.

  “Lift it and put it in the fucking truck.”

  Adam’s muscles were liquid, sloshing loosely under his skin. His hands wouldn’t grasp, his arms wouldn’t heft the frame up onto the flatbed.

  “Kid, I swear to fucking Christ, I will shoot you dead right now if that bike isn’t on the truck by the time I count three.”

  He racked the pistol with a slick, dull click. Adam thought dully: It sounds just like on TV.

  The wheels and frame floated up as if buoyed by helium, and the bike tipped up over the side and into the flatbed. The front wheel caught and twisted, the frame tumbling sideways onto the truck, lifting the tarp to expose for a second the bloodied body of a man. Not even a second, a fraction of a second—just long enough for Adam to see the small gray goatee.

  “Okay, kid. Now the three of us are going to go for a little ride, going to have us a little talk…”

  CHAPTER 39

  It was just after quarter to seven when Jenner pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of Stella Maris, Maggie Craine’s house.

  Palace, really, he thought. An old mansion roofed with terra cotta tile, the big white house glowed against the overcast evening skies. It had a commanding view straight down the Promenade past all the other big white houses. The estate was surrounded by high cream stucco walls; tall palm trees peeked over the wall. Behind the black gates, a white gravel carriage drive flowed around an oval lawn with a large fountain, where water splashed down through tiered white marble bowls stained with moss.

  Jenner pushed the button on the security phone and waited in the blue glow.

  A red light flickered on over the camera, and a voice said, “How may I help you?”

  “Dr. Jenner for Ms. Craine.”

  There was a brief silence; Jenner imagined them checking out his Hyundai.

  “Thank you, doctor. You’re expected.” There was a buzz, and a high-pitched grinding sound as the gates swung open. “Please park in the main house lot—that’s to the left; if you go right, you’ll end up in the pool house lot, so please make sure to take the left.”

  Jenner followed the drive left, into the house lot, screened from the house by a thick wall of box privet and shade trees. Of the dozen parking spaces, four of the six nearer the house were filled—the household’s cars, Jenner assumed. There was a maroon Bentley convertible, a steel-gray Lexus SUV, Maggie’s vintage Mercedes convertible, and a new navy blue Volvo station wagon.

  Jenne
r followed a path through the hedge, discreetly sign-posted, emerging onto a side garden, the house up ahead to his right. To his left was an immaculately groomed grass tennis court, the chalk lines an eerie, gleaming white at dusk.

  Floodlights suddenly turned the walls of the house pale gold. Inside, the building was filled with light, every window lit, light spilling out over the grounds, throwing shadows from the tall palms and ornamental shrubs.

  Xanadu.

  His cell phone buzzed.

  “Doctor? It’s Deb Putnam, from yesterday?”

  Christ.

  “Deb! God, I’m sorry! I had such a crazy day that I just came home and crashed. I totally forgot—I’m really sorry.”

  She laughed softly. “No problem—I thought it was probably that.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m at Cormo’s. I waited at your office for a while, then thought maybe you came here directly. I didn’t want to disturb you—I figured you might be held up with something important.”

  “I’m really sorry.” Jenner paused. “I don’t think I can do it tonight—I’m completely wiped out. Can I get a rain check?”

  “Oh sure! Really, no problem at all, I completely understand.”

  “Okay, good. I’ll call you tomorrow and we can make a plan.”

  “Sounds good.” She hung up.

  He shook his head. Christ.

  “Jenner? Never keep a lady waiting—particularly this one!”

  Maggie Craine was standing on the terrace at the top of a short flight of stone steps. She was wearing a fitted white silk dress, cut simply to emphasize her shape and her legs; on other women, it would’ve seemed formal and constricting, but she made it effortless and light.

  “You like?” She smiled at him, and did a half-twirl. “Tonight Miss Craine is wearing James Perse.”

  Jenner smiled back, and Maggie lifted up her hem to kick up a heel. “And Prada.”

  She had a tall glass filled with ice and mint in her hand.

  He said, “Sorry about the delay. Work call.”

  “If you can drag yourself to the top of these steps, I’ll give you a mojito.”

  “After the day I’ve had, I’d crawl up those steps for a mojito.”

  “Stop giving me ideas!” Maggie took one step down. “Come on, I’ll meet you halfway.”

  “That’s not halfway.”

  “Well, you better get used to it—this is the Craine version of halfway.”

  Jenner stepped up and took the glass from her.

  “Welcome to Stella Maris.”

  “Thanks.” He took a sip; the drink was strong, sweet, the mint stiff, the rum bracing.

  He gestured to the mansion. “It’s kind of weird to think people actually live here.”

  She laughed. “Promise you’ll say that to my dad!”

  Maggie took Jenner by the arm and walked him along the gravel pathway; Jenner felt the cool drape of her clunky gold charm bracelet on his wrist.

  The house was beautiful, classically Palladian, but it was the grounds that set Stella Maris apart. The landscaper had terraced the land into two lawns at slightly different heights, skillfully interrupting the formality of the gardens with palms and shade trees.

  Jenner said, “This place looks like Versailles would if Louis XIV had built it in the Caribbean.”

  She giggled. “Oh, tell my father that, too!” She plucked the glass from his hand and took a sip. “You’ve been to Versailles?”

  He nodded. “I lived in France for a year before I went to medical school.” She raised her eyebrows. “Long story—French girl, love, heartbreak, reunion, lather, rinse, repeat.”

  Ahead of them, a man in a white jacket and black pants was lighting torches along the path.

  Maggie said, “And? Still lathering?”

  Jenner grinned. “Nope, not for a few years now.”

  “Good!” She squeezed his arm tight.

  They turned the corner at the back of the house onto a stone veranda. On the lower terrace, torches flared among white stone columns and arches around a large swimming pool. Underwater lights turned the pool a luminous blue, its surface rippling and chopping as a man swam laps in an urgent freestyle.

  “Your father?”

  “Yes.” Maggie nodded, her eyes mischievous. “I wonder if he’s ready for public consumption…”

  He followed her down to the pool.

  She called out, “Daddy! Are you decent? We have company…”

  Chip Craine glided in to slap the concrete by her foot, then tapped a button on his watch. He tugged his goggles off and looked at his watch. “Forty-two. Good enough!”

  He peered up at Jenner. “This the doctor?”

  “Yes, Daddy. Are you decent?”

  “Decent? Maggie, he’s a doctor!”

  Craine stretched up a hand; Jenner caught it and leaned back as Craine pulled himself up onto the slate flagstones. He was impressively lean, and even more impressively tan.

  And naked.

  “Daddy!” Maggie hid her face behind her hands, giggling. She turned away and said, “Jenner, excuse my father—I’m afraid this is one of his ‘eccentricities’…”

  Her father snorted. “The doctor doesn’t care, darling. He spends his days looking at naked men, isn’t that right, doctor? Hand me my towel, will you?”

  Jenner said, “Something like that,” and handed Craine the towel. “Although they’re usually a little paler.”

  Craine barked a laugh. “Ha! You see, Mags? The doctor doesn’t care.” He toweled off, grabbed a big white terry cloth robe and wrapped himself in it. “All right, darling, it’s safe. Daddy’s decent again.”

  “Don’t you believe him, Jenner! My father doesn’t have a decent bone in his body…”

  “What’s wrong with the human body? Doctor, perhaps you can help Maggie with her issues—I’ve spent a fortune on her therapy and she’s gotten nowhere…”

  Maggie squealed and slapped his shoulder. “Jenner, ignore him. My father’s the sort of person who’ll greet my date stark-naked and then make us miss our dinner reservation…”

  “Okay, all right, I’m going!” Craine shook his head stoically. “You two have a drink on the patio while I dress.”

  He nodded at Jenner, and slipped past Maggie toward the house; there was a yelp as he goosed her.

  “Daddy!”

  They watched him head up the terrace to the house. There was a fresh pitcher on a side table, but Maggie insisted on sharing Jenner’s mojito.

  Jenner was thinking: “Date.”

  CHAPTER 40

  They took Adam out to the fields south of Bel Arbre, Bentas driving, Tarver in the passenger seat, Adam wedged between them, shaking. It was after dusk when they turned off the highway and started to move through the orange groves, the fruit bright dots, vivid against the dark leaves and overcast sky.

  The world flew by Adam in a blur of tangled green under dying light. He saw the trees first as chaotic jungle, then the mass of vegetation would resolve itself into rows stretching off into the distance before collapsing again into disorder as his perspective shifted.

  Tarver and Bentas spoke across him as if he weren’t there, a snippy argument about what Tarver should and shouldn’t record. Adam barely registered the words. They were now on the empty dirt back roads, the workers long gone.

  Bentas flicked the headlights on, and instantly blinding white flurries of insects engulfed them, spattering against the car, dazzling showers of radiant particles.

  And Adam wanted them to just keep going, because he knew that when the car stopped…

  It stopped.

  Bentas said, “Here’s good. He said not too far from the highway.”

  Tarver was fussing with the battery for the spotlight for his camcorder. Bentas said, “Forget it! Just fucking forget it, you fucking sick freak! ¡Conio! Why are you even like that?”

  Tarver started to get all high-pitched and whiny, but Bentas cut him off.

  “Let’s
just do this. You sure you can hold him, you sick fucking freak?”

  Bentas climbed out of the car and put on a pair of rubber gloves. He turned back to watch as Tarver started to drag the boy out of the truck. Adam hung on to the headrest, trying desperately to hold on as Tarver grabbed at his flailing legs. He didn’t cry out.

  Bentas roared with laughter. “Ooh! Ooh! Tarver! Tarver! Get his legs! Get his legs!”

  Stung, Tarver stepped back and pulled out a pistol.

  Bentas said, “Oh no you don’t! Oh no you fucking don’t, bitch!”

  He pushed Tarver aside, leaned into the passenger compartment, and did something to the boy’s head that Tarver couldn’t see. There was a screech, then Bentas effortlessly slid the boy across the seat and out onto the dirt.

  “Jesus, Tarver, you fucking dickless bitch! Can’t you do anything right?” He looked down at Adam, who was whimpering in the dirt.

  “Get up, kid. Get up or I’ll do it again.” Covering his head with his arms, Adam slowly stood. “Tarver, you take him by the arm now. And try not to let him go, okay? And don’t mark him up, either.”

  As Tarver led the boy to the edge of the field, Bentas snugged the gloves on his hands, leaned into the pickup, lifted the tarp, and pulled out the wine bottle lying by the dead farmhand’s legs.

  The three stood at the edge of a big field. The furrowed black earth was riven by long, straight ridges of arched white plastic film that shone silver in the shadowy moonlight, stretching all the way to dark trees. Beyond the trees, the highway.

  Adam stood there sobbing, cheeks glistening with tears. The occasional sound of a car out on the highway floated across the field; he could see the soft yellow glare of approaching headlights, see the faint red glow of the taillights as they went. Not so far away.

  So far away.

  The night breeze picked up, and for a second Adam caught the faintest smell of something sweet, something fresh and green. He turned to see that Bentas had torn open one of the row covers and was plucking fruit from a bush.

  Strawberries.

  Adam was going to die in a strawberry field.