by Walter Marks
“I know my words can’t make things right,” Burt said. “But my actions can. I promise, from now on things will be different. Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do. Sweetie, I love you. You mean everything to me.”
A rough hand gripping his shoulder jolted Burt with fear. He turned in a panic and looked up to see Mort’s stone-faced visage staring down on him. The assassin dug his fingers harder into Burt’s shoulder, as if to say “I could hurt you if I wanted to.”
“Sweetie,” Burt said nervously into the phone, “I... I’ve gotta go into a meeting. I’ll stay in town tonight. Got an appointment with the dentist in the morning. Will you pick me up at the airport at eleven? That’ll be the start of our new life together. Okay? Remember — I love you.”
Burt exhaled and put down the phone as Mort took a seat on the bench across from him.
The Algerian killer was in his late thirties, tall, dark, and graceful of movement. He was dressed, as always, in impeccable Savile Row style: narrow-waisted navy tropical worsted suit, pale white silk shirt, and a crimson polka-dot cravat.
Susannah was about to hang up her phone when she heard a strange foreign voice, and realized that Burt had forgotten to end the call.
“Terribly sorry to be late. The traffic was absolutely horrendous.” The voice she heard had a Middle Eastern accent with clipped touches of Oxford English. The voice continued.
“There was some Negro hippity-hoppity concert at Radio City, and Sixth Avenue was jammed.” Through the phone, Susannah heard some tapping noises. She had no idea what was going on, but if Burt was trying to keep this meeting from her, there was no way in hell she was going to hang up.
“So, you wish to engage my professional services again?”
“Yes. My wife.” Susannah’s blood was like ice.
“Another wife? Goodness. You’re certainly unlucky in love. But then, not so unlucky as she.”
Susannah winced as she heard Burt chuckle.
“Let’s see now,” the foreign voice went on, “As I recall, your first wife met an untimely death Her name was...Carol? ”
“You have a good memory, Mort.
Mort? He sure doesn’t sound like a Mort.
“Your move again,” Mort said. There was a silence on the line. Again Susannah didn’t understand.
“Where is wife No.2?”
“My beach house. You know it.”
“Right. Any preference as to method?”
“Your call.”
Method? I don’t believe this! He’s letting Burt choose how I should die. Like it was an item on a menu.
“I would suggest death by drowning,“ Mort said. “I imagine your wife — what’s this one’s name?”
”Susannah.”
“Susannah. Hmm.” After a moment he sang in a melodious voice. “Oh Susannah, won’t you die for me.”
Both men laughed. Susannah was stunned. This couldn’t be happening!
“I would imagine she walks by the sea from time to time,” Mort said. “Simple enough to bop her with a sap, hold her under the surf until she expires, then let the ocean carry her away.”
Burt: “There’s a strong rip current. And if she drifts out far enough, sharks may get her. She might never be found.”
“So much the better. When would you like this done?”
“Right away.”
“I have an opening this weekend.”
An opening? she thought. Jesus!
“I suggest you leave town on a business trip. The accidental death of yet another wife will surely seem suspicious. You need a solid alibi.”
“I’ll go to Miami.”
“Wherever. Now about remuneration. My fee is sixty thousand.”
A silence on the line.
Then Burt’s voice: “But — last time it was fifty.”
“Mr. Cascadden. You know it’s rude ever to question the fee of a professional.”
My God, Susannah thought. They’re actually negotiating how much it will cost to kill me!
“And like everything else in this economy,” Mort said ruefully, “the price of wet work has gone up.”
“Of course,”
“Payment in cash, as usual.”
“I — I’ll have to get it in East Hampton. I’ve got a stash in a safety deposit box.”
“Good,” Mort said. “Get it tomorrow. Bring it to me here at seven the following evening. Then catch a plane for Miami and stay through the weekend. When you come home on Monday, you’ll be horrified to find that your beloved wife has disappeared.”
“Perfect.”
“Bring me a recent photo of her, and, oh yes, a pair of her sunglasses. I’ll leave them on the beach, which will suggest she went swimming and drowned.”
“No problem.”
No problem? Susannah thought. You bastard.
Burt’s voice again: “All right, Mort. See you Wednesday at seven.”
Susannah placed the phone back on its base. She was in shock, unbelieving, overwhelmed with fright.
She sat there trembling, trying to grasp the reality of her situation. Then it hit her —
I have two nights to figure out a way to save my life.
CHAPTER 10
Hidden behind bushes on a sandy hill abutting the Cascadden beach house, Jessie Russell had a clear view of the living room, part of the kitchen, and Blondie’s bedroom. It was nighttime, and he’d been lying there for the past few hours, peering through his camera’s telephoto lens and taking occasional breaks to smoke, work on a six-pack of Bud Light, and snack on some Ring Dings. This is what a police stake-out must be like, he thought. Hour after hour of total boredom, bearable only because in the next mother-grabbin’ moment you might hit pay dirt.
So far it was nothin’, zilch, nada. Blondie had changed from shorts and T-shirt into a robe, but the closet door blocked his view. He’d seen her eat, read a magazine, and now she was lying on the bed, watching TV. Boring. But Jessie had all the time in the world. And high hopes. He put out his cigarette in the sand and opened a Drake’s Ring Ding.
Jessie was watching Blondie as she answered the bedroom phone, talked for a while, and then just listened. It was hard to tell but she seemed upset. Then she hung up, rose from her bed and moved toward the bathroom. She tantalizingly took off her robe as she walked. But she was in the john before Jessie could get a shot.
She stayed in there a long time. Long enough, he hoped, he prayed, for her to take a bath or a shower. Because then there was a chance that she’d go into the bedroom, dry herself off, then drop her towel —
He listened for the sound of water running, but the wind made too much noise. Patience. Patience. His mother had always told him patience was a virtue. Fuckin’ A.
He started fantasizing about Susannah taking a shower. He could see her tan naked skin glistening as the water streamed down it, her soapy hands moving to her titties, making little circles around the nipples till they poked out like pink pencil erasers. Then the hands sliding down to her flat belly, washing but also teasing herself a little, working slowly down to that bald muff.
Oh, God, she’s soaping it, working up a lather and sliding her middle finger through the soap-bubbly triangle, right into her —
Jessie had a major woodie now. He raised his hips to ease the pressure on his swollen prick. He looked through the viewfinder of his Nikon. There was a crashing sound. He sat up and twisted, looking in the direction of the noise. He was terrified.
In the darkness he saw two small glowing disks of silver. It took him a moment to realize they were the eyes of a deer, reflecting the bright moonlight. In that same instant the browsing creature bounded away into the night.
It took Jessie a minute or so to calm down. By the time he was breathing normally, his erection had wilted. He stretched out on the ground again and focused the camera on Susannah’s bedroom window. But now there was nothing to see; she’d lowered the Levelor blind.
“I fuckin’ blew it,” Jessie said out loud. Then he began packing up, put
ting his camera, leftover Ring Dings, and beer into a nylon duffle bag. By the time he was ready to leave, he’d given himself a good talking to: Patience. Patience. This is the right M.O. Much higher percentage than trying to snap a picture from an airplane.
Getting this shot had now taken over his life. As he walked away he found himself singing: “Sooner or later — I’m gonna getcha, getcha, getcha, getcha, getcha ...”
Then he got an idea. He would call in sick tomorrow and take the day off.
Plan B.
CHAPTER 11
Susannah sat waiting anxiously for Burt on the veranda at East Hampton Airport. Her head ached, her eyes felt grainy from lack of sleep. Ever since Burt’s phone call, her mind had been in overdrive, exploring every conceivable way to avoid being murdered. And the frightening truth was — she had no answer.
Her brain kept replaying the possibilities, in a desperate, never-ending loop.
Run away? Not an option. He’ll kill Mom.
Go to the police? I’ve been over and over that. I have no evidence that Burt put out a contract on me. The police would tell me there was nothing they could do without proof of threat or previous violence.
Court order of protection? Same problem, and anyway it would be useless in this situation. And there was no time.
Hire my own private bodyguard for protection? Even if I could find one, I’m up against a $60,000 hitman here. He’s clearly an expert — he’d find a way to get the job done.
Burt has a licensed handgun. Could I use it to protect myself? Same problem, only worse. Besides, I’m not a killer. To take the life of another human being? It’s just not in me. But what if it were self-defense? Kill or be killed?...
She spotted the commuter plane, then watched as it landed, taxied to the terminal, and discharged its passengers. Burt was the last one off.
Susannah forced a smile and greeted her husband. He hugged her and kissed her on the cheek.
“Sweetie,” he said. “Just knowing you were waiting for me here made my flight a joy. And I promise you—from now on, things are going to be very different between us.”
He embraced her and they strolled through the terminal. Susannah was sick with fear but she played along.
“By the way,” Susannah said, “How was your dental appointment?”
“Okay. Dr. Kern says my teeth are fine, but my gums gotta come out.”
He gave such a genuine laugh that she felt of flicker of hope — maybe he’s changed his mind.
As they were getting into the car, Burt turned to her,
“I need to swing by the bank to get some cash. I’m going down to Miami tomorrow night for a real estate convention and I hate traveling without cash in my pocket. A greased palm here and there gets you the best of everything.”
The words “cash” and “Miami” quashed any hope Susannah had that Burt had reconsidered. It was certain—he was going to have her killed.
“While I’m at the bank,” Burt said. “Why don’t you run into Cashmere Hampton and buy yourself something for Fall. Maybe a full-length coat.”
Yes, she thought, and you can return it next week because of your wife’s untimely demise.
As Burt walked away, the loop in Susannah’s mind started again — What can I do? Run away? No. Go to the police? No. Protect myself? No. Oh, God...
When they got home, Burt said he felt like doing a little surfcasting while Susannah made lunch. “Serve it on the good china,” he said. “And pull out a bottle of the Meursault. You can chill it as soon as I get back, remember—exactly eight minutes in ice water.”
“Okay,” she said pleasantly. “Maybe you can catch a fish for dinner. Come back in an hour.”
Burt changed into his bathing suit and Polo shirt, grabbed his rod and tackle box, and headed down to the beach.
Susannah watched him from the deck, as he ambled along the water’s edge toward his favorite fishing spot about three hundred yards away. It was a gorgeous sunny day, mild and breezy. The tide was high and the surf was up. The ocean was ultramarine blue with foamy white-caps dappling its surface all the way to the horizon.
Susannah could see her husband wading out into the deeper water. Please...please, she thought. Keep on going, Burt. Maybe you’ll go out too far and the rip tide’ll get you.
Burt smiled as he waded into the sea. He felt the powerful tug of the undertow on his legs. Soon, he thought, Susannah’s corpse would be swept out to sea, drifting in the currents until it became fish food somewhere in the briny deep. Susannah had fallen for his apologetic number big time and was set up perfectly for Mort’s hit. In a few days, he’d be free of his wife’s negative influence on his Purusharthas (especially Moksha, Kama, and Artha), and his instability attacks would be history.
And soon a judge’s ruling would clear the way for the rise of his seventy-story Bridgeview, the first skyscraper that could be seen from ships entering New York harbor — a monument to the brilliant imagination of Burton Lloyd Cascadden, Master Builder.
Susannah went to her bedroom and pulled on a swimsuit bottom while standing in front of a full-length mirror. She scrutinized her body, something she’d done habitually since she began training as a dancer. Women outside the dance world were always envious of her. “I’d kill for a body like yours!” was a frequent comment. But they didn’t understand that while her body was great by normal standards, dancers were always comparing their bodies with other dancers and invariably feeling inferior one way or another. Susannah wished her buttocks were rounder, her hipbones less prominent, and her arms — God, she hated her arms — if only they were two inches longer.
Susannah thought of Martha Graham’s principles, the ideals that had been drummed into her by her teachers: centered body, centered mind. Build your strength to prepare you for the daring leap.
Yes, she thought. Somehow I have to find the strength. The strength to save my life.
Then she remembered Takiko’s assessment of her: “Sorry, Susannah. You’re just not strong enough to make the company.”
She stared again at her body in the mirror. She looked strong, even powerful, but in her mind she heard those humiliating words again — You’re not strong enough, not strong enough. You’re just not strong enough.
Burt was casting with his favorite lure, the green-feathered jamboree. As the plug plunged into the pounding surf, he imagined a big striper taking it and then waging a twenty-minute struggle before he reeled in the big lunker. Tonight, his devoted wife would steam it in ginger and garlic and they would dine by candlelight — a meal that would be for them as a couple — The Last Supper.
Susannah put on her swimsuit top and a men’s denim work shirt over it. She felt dazed, detached, as if she were sleepwalking.
She went to the wine rack and pulled out the wine Burt wanted—the big, buttery, hazelnut-nuanced ‘96 Genevieve Meursault. She filled a silver ice bucket with ice and put the bottle next to it. She selected two crystal wine goblets, then set about preparing a lunch of pâté de foie gras, along with cold steamed asparagus and a sourdough boule.
When she finished, Susannah walked out onto the deck. Her eye caught the large bronze statue of the flute-playing avatar Krishna, which Burt had placed there to watch over their home. Lord Krishna seemed to be giving Susannah a pitying look.
She dragged an aluminum chair close to the railing, where she had a view of the beach. In the distance, she could see her husband surfcasting.
She recalled Burt explaining Krishna’s doctrine—it is not wrong to take action in the world, but rather it is often appropriate to do so, given the situations we encounter in life.
When Burt quit fishing and started packing up his gear, Susannah went to the kitchen, plunged the wine bottle into the ice cooler and brought it out on the deck. She set the table with silverware, linen napkins, and two china plates with the pâté and asparagus on them. The bread was in a straw basket.
She heard Burt clumping up the stairs to the deck. He appeared with his rod and t
ackle box. Without fish.
“No luck, huh?” Susannah said.
“Had one strike, but the fish snapped the line and took off with one of my best lures. He must’ve been a monster.”
“How big, you think?”
“Maybe forty pounds. I have thirty-pound-test line on the reel, and it didn’t hold him. Wait a minute.” He bent down, opened his tackle box, and reached inside. He held up a roll of monofilament. “I got some seventy-five-pound-test at the tackle shop last week. I’ll put it on after lunch.”
Susannah led Burt to the table and sat him down. She uncorked the Meursault, poured it, and handed him the glass of white Burgundy. “Chilled for eight minutes exactly,” she said, looking at her watch.
Burt raised the goblet and offered a toast.
“To a new us,” he said.
She picked up her glass.
“Yes, Sweetie,” Burt whispered, “From now on our life together will be a thing of beauty. I promise you that.”
His benign smile only accentuated his evil intent.
They clinked, drank.
“Mmm,” he said. “Love the Meursault.”
“It’s wonderful.”
He took another swallow. “Reminds me of Aix-en-Provence. I should take you there some time.”
Burt broke off a piece of bread, ate it, then washed it down with another swig of Burgundy. “Did I ever tell you about the first time I tasted Meursault?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It was when I was at Yale. I saw a bottle of it in a New Haven wine store, and it was right when we were studying the French novel L’Etranger — The Stranger, by Camus. Do you know it?”
“No.”
“It’s about this guy who kills a man on a beach, for no apparent reason. When I first read it, I thought the book made no sense. The main character’s name is Meursault, and when I saw his name on the label I bought the wine, went back to the dorm and re-read the book while sipping the Burgundy. By the end I was pretty zonkered, but I realized this Meursault character was a real antihero, un vrai existentialiste.
