by Walter Marks
Meursault believed that human life had no meaning in the grand spectrum of the universe. He was unencumbered by conventional emotions like guilt, remorse, hope, fear, the need for acceptance. And he was too honest to fake it. In fact, at the end of the book, he’s convicted and executed, not so much because he killed a man, but because when the prosecutor asked him if he cried at his mother’s funeral, Meursault answered, ‘Non, Monsieur.’”
Susannah refilled his glass.
After lunch Burt yawned. “Boy, that wine really got to me.” He’d consumed about three quarters of the bottle and his slurred speech showed the alcohol’s effect. “Think I’ll take a little snooze,” he said.
He got up and moved unsteadily to the hammock. He stumbled over an inflatable swim-raft that was propped against the wall. Then he flopped down into the hammock.
His bulky body was cradled in the nylon webbing, swaying slightly back and forth. He closed his eyes.
Susannah recalled the last time she’d seen him like that, arrogantly ordering her to toast him a Pop-Tart. She felt a surge of rage and hatred.
She turned, crossed to the table, and put the dirty dishes on a serving tray. After carrying them into the kitchen, she came out and picked up the wine bottle. It was almost empty, so she swigged the last of it as she headed back into the house.
When she passed the hammock, Burt reached out and goosed her. Susannah screamed in shock, not only from the violation, but from the slice of pain on her inner thigh, caused by Burt’s sharp fingernails.
She turned and saw his body bouncing up and down in the hammock as he laughed uproariously.
She screamed at him. “You bastard!”
“Aw, c’mon, Sweetie,” Burt said in a boozy voice. “You’re my slut and you love it.” He rose from the hammock and lurched towards her.
“You know you like it rough!”
His large body loomed over her, his hands reaching for her.
Without thinking she brought the empty wine bottle crashing down on his head. There was a loud crack and his laughter ended.
Susannah looked down at Burt. He had fallen backwards, his torso twisted against the hammock, his legs resting on the deck. Blood was oozing from his scalp, matting his dyed black hair.
She was still gripping the wine bottle. It hadn’t shattered, but there was a fissure near the bottom of the thick glass.
She stood there, stunned. Her mind went blank. Then the knowledge of what she’d done swept over her. She heard herself sobbing, and mumbled words resounded in her head.
Oh, my God. Oh, my God, Oh, my God. I didn’t mean to do this. I just reacted. It was...a reflex.
She saw Burt was out cold but still breathing.
At least I haven’t killed him.
Her first impulse was to call 911, but she quickly realized that was exactly the wrong thing to do. Then, in a “blink” moment, a plan formed rapidly in her mind. She would act out of strength. Centered body, centered mind.
She looked out at the beach. It was deserted. At high tide there was never anyone around. To the north was an inlet that created swampy wetlands which were virtually impassible. The only beach walkers would have to come from Montauk Point, about two miles to the south. But at high tide the waves crashed violently over a natural rock-pile barrier, keeping visitors away.
She looked over at Burt. He was still unconscious. She took hold of Burt’s legs and yanked them back up into the hammock. The hammock sagged under his heavy weight and swayed back and forth.
Moving quickly, she went to Burt’s tackle box. She opened it and picked up the spool of seventy-five-pound-test fishing line.
She stripped off about sixteen feet, opened Burt’s Fisherman’s Friend knife and cut the line. She closed the knife, put it in her work shirt pocket, and buttoned the flap.
She went to the far end of the hammock and tied the middle of the fishing line tightly to the wooden dowel that spread the hammock out. Two eight-foot-long strands of fishing line dangled near Burt’s feet.
Susannah began weaving the monofilament in and out of the hammock’s nylon cord webbing, as if lacing up a sneaker. From time to time she pulled hard, closing the reinforced edges of the hammock together over Burt’s body.
Burt snorted and his shoulders jerked. Susannah dropped the monofilament and grabbed the wine bottle. She held it poised over his skull and watched him. He didn’t move; his breathing was again even.
She resumed lacing up the fishing lines, in and out, over and under the webbing, working her way up his body.
When she reached the top of the hammock, she yanked both lines hard, drawing the outer edges of the hammock together and sealing Burt’s hefty body in the webbed enclosure. She looped the lines around the end ropes of the hammock a few times, pulled them tight, then fastened them to the spreader bar with triple knots.
She paused to view her work. Burt’s eyelids fluttered and he looked around blearily.
“Huh? What the — what’s going on?”
He was disoriented. His eyes struggled to focus. “Sweetie? I don’t understand.”
He moved his head and felt a sharp pain.
“Ow. My head. What—?”
He became aware that he was enclosed in the hammock and started pushing and kicking at the nylon mesh.
“What have you done to me?” he shouted.
She didn’t answer him.
He blinked his eyes and tried to get his bearings. “Come on,” he said. ”This isn’t funny.”
“It’s not a game, Burt.”
“My head hurts.”
She didn’t respond.
“I don’t understand.”
“Burt, you forgot to turn off your cell last night. I overheard your conversation with that Mort person.”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
“No.”
“I’m talking about your hitman—Mort.”
“Oh, Mort,” he said. “No. No. No. No. He’s a film producer, I was pitching an idea...”
“Oh, please.”
“It’s true.
“Stop it.”
“Listen,” he said after a pause, “what you heard last night was a pitch. A movie pitch. It’s a Hollywood thing. See, when somebody does a pitch, they act out all the parts — ”
“You expect me to believe...”
“Susannah, lack of trust is a core problem in our marriage. We have to learn to trust each other, or...”
“Enough, Burt. Enough.” The force of her words silenced him. Susannah was in a zone, her mind unswerving, driven by a singularity of purpose.
“So now what?” Burt asked timorously.
Susannah didn’t reply, but Burt saw the fierce menace in her eyes. Fear caused a powerful adrenalin rush in his body. He shouted at her with frantic energy
“You think this thing can hold me? Don’t be ridiculous.”
He grabbed the webbing of the hammock and pulled with all his strength, but he was unable to tear it apart. He began kicking violently. The nylon wouldn’t give. He tried to force his hands through the mesh. He failed.
“Susannah. Why are you doing this? ”
“Not only did you put out a contract on me,” she said calmly, “but I know you had your first wife killed the same way.”
“That’s not true. Carol’s death was an accident. She — ”
“You, Burt, are an evil man. You’re manipulative, egocentric, and if you don’t mind me saying so — you’re also a demented son of a bitch.”
Susannah unhooked the hammock from its steel frame and lowered Burt’s feet to the teakwood deck.
“Okay, okay. I admit it.” he said. “I was going to, y’know, hire that guy. But today, while I was down there fishing, I thought about it. And I changed my mind. I started thinking how sweet you are, and how beautiful, and how lucky I am to have you, and I realized I can’t live without you. So I decided to call the whole thing off. You’ve got to believe me.”
“Some people say the dea
th penalty is not a deterrent,” Susannah said, “But in this case it definitely is.”
She lifted the other end of the hammock off the hook and lowered Burt’s head to the deck.
“My God, you’re gonna kill me? Susannah, please. You can’t do this. I was gonna call the whole thing off!”
She took hold of the wooden spreader above Burt’s head and dragged him toward the stairway. He began struggling desperately.
“You better quit that,” she warned him, “You’ll hurt yourself when we go down the stairs.”
“Okay. Okay,” Burt replied. His feet thumped on each step.
Susannah hauled him out onto the beach. She stopped, wiping the perspiration off her brow. God, he’s heavy.
“Can’t we talk about this?” Burt said.
As he spoke, she made a decision not to say another word. She would just ignore whatever Burt said. She would focus on self-preservation: Kill or be killed, kill or be killed —
Susannah picked up the spreader bar and dragged Burt across the beach. His weight made it difficult. He frantically tried to dig his heels and his fingers into the sand.
“For Chrissakes, Susannah,” he whined.
She kept pulling him towards the ocean.
“Help!” Burt shouted. ”Help! Somebody! Please! Help me!”
He felt the wet sand under his back and completely panicked. He screamed at the top of his lungs, while his body wriggled and thrashed like a tuna caught in a trawler’s net.
As the first waves rolled gently over him, Susannah set down the hammock, grabbed several of the hammock cords, and flipped Burt’s writhing body over so that he was lying on his belly. He tried to right himself, but she put her left leg onto the back of his neck, keeping him face down.
She began to haul the hammock into the ocean, pulling with her other leg and tugging with both arms. She reached a spot in front of a sand bar, where there was a three-foot-deep depression filled with water. The ocean breakers were crashing some fifteen yards beyond them.
Burt was alternately yelling for help and pleading with Susannah. His hysterical voice, the whistling wind, and the pounding surf created a nightmarish cacophony. Susannah dropped the hammock, placed both hands on the back of his head, and pushed down hard until his face was underwater. His voice was stilled.
His resistance grew weaker and weaker, and she knew it would all soon be over.
Suddenly a giant wave swept over them and wrenched Burt’s body from her grasp. Susannah’s mouth and nostrils filled with brine and she went under. She felt herself being carried up and backward, thrown violently onto the hard-packed wet sand. Gagging and choking, she pulled herself up to her knees. She saw Burt a few yards ahead of her, wrapped in the hammock netting, awkwardly maneuvering his big, thick body toward dry land. She got to her feet, ran forward, and grabbed him around the waist. She pulled him back and up, causing him to be dragged to his feet in the shallow water. Now she was wrestling him standing up, trying to control this large, flailing, mummy-like creature, who was suddenly possessed with hysterical strength.
Burt fought gamely, but she managed to kick his feet out from under him, and he collapsed face down against her, like a sack of potatoes.
He had nothing left. She pulled him back into the water. He was dead weight now, and her arms began to ache from the effort. She dragged him over some razor-sharp mollusk shells and they cut into Burt’s naked belly. He let out a moan, and a stream of blood stained the water around them.
Then Burt did a peculiar thing. In a calm, almost musical voice he began to speak in a strange language: “Na jayate mriyate va ka kadacin nayam bhuta bhavita va na bhuya/ajo nitya sasvato ‘yam purano na hanyate hanyamane sarire ...”
Burt was quoting in Sanskrit from The Book of the Bhagavad Gita: “It is never born nor does it die; Nor once that it is will it ever not be; Unborn, unending, eternal, and ancient, It is not killed when the body is killed ...”
Susannah forced Burt’s face into the ocean, letting her weight bear down while she held him tight between her legs. She could feel his body’s upward thrashings grow increasingly ineffectual until at last they ceased. The sea currents swept in and out, swirling around them.
Susannah looked out at the breakers—no interfering wave was coming this time. She kept holding Burt down, to make certain he couldn’t survive.
At last she released him, and the body in the hammock floated to the surface. She grabbed the nylon death trap and, towing it behind her, she waded into shore. There she heaved the ponderous bulk up onto the beach and looked at Burt.
He had the perfect stillness of death. No movement of chest or abdomen, no spasm of muscle, no twitch of nerve.
She pulled pieces of slimy brown kelp out of the nylon webbing in order to get a clear view of Burt’s face. It was a shock. Instead of a serene death visage, she saw a face contorted in mortal agony. His eyes were clamped shut, his mouth was agape, frozen in a grimace, with his lips pulled down at the corners like a Greek tragedy mask. He appeared to have swallowed his tongue.
Susannah had to turn away. After a few moments she regained her composure. She reached her finger through the hammock cords and placed it on Burt’s neck artery. She could feel no pulse.
She hauled him back into the water, out past the sandbar, almost to the crashing breakers. She felt the undertow pulling at her legs. She braced herself against its relentless drag, reached into her shirt pocket and took out Burt’s fishing knife. She cut the monofilament in several places and yanked it out. The hammock opened like an unlaced shoe, and Burt’s body floated loose.
Susannah pushed Burt’s body deep under the water, down to where she could feel the intense suction of the undertow. She released the body, and abruptly it was gone.
She watched for several minutes to see if it would resurface. She looked out at the high waves that were cresting and breaking, thinking the body might reappear in the surf. It did not.
She stood there panting, as she visualized her husband’s corpse being sucked away by the irresistible rip current of the Atlantic Ocean.
Susannah waded back to shore, carrying the broken hammock. When she reached the beach, she turned and looked out at the vast, sunlit expanse of ocean before her. She pictured the murderous madman she’d married, now sinking down to his final resting place in depths of the eternal sea. She spoke in a quiet voice.
“Strong enough.”
CHAPTER 12
When Susannah opened the door, she saw a tall, well built, sandy-haired man dressed in a double-knit golf shirt and shapeless pants, with a gun on one side of his belt and a cell phone on the other. He had a surprised expression on his face, as if he knew her. But the look quickly changed to one that was all business.
“Mrs. Susannah Cascadden?” Jericho said. “East Hampton Town Police responding to your 911 call.”
He spoke politely but there was a tough edge to his voice. He flipped open a wallet, showing a photo ID and a gold badge.
“Come on in,” she said.
Susannah led him into the living room. Have we met before? she wondered. I doubt it. I’d have remembered a guy who looks this good.
She sat down on the couch, and he took a seat in a bentwood rocker.
“I’m Detective Jericho — like in the Battle.”
Detective?, she thought. Why did they send a detective? I expected just some ordinary patrolman.
“You reported your husband missing,” he said, taking out a notepad.
“Yes. I’m very worried.”
“What are the circumstances?”
Susannah took a deep breath. I have to project just the right degree of concern, not desperate yet, hopeful that Burt would turn up.
“Maybe I shouldn’t be so worried,” she said, “But I can’t help it. Burt went fishing down on the beach. Surfcasting, about one o’clock this afternoon. When he wasn’t back by three, I phoned to tell him to come back because sometimes he stays out in the sun too long and ends up red as a lobster.”
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“Phoned him? On the beach?”
“He always keeps his cell in his tackle box.”
Jericho nodded.
“Anyway,” she went on, “He didn’t answer, so I went out on the deck and didn’t see him fishing at his usual spot. From up here you can see the whole beach and I couldn’t see him anywhere. So I went down to where he usually fishes, and found his shirt on the sand, along with his fishing stuff, and his baseball cap with his sunglasses in it. Oh, and a towel. It looked like he’d decided to go for a swim. But I didn’t see him anywhere in the water. That’s when I got worried. There’s a bad rip current this time of year, and I thought — ”
She broke off, as if unable to articulate her fears. No tears, though. Only a momentary closing of the eyes.
“Maybe your husband just went for a walk.”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “He hated the glare of the sun, so I doubt he’d go off without his sunglasses, and his baseball cap.”
The detective scribbled on his notepad.
“The BMW and the Lamborghini out front,” he said. “Those are your only cars?
“Yes.”
“Any bicycles? Scooters?”
“No.”
“I’ll need a description of your husband,” he said. “His full name?”
“Burton Lloyd Cascadden.” Jesus, this is surreal, she thought.
“Age?”
“Uh — fifty-seven.
“Physical description?”
“About six feet. Weight, I dunno, maybe two thirty. He was on the heavy side.”
“Facial characteristics?”
“Um, full lips, black hair, dyed black and thinning.” She paused. “He has beautiful eyes, brown and very — expressive.” She wanted to sound like she loved him.
“What was he wearing? Shorts, swimsuit?”
“Swimsuit. Blue Speedo briefs. Hugo Boss polo shirt. Black.”
Jericho finished writing, then stood up and put the pad in his back pocket.
“Okay. Why don’t you take me down to where he was fishing.”
“Sure.”
“Oh, and get me a large plastic trash bag from your kitchen if you have one.”
