A Hard Death (14 page)

T
he shadows of the western poplars were longer now, crawling across the cemetery grass to clutch at Adam's feet. Around him, the white concrete grave markers shone marigold-yellow in the sinking sun. When the breeze picked up, the flags at the cemetery entrance rippled and snapped, and everywhere he looked, Adam saw the scattered fluttering of swaying flowers and brightly colored ribbons gathered and ruched onto board, cheap substitutes for flower arrangements.

Six thirty, almost. No, gone half past six.

Adam scanned the grounds. No one.

He was alone. Where was the guy?

Adam was exactly where he was supposed to wait: in the section where they buried the kids.

He looked around him. The graves snuggled close together, as if they thought the children could keep each other warm in the cold ground. They seemed so busy to him, so creepily full of life. Some graves had statuettes of angels or kittens, others rusting toy cars, or grubby stuffed animals ravaged by the exposure. The sun bleached the pebbles white, and withered the weeds that crept through them. There was a lot of color—vibrant red roses, pots of yellow daisies, bouquets of pink zinnias—and as the wind blew, dozens of silver Mylar whirligigs spun wildly, splintering back the light as the wind smothered the sound.

Adam shivered, despite himself.

Where was his informant?

He'd spent the morning visiting two farms. He'd been unwelcome at both, but the overseer at Endicott had been particularly unpleasant, unpleasant enough for Adam to add him to his list of suspicious estates.

He'd cycled back to Bel Arbre, reaching the main drag hot and
sticky—and increasingly not sure he was doing the right thing. In the line at the taco stand, Adam had the eerie impression that the other customers—farmhands, mostly—shrank back from him, as if to stand next to him meant certain death. He felt like the doomed new sheriff in a western, arriving at the lawless frontier town only to be promptly shot so the
real
hero can emerge.

The rush of high-minded bravado had passed, and Adam was left with his own private stash of anxiety and paranoia. No one actually left the line; but no one was talking, and at that shack, the chatter had always been so animated that it had bugged him.

The line crawled forward, each second sticking to the last, an age between each step, each order taking a lifetime to utter, an eternity to prepare.

Adam was flooded with thoughts of home, where his life was. The feel of cool rain on his face as he walked home up Broadway late at night, the smell of rich, pretty Columbia girls who dressed like they really cared—it all became overwhelming, heartbreaking. Standing in the taco shack line, he realized he'd had enough. How the fuck had he got all tangled up in this in the first place? It was absurd: trying to impress a girl, he'd ended up part of an investigation into mass murder…

It was time to go home.

He pulled out his cell. His mom would pay for the ticket—she'd called three times since the news broke on TV, leaving pitiful messages about how much she wanted him home. Ka-fucking-CHING.

The red message light was winking; he played it back. Not his mother, but the detective he'd talked to last night, more questions, blah blah blah. Fuck, he'd given them everything he knew.

Well, on his way home, he'd stop in at the sheriff's office substation and talk with them again. One last time.

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.

T
he 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…”

I
t 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.

Jenner 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.”