A Hard Death (9 page)

I
t was after eleven a.m. The rain had settled to an intermittent drizzle, but the light was still watery and dim. Jenner, in his blue Douglas County rain slicker, sat waiting with Deb Putnam on the largest of the three airboats tethered at the edges of the hammock, peering into the dense vegetation as if he could see into the hive of activity at its heart.

The crime scene techs were now deep inside the island of trees, photographing the bodies where they hung. They'd managed to get foot-wear imprints at the apparent landing site, not sharp enough to nail an individual shoe or boot but probably good enough for brand, model, and size.

Jenner glanced at Deb Putnam, sitting next to him. The park ranger had been the first responder, and had waited with Jenner at his car while the sheriff's department coordinated the airboats. Since Crime Scene had shooed them out of the hollow, they'd spent the morning talking and sharing bottles of water from the airboat cooler.

Mostly, they made small talk. She teased him about his black eye. Jenner made her laugh at the story about his trek across the sedge to the hammock. She told him alligator holes were hollows hidden behind mounded-up dirt ramparts; she looked around trying to find one to show him but couldn't spot an obvious gator hole. She pointed out with a smirk that the hammock really wasn't all that far from his car.

He asked her if there was anything in the Glades that scared her. She hesitated for a second, blushing.

Jenner grinned. “Out with it! What is it?”

She laughed at his eagerness. “Well, I really don't like snakes.”

“Lots of people don't like snakes.”

“Yeah, well, they never used to bother me. But then I watched a couple people die from snake bites—it's not pretty. And after that I became a lot more careful where I put my feet.”

There was rustling as a tech emerged from the bushes to their left. She photographed, then carefully untied and bagged the bicycle light before disappearing back into the trees.

They sat together in silence for a while, watching the rain on the saw grass. Deb turned to Jenner, hesitated for a second, then said, “Can I tell you something, Jenner? Those snails? They're Everglades snails. They're an endangered species, and I've never seen so many before. It's really amazing.”

Jenner shrugged. “You gotta figure there's easier ways to get more snails.”

She smiled tentatively, trying to gauge his seriousness. “Well, things live for a while and then they die—I've made my peace with that. There are plenty more people but soon these snails will be gone forever.”

Jenner wasn't listening to her: he was crouching at the side of the airboat, hanging on to the rail with one hand as he leaned out to fish something from the water.

He straightened to show her a sodden white bag. He held it by the corners to shake out the damp folds, then placed it carefully on the floor of the boat, smoothing it down. The red ink had faded in the sun, but they could still read the bleached text:
DELFINE PIGLET FEED, 20LBS
.

“What do you think?” Jenner said. “It's really in the middle of nowhere—doesn't seem likely that it's just some random trash that's floated out here.”

Deb nodded. “Yeah, I doubt it would've.”

Jenner said, “We're pretty far from farmland, and something this big isn't going to move very fast. And there's no other garbage around.”

He moved the bag onto a seat under the canopy. “We'll hand it over to Crime Scene.” He grinned at her. “We'll say you found it, make the Parks Service look good.”

Deb smiled back. She fiddled with a canvas bag beside her, pulled out a thermos, unscrewed the cap, and poured. “Would you like some?”

“Oh, you've been holding out on me, eh?” He nodded gratefully. “God, a hot cup of coffee would really hit the spot.”

She made a sorry face, and said, “Chai tea.”

He grinned wryly. “Well, as long as it's hot…”

They took turns sipping from the thermos cap. The tea was milky and sweet-spiced; they sat in silence for a while, waiting on the airboat in the middle of the marsh, listening to the rain tapping the canopy, drinking chai while the techs processed the murder scene a hundred yards away.

Again it was Deb who interrupted the silence.

“Hey, Jenner, can I ask you something?”

He nodded.

“It's not really a question. I was just wondering how you were doing…with Marty Roburn.”

“You mean how the investigation is going?”

She shook her head, flushing slightly. “No, I meant how you were, y'know, feeling. Nash says you were real close.”

Jenner lowered his head. “Marty was a real good guy—probably the best forensic pathologist I ever knew. And…” He paused, then said something he'd never thought, always felt. “He was kind of like a father to me.”

Deb was silent a second, then said, “Well, if you ever felt like talking with someone about it, you could give me a call.”

He smiled at her. “That's very kind of you.”

“No, no. I'm sort of dealing with the same thing—my dad died a few months back, so I kind of know what you're going through.”

“I'm sorry.”

“To tell the truth, everything happened so quickly I haven't had time to think about it. The funeral, selling the house, moving my mom up to Sarasota, finding my own place, and all of a sudden it's three months later.”

They were both quiet, looking out over the Glades in the drizzle.

Deb stood, stretching. “I love it here—Dad used to bring me hunting out here when I was just a little girl.”

“I was wondering why you've been so calm about the bodies.”

“Jenner, I've been hunting since I was ten years old; nothing fazes me.”

He said, “Hey, can I ask why you carry a gun?”

“I'm a law-enforcement ranger.” She grinned. “Don't let the title or the gun fool you—I spend most of my time making drunk campers put out their cigarettes.”

“So the gun's just for show, is it?”

She ignored him, squinting across the marsh.

“We've got company…” She pointed with her left hand, and Jenner saw she wasn't wearing a ring.

A mass was moving toward them across the water and saw grass, the blocky shape of a swamp buggy heading in their direction.

The rain had stopped, so Deb rolled the tarp back, then sat down next to Jenner. She drained her cup and poured another.

“Want some more?”

Her eyes were bright blue, and her nose was freckled. He wondered how old she was—twenty-seven, twenty-eight?

He shook his head. “A little sweet for me.”

Jenner stood, balancing himself against the high driver's seat as the airboat pitched slightly.

T
he swamp buggy lumbered toward them, ripping a broad V of shallow wake in the water behind it, its passengers carried high above the saw grass on a jacked-up undercarriage over huge, nubby tires.

Deb stood up beside him. As the buggy drew closer, Jenner saw that the banner across the passenger enclosure read
QUEEG'S AIRBOAT RIDES, EVERGLADES CITY FL
. Under the canopy, the sheriff sat next to the driver, like a raja and his mahout riding an elephant into court. Behind them was Port Fontaine's mayor and, wearing a bright yellow gas-station convenience store raincoat, Detective Rudge. Behind Rudge, snapping away on a digital camera, a young man who Jenner guessed was a reporter.

Deb pressed Jenner's arm, motioning him to sit as the truck slowed, the arriving wake now rocking the airboats. They watched Anders climb down the steps, gingerly stretch out a foot, and ease himself onto land. The sheriff turned to watch the mayor descend, then held up a hand to hold back Rudge so the reporter could slip by. Rudge sat back down heavily, a look of distaste on his face as he surveyed the dense undergrowth of the hammock, and the wider landscape of water and marsh grass.

The sheriff lifted an arm to gesture toward the clearing, casually self-conscious; Jenner realized he was posing. The photographer snapped his shots, then the sheriff, turning to a three-quarter profile, called to Jenner, “What happened, doctor? Run into a door?”

Jenner reflexively reached a hand to his swollen eye.

The sheriff smiled, then looked soberly at the camera.

“They're in there, eh?”

Jenner nodded. Where else would they be? It was an island in the middle of a swamp.

“Sheriff, you might want to wait a little. I don't think they're done processing yet.”

The sheriff gave a dismissive wave. “Doctor, Port Fontaine may not be New York City, but we've handled our share of significant cases. We know what to do.” He turned to the mayor and the journalist and added, “Wouldn't you say, Bruce? Jimmy?”

There was firm nodding, and the men disappeared excitedly into the trees.

Rudge climbed awkwardly down the ladder and stood on the hammock, hands on his wide hips, glowering at Jenner, who grinned back broadly.

He growled, “Yeah, Jenner, that's right: I brought the A-Team! And we are some
stalwart
motherfuckers…”

He spied Deb's thermos, and his face lit up. “Sweet Jesus! If there's whiskey in there, this sinner shall stray no more!”

Jenner grinned at him. “No sir, Detective Rudge. But you're welcome to enjoy a calming sip of hot chai tea…”

“Jesus, Jenner. How you want to play me like that?” Rudge shook his head, aggrieved, then shrugged. “I go now to find my Fearless Leader.”

Rudge followed through the bushes after the sheriff, his muttered cursing clearly audible through the tangle of green.

A
dam Weiss pumped the pedals hard, then coasted, lifting up off the seat to slice through the wet air, cutting through every rain puddle just to fuck up the smooth surfaces.

He'd slept a fitful hour, two at the most, expecting the police to come crashing through his door at any second, demanding to know how he'd learned about the bodies. But it was already mid-afternoon, and not a sign of the cops. It made him uneasy—the medical examiner had probably called them as soon as he hung up the phone, so where were they?

Adam took the short cut through the cemetery, slipping through the back gate and out onto the track. It certainly wasn't what
he
thought of as a cemetery: just a big, flat, grassy field, ringed along three sides with small trees and a low brick wall, the other side falling off into a drainage ditch. With its circular paved track, it looked like a high school football field, the sidelines dotted with graves, one end-zone reserved for the bodies of children.

He sped past two sleek young Mexican women, one in a teal sweat suit, the other in puce, their hair and makeup perfect, puffing around the track. The town had no parks, so people walked the cemetery for exercise. There were still only a handful of graves—the cemetery had been planned with growth in mind.

What was it, twelve hours since he'd made the call? He figured the Mexicans were finished with him now, that they'd leave him alone. He didn't know them, couldn't recognize them. He didn't remember them from meetings or from farm visits with Ricky. In his heart of hearts, he thought they pretty much all looked the same—small dark men and women with black hair, bundled up against the heat, scattered across the furrowed fields, bent double to scrabble for strawberries or asparagus.

He realized that was probably why they'd picked him—Ricky, the True Friend of the Worker, would have recognized them, would have identified their regional accents or dialects. They'd been smart.

As Adam coasted into the center of Bel Arbre, the shadows lifted and the western sky became bright. The streets were pretty empty; normally, on a Monday, the place had plenty of traffic, particularly for a town that wasn't much more than a five- or six-block strip of storefront beauty parlors, run-down furniture stores, and check-cashing places with neon signs advertising money transmission service. There were a handful of businesses that reflected the town's ethnic makeup—a few taco stands, a piñata shop—but the town's hotspot was the “Four Corners” intersection, where a used car lot faced off with a Burger King, a Taco Bell, and a new Walgreens across the traffic lights.

The main taco stand was open, but there was no line, and there was never no line at that taco stand. The counterman was watching a portable black-and-white TV.

“Dos carnitas, por favor. Y una Coca tambien.”

Wordlessly, the man pressed tortillas onto the grill, then slopped a ladleful of spiced pork next to them. He put a cold Coke on the counter and turned back to the TV.

Adam looked down the empty main drag.

“Señor…Adonde estan la gente?”

The man answered in English. “At the store…to watch the TV. To watch the news on the TV.”

He folded the warm tortillas into tin foil, then scooped up the meat, sprinkled it on the tortillas.

“They find dead men. The police. In the Everglades.
Asesinados
.” He mimed stabbing with his ladle, then put it down to pick up the hot sauce.

Adam's throat was dry, and the hair on his arms now prickling.

So, it had happened. And it was already on the news? God, that was quick.

He took his tacos and Coke, and got onto his bike. What had they found? What was going on? Adam needed to know, and he had no TV. Which store did the taco guy mean?

He unfolded the foil and took a bite, then pedaled slowly up the street until he saw a small crowd bulging from the doors of the bodega where everyone bought their lottery tickets; Adam remembered the TV mounted on the cigarette display wall behind the counter.

He chained his bike to the lamppost and approached the store. The dozen or so people jamming the entrance and small floor space were staring at the TV; the proprietor, perched on a plastic stool behind the counter, was haltingly translating the live feed into Spanish.

The onscreen caption read
GRISLY EVERGLADES DISCOVERY
. A shaky helicopter shot showed a tree-covered hill rising up out of the marsh like an island. There were airboats and a swamp buggy next to the mound.

A man in a blue windbreaker with
DOUGLAS COUNTY
printed in white block letters on the back appeared at the edge of the wood. He backed out of the undergrowth onto the bank near the airboats; another man was with him, and then a third became visible right next to them, all three struggling to maneuver something bulky and matte black.

The camera jerked wide, then zoomed in; there was a murmured buzz as everyone in the bodega recognized the body bag. The buzz grew louder as a second body was hefted out of the bush.

Adam felt like he was waking up from an eight-week nap. Until that body had been dragged out of the woods, it had all been abstract, some kind of dreamy game he'd been playing by accident. Something that would suddenly end with him back on his couch on West 120th Street, eating Cap'n Crunch and watching
Star Wars
for the thousandth time, waiting for Tiff to go to the movies later—
oh, it was all just a dream!

But all of this was real, that whole insane chain of events—the drugged-out
campesino
, the Mexicans, him calling the ME. And now the cops were pulling bodies out of the Everglades. Fuck.

And it was because of
him
that they had found those bodies; Adam Weiss was at the heart of a mystery.

Onscreen, the first body was being lifted onto an airboat, and now they were pulling a third body bag out of the trees. Adam wondered how many there were, wondered what the people inside the body bags looked like. Wondered if he'd ever seen them, if he even maybe knew them.

But, of course, that was unlikely. His Spanish was fucking pathetic, and Adam had avoided fieldwork as much as he could. He'd showed up late at the office, skipped most evening meetings, avoided the farm inspections whenever he could. The fact was, Adam hadn't even really tried. He'd gone through the motions, done the bare minimum to get the credit. Ricky probably thought he was a prick, just another over-privileged college kid faking commitment to social service to boost his résumé. He'd supposedly been there to help these people, and his only achievement had been parroting the message of where to find the bodies.

Adam turned to a sniffling sound to his left, and saw that two of the women were crying. Then the old man to his right pulled down the brim of his grubby Britney Spears baseball cap and turned away from Adam, but the bobbing of his head was unmistakable, and soon everyone was sobbing. Under the TV, the owner bowed his head and cried into his hand, and then Adam was the only person in the room who was even listening to the news anchor's enthusiastic commentary about the bodies.

The helicopter dipped closer to nail a tight shot of the fourth body bag being loaded onto an airboat. Gusts from the chopper combed the grass into scudding waves that raced to the island, battering the bushes on the hammock until they threshed wildly. The airboats listed drunkenly back and forth, the water kicking up to spray the cops as they struggled to balance the body. A female park ranger in green and a tall man in a dark blue rain slicker stood on the bank, angrily waving back the chopper.

Adam looked around him at the people he'd pretended to help. He watched them huddle and hold each other as they cried, watched their shaking shoulders and clenched fists, their threadbare, dusty clothes and their leathery skin.

Now he knew why he was here. He could help them. It was Adam's turn to help, to
really
help, this time. He'd stop being a pussy, he'd go to the cops, tell them what he knew. And then the investigation would begin.

But would it? Rick said when people got killed in Bel Arbre, the cops did the minimum possible. Dealing with a migrant population was
hard: many potential witnesses were in the area for a month or two only, most spoke no English, and no one wanted to speak to the police for fear of reprisals or deportation. In Bel Arbre, when someone died violently, everyone who'd seen or known anything about it disappeared within hours.

Adam shook his head. No, the cops would do their thing, but this time, he would be the person who got things done. He had started it, and he would see it through to the end.

This was on him.