A Hard Death (2 page)

Chapter 138

In Port Fontaine, the heavy rain had started late enough…

Chapter 139

Maggie? It's over.” Jenner stood. “Put the gun down, now.”

Chapter 140

At the farm, it was pandemonium. Jenner parked on the…

Chapter 141

It was two days before they let Jenner leave Douglas…

Epilogue

At sunset, they flocked to the edges of the farms…

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other Books by Jonathan Hayes

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

T
he airboat was nearing the edges of the Glades, wending its way through a series of small sloughs. The dry season had been unusually harsh, and parts of the swamp where Tony could normally fly over the sawgrass at full speed were shallow mazes of protruding sedge and parched marl.

The airboat, bought used from a local tour operator and beefed up with a Chevy big block engine, had a flat hull that could glide through the shallowest marsh. Tony was perched high up on the stick, in front of the safety cage around the roaring six-foot propeller.

The going was slow. The airboat was always tricky—the stick controlled the two vertical rudders, but there was no way to slow down, no reverse, and the slower you moved, the harder it was to steer.

With six passengers, the boat was near capacity. Smith was boss for the day, Bentas second in command, and Tony on the rudder. And Brodie had sent Tarver—that boil on the ass of humanity—along for the ride. And then there was their cargo, the two Mexican prisoners, the whole reason for the trip.

Squinting into the setting sun, Smith shifted the shotgun into his left hand, scowled, and turned to make a cutting gesture to his pilot. Tony throttled down, abruptly tapping the stick forward to send the airboat scudding left to miss a rotting tree limb.

The Mexicans sat in the front row, each hooded with a white plastic bag that read
DELFINE PIGLET FEED
in red; the heavier one's shirt was soaked in blood—Tony's handiwork. A coarse yellow nylon rope hung slack between their necks, tying them together for their last precious
moments of life. Their wrists were lashed behind them; Smith hadn't bothered shackling them to the seats—where were they going to go? They knew he'd shoot them if they went into the water, shoot to wound, let the gators finish them off.

He wondered what he'd do in their place. They knew what was going to happen: when men finally made it into the inner circle, while still high on all the money they'd be making, Brodie showed them his special videotape. And once they'd seen the video, the men knew they were in, that there was no turning back.

The fat one wouldn't quit blubbering, the sound so loud even the noise of the prop couldn't drown it out. Smith was sick of that shit, but if he just gave in and blew Gordo's head off and dumped the body, there'd be nothing to show the other workers, no way to teach them that the Rule was the Rule, and the Rule must be obeyed.

Smith leaned over, tapped Bentas on the arm to get his attention. He yelled, “Shut him up!” jabbing his finger toward Gordo.

Bentas bent forward, smacked Gordo's hood hard with the butt of his rifle, and yelled,
“Oye, puto! Sigue asì y vas a echar las entrañas. Y si vomitas ahì, te vas a ahogar!”

Gordo's head jerked forward and stayed there, craning away from the unseen club. Smith couldn't hear the blubbering anymore.

“What did you say?”

Bentas grinned. “A little joke. But he understands.”

Smith turned back to stare out to the horizon, looking for the big island of trees. He wondered if it had a name; Tony claimed to be an eighth Miccosukee, maybe he knew.

The airboat was almost idling now, edging slowly forward. A snowy egret roused, skittering across the surface of the water before launching awkwardly into the air.

The airboat swung into a wide curve; Tony whistled and nodded to the right. The humped shape of the hammock, rising like the back of an elephant out of the marsh, maybe a quarter-mile further. A couple of acres of dark loam covered by thick swamp forest.

As the boat drew closer, a handful of vultures rose from the canopy and flapped high into the air to wheel and glide over the tree tops.

 

As Tony let the airboat float in toward the bank, Tarver lifted the camcorder and shouted, “Guys, guys! Let me out first so I can get them coming off the boat!”

Before Smith could stop him, he'd scrambled out and onto the island, almost sliding to his knees in the mud before grabbing a branch and hauling himself up onto the solid ground. He turned, lifted his camcorder to his face, and yelled, “Okay! Come on!”

Tony climbed down from his seat and stepped nimbly up onto the bank. When Smith pulled the hoods off the two men, they looked around wildly, blinking in the light. Gordo's black hair was now slick with blood from when Bentas had hit him.

Bentas prodded them to their feet with his rifle, nudging them toward the front of the boat. Wrists bound behind their backs, necks leashed together, they hobbled clumsily forward, frantically overbalancing as the boat gently tipped and slid under their moving weight. They slowed to a shuffle, so Bentas gave Gordo another tap.

Joaquin went down first, but missed the bank, his feet slipping back out from underneath him as he fell face-forward into the bank, toppling Gordo, who fell on top of him. The two writhed together in the mud, Joaquin kicking as he slowly slid back toward the water.

Tony pushed Tarver out of the way and reached down to haul the fat one up onto solid ground, while Bentas stepped down into the muck to grab Joaquin.

Smith let them catch their breath before going on toward the clearing.

They moved in single file through the thick undergrowth, crashing through the tangles of muscadine and devil's claw as the ground firmed under their feet. They squeezed past tall gumbo-limbo trees and into the heart of the island, where the gumbo-limbo gave way to a few dozen towering mahogany trees. A long time ago, timber poachers had carved a hollow into the small forest, leaving a moss-covered clearing at the
center; the deep green shadow flickered with light when the wind stirred the canopy high overhead.

As they entered the clearing, Gordo slipped on the moss, pulling Joaquin down to his knees. Gordo lay there rigid on the ground, not moving as Bentas and Tony tried to get him to his feet, Joaquin being dragged back and forth as they struggled. Finally Bentas swung the butt of his gun into Gordo's head one more time, connecting with a low, hollow
pock!
that resonated dully through the dead air of the clearing.

Joaquin muttered,
“Tenemos que hacerlo, vamos ya de una vez. Como quiera, nos van a matar. Haz tu paz, mi hermano.”
It's going to happen. Let's get it over with. They'll just hurt you more, and then kill you anyway. Make your peace now, brother.

Bentas grunted,
“Hazle caso a tu hermano, cabron. Es inteligente.”
Listen to your brother, asshole. He's smart.

But it didn't take, and Gordo began to writhe and kick again as Smith and Bentas dragged him forward across the moss, Joaquin scrambling forward on his knees as best he could.

Tony had set the chairs against a big mahogany, the rust-pitted metal backs pressed firmly against the thick gray trunk. He stepped forward, and, with Smith and Bentas holding Gordo down, quickly loosened the rope. He pulled the noose tight around Joaquin's neck so that he couldn't run, then dragged him over to the tree.

He motioned for Joaquin to get up on the chair.

When the Mexican hesitated, Tony wordlessly pulled out the knife he'd used to cut Gordo earlier.

Joaquin straightened. They had lost, and now it would happen, but he was a man: he wasn't going out like some little bitch.

He was calm now, the clearing hovering around him like water, distant and separate. He was moving through the air, he was stepping up onto the chair, he was leaning forward to steady himself against the trunk, he was turning to watch them drag Gordo to the other chair, punching him and clubbing him as they went. He was. He was. He was.

Tony threw the free end of the rope up and around a thick branch,
looping it over before retying the noose. The others wrestled Gordo to him, Smith yelling at Tarver to put the camera down and help.

Tarver, muttering, slung the camera around his neck and walked over to the foot of the tree, where he stood and watched them wrestle with Gordo.

Tarver sighed, opened a folding knife, and stuck the blade deep into Gordo's flank. Gordo howled and flailed as he backed onto the chair; it took Tony a second to get the noose around his neck, and then to knock the chair out from under Joaquin. After that, Gordo's body rose more easily as they lifted him. Tarver had the camera out and was filming before Gordo was fully suspended.

Afterward, Tarver whined about how he'd missed Joaquin's drop, but when he watched the tape later, he admitted it wasn't the end of the world.

T
WO
W
EEKS
L
ATER

J
enner watched the old man push the shopping cart across the motel parking lot. The man wore shorts and sneakers only, his shirtless chest leathery and nut-brown, fading blue military tattoos scattered across his torso and arms. There was no way he'd get the cart's wheels up onto the sidewalk in front of the rooms—the curb rose barely three inches above the tarmac, but the man was so drunk that Jenner was amazed he'd made it across the lot without falling.

He rammed the wheels against the concrete lip, the foraged cans in his cart rattling like tin maracas. He kept banging the curb until Jenner put down his copy of
The Kite Runner
and stepped off his porch.

“Hey, sir. Can I give you a hand with that?”

The man eyed Jenner warily; his jutting jaw and narrow, toothless mouth gave his face a skeletal air. He looked Jenner up and down, squinting at the grubby T-shirt and running shorts.

Jenner waited.

Finally the man nodded. Jenner lifted the cart onto the sidewalk, then followed the old man's pointing directions. As Jenner pushed the rattling cart along the breezeway, the man puffed along behind, muttering something about immigrants and liquor stores and respect.

They stopped at the man's room, next to the ice box and vending machines under the stairs. He nodded at Jenner again, turned, and disappeared through the door.

And just like that, Jenner had been accepted—now he
belonged
at the Palmetto Court Motel.

The Palmetto Court, his home for two weeks now, was a strip of two-story concrete buildings, flanked by a cluster of weather-battered cottages in front of a dismal little creek. While Port Fontaine's white sand beaches had made it a playground for the wealthy since the 1920s, the Palmetto Court was in the Reaches, the part of the town half-sunk in the mosquito jungles that rimmed the Everglades.

The motel was classic faded Reaches chic, the sort of place shot by hipster photographers for ironic coffee table books about rotting mid-century Americana. It was painted the garish green of a funhouse ride, and Jenner was convinced it was only a question of time before he found a dead snake in the pool.

He sat on the porch of his cottage, and picked up his book. But he couldn't concentrate and soon put it back down. He sat there in front of his Hyundai Accent, staring at the dented fender that had earned him a 30 percent discount on the rental.

Jenner had needed that discount—he was running on fumes. After they suspended his New York license, the consulting work for insurance companies—his bread and butter—had dried up. The week before he came to Florida, he'd had to borrow money from his friend Jun because the check for his electric bill had bounced. If Marty Roburn, the Douglas County medical examiner, hadn't hooked him up with three months of work, Jenner would be out there picking up cans, too. The Roburns were going on a world cruise—a reward for almost a decade without a real vacation—but Jenner knew Roburn was hoping he would fall in love with the place and stay on as his successor.

Still, as he sat on the porch, looking across the motel parking lot toward State Road, out over the battered sedans and pickup trucks (Fords and GMCs and Chryslers, with bumper stickers paying homage variously to God, the U.S.A., and the Grateful Dead), Jenner found it hard to feel lucky.

There was a soft rattle, and he turned to see the old man emerge from his room, dressed now in long black slacks and a yellowed but clean and
pressed white shirt, long-sleeved, the sleeves buttoned at the wrist, the collar closed. He waited at his open door, and then a tiny old woman in a powder-blue pants suit, dyed black hair marcelled against her scalp, stepped out. She took his arm, and they walked along the pavement, their gait stiff and stately.

As they passed, Jenner gave a friendly nod; the couple ignored him.

Jenner watched them pass; so much for being accepted.

They moved toward the end of the lot, out of his sight.

It was already past noon, and it would only get hotter and wetter. He should run before the rain started.