A Hard Death (15 page)

T
hey took Adam out to the fields south of Bel Arbre, Bentas driving, Tarver in the passenger seat, Adam wedged between them, shaking. It was after dusk when they turned off the highway and started to move through the orange groves, the fruit bright dots, vivid against the dark leaves and overcast sky.

The world flew by Adam in a blur of tangled green under dying light. He saw the trees first as chaotic jungle, then the mass of vegetation would resolve itself into rows stretching off into the distance before collapsing again into disorder as his perspective shifted.

Tarver and Bentas spoke across him as if he weren't there, a snippy argument about what Tarver should and shouldn't record. Adam barely registered the words. They were now on the empty dirt back roads, the workers long gone.

Bentas flicked the headlights on, and instantly blinding white flurries of insects engulfed them, spattering against the car, dazzling showers of radiant particles.

And Adam wanted them to just keep going, because he knew that when the car stopped…

It stopped.

Bentas said, “Here's good. He said not too far from the highway.”

Tarver was fussing with the battery for the spotlight for his camcorder. Bentas said, “Forget it! Just fucking forget it, you fucking sick freak!
¡Conio!
Why are you even
like
that?”

Tarver started to get all high-pitched and whiny, but Bentas cut him off.

“Let's just do this. You sure you can hold him, you sick fucking freak?”

Bentas climbed out of the car and put on a pair of rubber gloves. He
turned back to watch as Tarver started to drag the boy out of the truck. Adam hung on to the headrest, trying desperately to hold on as Tarver grabbed at his flailing legs. He didn't cry out.

Bentas roared with laughter. “Ooh! Ooh! Tarver!
Tarver!
Get his legs!
Get his legs!
”

Stung, Tarver stepped back and pulled out a pistol.

Bentas said, “Oh no you don't! Oh no you fucking don't, bitch!”

He pushed Tarver aside, leaned into the passenger compartment, and did something to the boy's head that Tarver couldn't see. There was a screech, then Bentas effortlessly slid the boy across the seat and out onto the dirt.

“Jesus, Tarver, you fucking dickless bitch! Can't you do anything right?” He looked down at Adam, who was whimpering in the dirt.

“Get up, kid. Get up or I'll do it again.” Covering his head with his arms, Adam slowly stood. “Tarver, you take him by the arm now. And try not to let him go, okay? And don't mark him up, either.”

As Tarver led the boy to the edge of the field, Bentas snugged the gloves on his hands, leaned into the pickup, lifted the tarp, and pulled out the wine bottle lying by the dead farmhand's legs.

The three stood at the edge of a big field. The furrowed black earth was riven by long, straight ridges of arched white plastic film that shone silver in the shadowy moonlight, stretching all the way to dark trees. Beyond the trees, the highway.

Adam stood there sobbing, cheeks glistening with tears. The occasional sound of a car out on the highway floated across the field; he could see the soft yellow glare of approaching headlights, see the faint red glow of the taillights as they went. Not so far away.

So far away.

The night breeze picked up, and for a second Adam caught the faintest smell of something sweet, something fresh and green. He turned to see that Bentas had torn open one of the row covers and was plucking fruit from a bush.

Strawberries.

Adam was going to die in a strawberry field.

T
he clubhouse at the Port Fontaine Polo Grounds Country Club was a white clapboard mansion with green shutters and a gabled slate roof. In the lobby, slowly turning plantation fans stirred the sweetly fetid perfume of bouquets of stargazer lilies across glowing marble floors.

They followed Chip Craine through a lounge done up in Plantation Moderne, out onto a wide veranda lit by stylized hurricane lamps and bracketed at either end by vine-covered trellises. The crowd was full-on Lilly Pulitzer, in cocktail dresses and blue blazers, sitting at wicker tables, admiring each other as white-jacketed waiters slipped between them with platters of steak and lobster, planter's punches and gin fizzes held aloft.

A captain rushed to greet Craine and escort his group to their table. The view from Craine's table was as impressive as that from the portico of his home. Clay tennis courts lay to the right, grass courts to the left, and between them, shaded by box privet hedges a good ten feet high, a flagstone pathway that led to the first tee. Beyond the tee, the golf course stretched out into the dark, small lampposts lighting the paths through a vast, shadowy terrain of compact forests, low, billowing hills, and tonsured putting greens, dotted with ponds black as oil.

A small army of waiters descended upon Craine, and a runner arrived with bottles of still and sparkling water. Menus were unfurled and the bartender brought Craine a Negroni unbidden; the sommelier, an attractive young brunette in a clingy knit dress with a surprisingly short hem, dropped to a knee so he could whisper in her ear.

Jenner watched, amused, unaware that Maggie was watching him.

Craine's face was handsome and patrician, his thinning hair swept
back, his nose fine, his lips thin. His eyes were as blue as his daughter's were green, his pupils oddly tiny, even in the soft light on the patio. He wore an open-necked white Charvet shirt, his initials embroidered in blue on the spread collar, and a well-cut navy blazer, clearly bespoke, doubtless from H. Huntsman on Savile Row in London.

He was an attentive host, a lively and engaging storyteller who took an obvious delight in pushing his listeners as far as propriety would permit, and pushing his daughter a little further. His stories all started simply enough, but quickly became byzantine and extravagant—a business trip to Shanghai to scout locations for a factory turned into a tale of drinking prowess in which Chip faced down a local triad enforcer in a whiskey duel.

Jenner suspected Craine could tell the stories in his sleep by now, but he was funny, even charming, playing the old rogue to the hilt, easy to listen to, easy to like. Later, Jenner would remember that while Craine spoke, his eyes were constantly roving, drawn irresistibly to the younger women on the veranda.

To Jenner's surprise, Craine ordered for the table without consulting either of his guests. Grilled Gulf shrimp with a pineapple and papaya salsa, then a surf and turf with Maine lobster and small filets of Niman Ranch beef, next a cheese plate, and key lime pie to finish. He spoke briefly with the sommelier, settling upon an '82 Mouton Rothschild, of which he ordered two bottles.

The food was surprisingly good, the best Jenner had eaten in Port Fontaine, and, as good as it was, the wine far surpassed it. The benefits of being rich, Jenner thought. How sweet Craine's life was—sitting on the veranda at his regular table with his beautiful daughter, enjoying the immaculate grounds, the superb food and wine, surrounded by his other rich friends and their beautiful wives and daughters!

As he carved his steak, Craine interrogated Jenner about medical school, about why he'd chosen forensics. Craine said he'd considered med school at one point, but had ended up falling in with his brother to run the family empire. “I was awful at it—never had a head for business! Gabriel runs the company now; I go to New York four times a year to
sign papers and attend stockholder meetings, but mostly he's put me out to pasture.”

He sloshed some more Mouton into their glasses, then leaned back, sipping the wine, musing silently about the path not taken.

He said abruptly, “So, Dr. Jenner—what would you say is the most revolting thing you've ever seen?”

Maggie said, “Oh,
Daddy
!” She shook her head reproachfully. “Jenner, please ignore my father…”

“It's okay; people are always asking us that.” Jenner grinned. “I'd have to say that the most utterly, completely disgusting thing I've ever seen was…” He leaned toward Craine conspiratorially, waited for Craine to lean in too, then murmured, “An instructional film on how they make luncheon meat—I was vegetarian for a week after that.”

Maggie giggled, “It serves you right!” as Craine tutted and rolled his eyes.

She stood, then excused herself. The two men watched her thread her way through the tables, her elegant hips twisting and swiveling as she dodged chair backs and waitstaff. When Jenner turned back to Craine, the man was studying him, eyes narrowed. Jenner flushed.

Craine leaned back and smirked. “My daughter's a very sexy woman, isn't she, doctor?”

He poured out the last of the bottle into his glass, squinting at the lees. He beckoned, and the sommelier appeared at his elbow.

“We're going to need one more bottle…what would you suggest?”

Craine dismissed several suggestions with a curt shake of his head, then a sly look settled on his face. “I know—let's have the doctor choose something. Give him the wine list.”

The sommelier lowered a huge tome with a faux-leather jacket and laminated pages in front of Jenner; she stood at Craine's elbow, the two watching Jenner turn the stiff pages.

The first thing Jenner noticed was that the 1982 Mouton cost $1,900 a bottle. The second was that, despite the cheesy binder, the wine list had been expertly chosen. He considered the 2004 d'Auvenay, which would stand up well to both the lobster and the filet, but decided a white bur
gundy would be too showy. There was a fine Soldera Brunello, too, but Jenner suspected Craine might balk at an Italian. He hovered over the Cote Rotie, but then closed the book, slid it into the center of the table, and said firmly, “Let's go with the Lynch-Bages, the 1982.” He paused, smiled, then added, “Final answer.”

The sommelier nodded approvingly. “An excellent choice, sir. Very good indeed, and one of our better-priced, too. It's one of the best wines in this cellar, but I find most of our clients are sometimes a little…resistant to the unfamiliar.”

Craine scowled as she disappeared to decant the bottle.

“So, you know your wine, doctor.”

Jenner shrugged. “I lived in France for a year. When I left, I could speak passable French and order from a wine list. Not bad for a junior year abroad…”

Craine's face lightened. “French women, my God! They're so…
reasonable
, compared with Americans, don't you think? In bed, I mean.”

Jenner smiled. “I can't say—I fell in love not long after I arrived, and stayed in love the whole year.”

“Just the one? Jesus! What a
waste
of a year abroad!”

Craine was looking across the veranda, watching Maggie speaking to a friend at another table. “A French woman, Jenner, will do
anything
…Let you put it
anywhere
…”

He stood and kissed his daughter as she sat.

She said, “What were you two talking about?”

“Nothing for your delicate ears, darling! Now, come sit closer to Daddy, there's a good girl.” She half-stood so he could drag her chair closer to his own, away from Jenner.

The evening wore on. Craine's charm slowly faded as he became more drunk. He lurched from one story of debauchery to the next, his voice getting louder and louder. His daughter tried to calm him down, pressing his arm with soft fingers, murmuring, “Daddy, please. They can hear you in the kitchen…”

Maggie changed, too, became more serious, less girlish. She signaled the maître d', and no more alcohol arrived at the table. It took Craine
a little while to notice the wine had dried up; when he did, he became petulant.

“Some more of your excellent wine, doctor? What was it, the Lynch…the Lynch…”

Jenner shook his head. “I think I've had enough to drink.”

“Well, that's just as well.” Craine picked up the carafe, then paused, holding it in midair, shaking it to emphasize its emptiness. “Because, you see, my daughter has cut us off…”

He slammed the carafe down onto the table.

They were now the focus of attention in the dining room, the target of sidelong glances and murmured commentary. The maître d' came over to whisper to Maggie, who replied in an apologetic whisper.

She stood. “I think it's time we headed home, Daddy. Unlike the Craines, Dr. Jenner has to be at work bright and early.”

Jenner nodded and got to his feet with a polite smile. “Sorry to spoil the party, but it really is creeping up on my bedtime.”

“Jesus!” Craine scowled. “What kind of man is thinking of bed at ten thirty p.m.?”

He leered up at Jenner. “Unless it's to get a beautiful woman into bed…Is that what you're doing? Do you have, uh,
designs
on my daughter, doctor? Can't wait to get her home and unwrap her, that it?”

Maggie stood with head bowed, hand raised to her face. “Daddy, please, don't do this. Please. Not here.”

He shrugged. “Well, then. Sit back down and let me finish this glass. I'll behave.”

She sat, and Jenner followed suit.

Craine sat there, glass in hand. There was something uglier in his silence, his absence of speech the twitching of an invisible tail, a tomcat about to savage a kitten.

“I have to say, I think it's hilarious my daughter has appointed herself my moral guardian, particularly with her spectacular past. She tell you about that?” He looked past her to Jenner, and launched into a dissertation about Maggie. He distilled her past into a series of bad choices—her abusive boyfriends, her drinking, her decision to study art history as
an undergraduate and then to go for her master's, a year intended for studying painting in Italy quickly aborted in favor of spending time in Corfu with friends from New York. His word choice was deft and incisive, their intimacy letting him highlight her most painful moments in the cruelest possible way.

She sat silently looking at her cheese plate, the tears spilling slowly down her cheeks. As he spoke, Craine was watching her closely, monitoring her reaction.

“Of course, I bankrolled all this, and never said a thing, even when she flunked out of her program because she managed to get, as they say, ‘knocked up'…”

Jenner said, “Mr. Craine, I think that's enough. Let's change the subject.”

Craine turned slowly to Jenner and said, “So, tell me, doctor: what
has
my daughter told you about her little girl?”

Maggie slipped out of her chair and walked quickly down the broad patio steps, vanishing into the oblivion of the dark golf course.

Craine, flushed and smiling, watched Jenner follow her. He looked around for the bartender; perhaps he could bribe his way to another Negroni.