A Hard Death (16 page)

A
dam was flying now, pedal to the metal, pedal to the motherfucking metal, screaming down his track like a bobsled. The Hispanic guy, Bentas, put the little canister thingy up to Adam's nose and said

“C'mon, kid take another hit another hit just one more hit”

And so he snorted it again and felt the top of his head blast wide-open. His face was burning, superheated like flames four thousand degrees hot racing across the surface of the sun. How fast his heartbeat? 10,000 mph. Mach five, no, in miles per hour?
Go Speed Racer, go!

There was the roar of an infinite snare-drum roll, no, not the sound, it was inside him, in his chest, his heart, 10,000 per hour.

Overhead the sky was black and a thousand stars points of light in the black, turning to streaks as he made the jump to light speed. At this speed how long would it take to reach a star? He could make the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs.

In front of him, the crop covers were bright rays, sunbursting out from his feet to connect the darkness where he stood to the gilded rim of the highway.

Now Tarver was snorting from the little canister too, throwing his head back and whinnying, the sound like the squeal of horses when they fall, like the whistle of a screaming rabbit.

There was a
WHOMP!
in Adam's chest and he staggered he'd been shot no not that no that was a skip of his drumroll heart.
WHOMP!
again.

He moved forward now, stumbling a bit, falling in between the humps of two rows. And then it went backward and he was standing upright again, Bentas yanking him up by the back of his shirt, as if he were a yo-yo.

Bentas said, “Hey, here, drink this,” and held up a bottle of wine. Wine. He wanted him to drink the wine so Adam thought yes okay I'll drink that.

Then the top was off the bottle and Tarver was behind him, clutching him around his chest in a bear hug, locking him down in case his heart exploded and Tarver had a nose bleed, and Bentas had the purple gloves with the wine bottle. The label on the bottle said the wine came from California, smooth green glass and wine. 2002. No, 2007. No, 2002, 2002, 2002. He giggled. Red red wine.

Tarver was pulling Adam's forehead back, and Bentas's purple fingers wrapped around the label 2002, tipping the bottle up, the red spilling onto Adam's chest and gushing into his mouth and he glugged it down as fast as he could, but Bentas was pouring it too much and it
WHOMP!
was horrible, tasted like acid rust-water peed out of a radiator, it was black and battery acid in his mouth on fire, the spit pouring out.

“Let him go,” said Bentas and Tarver let him go and Adam staggered forward into the field

retching and spitting red

red red wine

“Follow him. He's almost done now.”

And Adam stumble-shuffled between the strawberries, his dark horizon ahead, the dark screw-toothed line of trees bouncing as he fell forward onto his legs as they rose to meet him.

He began to trot, a teetering, wide gait, a toddler's stambling run.

 

Bentas and Tarver sauntered behind, Tarver pressing a paper napkin to his bleeding nose. Tarver was saying they should just shoot Adam, and Bentas was saying that Brodie wanted it to look like the kid was tweaking and died from doing too much speed, and Brodie also said if he didn't fall out pretty quick, they could let him have a swig of the insecticide to get him over.

And to not mess him up. They'd leave him where he fell, they'd find him when everyone came back, and by then he'd probably be rotted. But still don't mess him up.

Tarver stopped and threw his head back to stare up at the night, pressing the napkin hard to his nose.

“Vucking theng won't stob bleeding.”

“Press it harder, asshole.” Bentas snorted. “Ever occur to you maybe you shouldn't do so much meth?”

Bentas looked back to the truck and was surprised at how far they'd come. His head snapped back and he stared at the boy making his hurried, waddling way across the field.

“Christ—that fucker's going to make the highway…Come on!”

Bentas ran.

Adam tottered out from the rows of strawberry plants, staggered across the rind of bare earth at the edge, then into the surrounding drainage ditch, squishing forward through the black ooze to clamber up the other side. Shrubs whipped at his skin as he moved past, but he reached the low wire fence and leaned over, the top wire sagging as he toppled over and fell onto the grass by the shoulder of the road.

He heard the splash as Bentas went into the water, and dragged himself forward onto the blacktop, crawling now.

Adam was on the road.

Behind him he saw Bentas at the fence, hesitating.

Then Adam began to vomit.

Bentas was slipping over the fence and walking toward him, hesitantly, glancing left and right for traffic.

Adam watched him slowly moving closer; Bentas was being so careful now it was funny, like he was making that tinkling piano noise when Sylvester tiptoes across the living room to get Tweety.

Adam snorted (blood now): Bentas was standing on the shoulder of the road, staring at him as if Adam were Poppin' Fresh, the Pillsbury Doughboy, as if he wanted to poke Adam's tummy to see if he was done yet. Lying on the highway, tears pouring from his eyes, blood streaming from his nose, Adam started to laugh:
Poppin' Fresh!

But the sound didn't come. Now Adam couldn't move, his breathing was ragged, his chest tight as if a house had fallen on it. He vomited again and felt the sweat pouring from his burning face.

Bentas had stopped on the grass. This had to be it: the kid was dying now.

Adam's scalded mouth filled with spit, the rattling scrape of his breathing harsh in his ears.

Then there was light on the highway, and he saw Bentas turn to shadow as he raced quickly back to the cover of the fence and the bushes behind. Adam laid his head back on the tarmac, then turned his face to look at the bright monster light bombing toward him and suddenly thousands of diamonds glittered on the blacktop around him, and Adam breathed rubies into the diamonds, and then he closed his eyes, and then the impact.

T
he black Mercedes SUV sheared into a howling skid, the rear wheels fishtailing wide across the centerline, into a spin. There was a screeching lurch and the car swung back into its lane, swaying for a few seconds as the driver overcorrected right and left, before finally regaining control. The vehicle rolled to a halt.

A minute or so later, the driver reversed, the SUV's taillights flooding the road as it pulled slowly back toward Bentas's hiding place. When Adam Weiss's body broke the edge of the light field, the car stopped sharply.

The driver's-side door swung open, and the sound of a girl screaming repeatedly filled the air.

The driver was young, a dark-haired kid maybe Weiss's age, driving—what? His dad's car? Bentas looked for the plate: a Palm Beach County plate surrounded by a loop of pulsing blue lights: it read
GTARGOD
. A rich kid's car, then.

The boy climbed out and ran to Adam's body. He kneeled and looked at him for a second, then started pacing, hands pressing the top of his head as if holding his skull together, saying over and over,
“Ohmigod! Ohmigod!”

He paused, then glanced up and down the highway.

Bentas knew what the driver was doing: math. The kid was figuring out if he could get away with it.

The boy began to back away, looking shakily in the direction of his car, where the girl was still screaming. She'd undone her seat belt, and her screaming was punctuated by the rhythmic chime of a door alarm.

From where he crouched, Tarver now squatting close behind him, Bentas could see Weiss was in bad shape. One of the arms was impossibly
twisted, and the right leg bent out at an unnatural angle. The kid's head lolled to the left in a gleaming puddle of dark blood.

The boy was hesitating, standing there with his cell phone out, looking down at Adam's body, looking back at the car at his screaming girlfriend. Bentas thought,
Leave, you little fuck. Just leave! No one will find out, no one will ever know…

And then Adam moaned.

Bentas stiffened.

It seemed impossible—enough methamphetamine to drop a circus elephant, washed down by an insecticide chaser and then smashed by that tank of a car, and Weiss was still alive?
No way…

The sound galvanized the driver, who punched numbers into his cell.

Tarver touched Bentas's shoulder, then held up his pistol, tapped it, then pointed first at the driver on his phone, then at the screaming girlfriend.

Bentas shook his head quickly and jabbed his finger in the direction of the field. The two men crept down the slope, moved quietly across the drainage ditch and out onto the strawberry field.

Bentas muttered to Tarver to put the gun away. “No need: kid was already ninety-nine percent dead. This way is perfect—they ran him over while he was alive, lying on the road, fucked up on crystal meth. Just one more dead stupid fucking tweaker.”

Tarver moaned as his nose began to bleed again. “Shit!”

Bentas snickered at him. “Yeah, one more dead stupid fucking tweaker.” He paused. “Hey, Tarver—you thirsty? I got some wine…”

By the time they reached their pickup truck, they could hear the distant sirens.

T
he maître d' escorted Chip Craine through the lobby and out onto the drive. They waited together for the Bentley.

“Dean!” Craine fumbled in the pocket of his blazer and pulled out a thick wad of cash. He peeled off hundred-dollar bills like a game show host. “Dean, okay, I want you to give this to the black waiter, this to the blonde…The two guys who were clearing the plates can share a hundred. Here's two hundred for the sommelier, and a hundred for the bartender.”

The host nodded, looking expectantly at the pile of cash on his flat palm. Craine continued, “And for you…one, two, three hundred.” He paused. “Will that cover it?”

“Well, Mr. Craine, you're very generous, as always. But there's the small problem of complaints. I told the Walters, who were sitting behind your table, that we'd take care of their dinner check…”

“You did?” Craine thought for a second. “Good thinking. Put it on my tab. And here's another hundred.”

He tucked the rest of the money back into his blazer. “We're good now?”

The host folded the thick stack into his pocket and nodded. “Yes, sir. We're very good.”

The lights of the Bentley flooded the steps. The valet stopped at the porte cochère, but the host waved him on, past the main entrance to the club: kickbacks or not, Mr. Craine had caused enough trouble for one night.

He walked Craine to the car and said, “Sir, Mr. Canning has instructed us that the car keys are to be delivered to your daughter. He's asked me to make sure you're comfortable in the car until she returns.”

Craine grunted. He stood impassive as the valet swung the heavy door open for him, then asked him to move the passenger seat forward: he would sit in the backseat.

Once he was installed, the valet closed the door, hovering by the vehicle until Craine groggily pulled a fifty out of his pocket and handed it to him. Then the host and the valet left him to his own devices.

Craine sprawled back in the middle of the seat, arms outstretched wide, idly caressing the tan leather of the broad seat back.

Overhead, the sky was deep indigo, loaded with bright, distant stars.

He wondered how long his daughter would take to get over her little tantrum. He snorted: it was absurd how easily she worked herself into a mood.

His fingers drummed the seat back. He was bored.

He pulled out his phone to check for messages. Nothing.

A peaceful look settled across his face as he began to dial.

She answered on the second ring, her voice sweetly excited and expectant. She always answered on the second ring—he'd learned they always do, at that age.

J
enner walked out beyond the barrier of the box privet and onto the dark realm of the course. He couldn't see her. The hedges funneled walkers down the golf-cart path, and Maggie was wearing heels, so she'd probably followed the paved surface.

The road was lit by black ornamental lampposts, glowing like fireflies on either side; Jenner wondered if, in a previous era, they'd have been lawn jockey statues. Seen from the bright haloes of the path, the greens were gloomy and dark, the color of poison yew.

Jenner had walked about five minutes when he spotted Maggie. She was on a bench by the first water trap, her dress floating around her like a luminous cloud, pale blue in the moonlight.

She glanced up, then back out over the still black water.

“Hey.” He sat on the bench right next to her.

She ignored him.

“You okay?”

She turned to face him and snapped, “Really? That's really what you're going to ask me?”

She snorted. “What do you think, Jenner? How do you
think
I am?”

“I'm sorry.”

“You know, you're as bad as he is. You did nothing, Jenner! Nothing!” She looked down at her hands, her fingers working some invisible knot. “My father has…problems. He was drunk, he couldn't help himself. But you…?” She paused before continuing.

“What, couldn't think of anything to say?” Maggie shook her head angrily. “How could you just sit there and listen to him say those things, and not say a word?”

Jenner stayed silent.

“You have no idea how hard all of this is—dealing with him, trying to raise Lucy, keeping the shelter going…I have no one! No one supporting me, no one to see the things I have to do, no one to help me.”

She was crying now, and he lifted a hand to touch her shoulder.

“Don't!”
She brushed it off. “And don't say, ‘The nanny'—she doesn't count, she's a paid attendant. I need someone to be a part of this, to really help me.”

Maggie sat back, face turned away.

Jenner said softly, “I'm sorry. It must be very hard for you.”

“Wrong answer!” She stared at the water. “I don't want your pity.”

He took her hand gently, but she pulled it back. He said, “I'm sorry. I had…I didn't know he'd behave like that. I'm so sorry…”

She breathed out, then turned to him. “Pass me my purse. I need a cigarette.”

Jenner picked the black patent-leather purse up off the grass and handed it to her; it was heavy, and when she snapped it open, he saw a small pistol. It didn't surprise him—in Miami, he'd known several women whose clutch purses hid a shiny little gun.

Maggie stuck a cigarette between her lips and opened the match-book. As the match lit up in her hand, he saw her eyes were clear, her cheeks dry again. She took a deep drag, shook the match out, then slowly exhaled the smoke, eyes shut.

She looked at Jenner, weary and expectant. “So. I know you're just dying to share your impressions about how messed up we are, the Craine family.”

“Actually, I'm not really excited about saying anything right now.”

“I know, I know! Poor Jenner!”

Another quick drag; she blew the smoke out harshly.

“I know how it must seem. I could tell you my father was a decent man, that he and my uncle were the best guys on earth, just really misunderstood, but that'd be a lie. Daddy's a son of a bitch—he keeps me utterly dependent on him, gives me just enough to cover my expenses, and Lucy's, but not a penny more. And, if anything, my uncle is worse.”

“Your uncle?”

“Oh, Gabriel Craine, another handsome branch of the magnificent Craine family tree, Jenner. He runs Craine Brothers Medical now—he took control in the early 1980s; each month, he shits out a measly little allowance for Daddy. He's a ruthless bastard—he doesn't approve of my father or me, not one bit.”

“Well,” Jenner said, “it can't be all
that
measly…”

Maggie waved her cigarette dismissively. “Daddy's clever with money. But it's a pittance, considering how huge Craine Brothers is—y'know, when
People
profiled us in 2004, they said we make one in four of the items in your medicine cabinet. Do you have any idea how rich my uncle is?

“Anyway.” She inhaled, more slowly now, and let the smoke settle deep into her lungs. “So, what else can I tell you about the Craine Curse? Well, you're a doctor—I'm sure you can tell Lucy's anorexic.”

When Jenner didn't answer, she glanced at him, and saw he knew. “Yeah, thought as much—can't hide anything from you.” Another drag.

Maggie looked him in the eye. “So, well, sorry, Jenner. Sorry I'm a disaster. Nothing I can do about it…”

She let the smoke out slowly, then stood and flicked the cigarette into the water.

She smoothed her hair, then turned to him, studied his face. “You see how I am now, right? So now what do you think—still…interested?”

“Maggie, wait. Just…slow down.”

“This is how it always works—it's because of you, you know?” She smiled sadly. “I find someone I like, my father fucks it up. He's not like that when it's just him and me at dinner, or with his friends.”

“He clearly has problems.”

“Problems? Christ, Jenner, you don't know the half of it!” She laughed, the sound sharp and thin. She was quiet for a second, then said softly, “But who am I to judge? I'm no better. Besides, he's my dad.”

Maggie glanced at him, looking up at her uncertainly, and smiled. “It's okay, Jenner. I'm okay now.”

When he didn't answer, her smile widened. “Really, no, I'm okay. I'm sorry I kind of lost it there—I ruined our date more than he did.”

“You didn't ruin it.” He smiled. “But…it
was
a date, then?”

She laughed. “Of course it was—I'm damaged, not dead! You're the most interesting thing to wash up in Port Fontaine since Ambrose fucking Burmeister!”

Jenner raised an eyebrow.

She took his hand, and pulled him to his feet. She looked at him critically. “After all, you're okay-looking. You're tall. You have a job. You're straight.”

Maggie paused. “You
are
straight, right?”

She turned to him as he grinned, and caught his arm. “Because, you know, if you tried to kiss me, I doubt I'd fight it…”

Jenner leaned into her, and her lips met his; pressing against her skin was like going under, soft and hot, a feeling of continued motion when both of them were still, as warm and disorienting as ether.

Her lips lingered, and when she gently pushed him back, her hand over his heart, he breathed out, as surprised as if he'd witnessed a miracle.

Maggie smiled. “We should get back there before Daddy molests the coat-check girl or something.”