A Hard Death (33 page)

S
mith and Bentas watched the Taurus approach up the main drive.

Bentas called out to Brodie, “It's Nash—and he's brought the coroner.”

The Taurus pulled to a halt in front of the farmhouse. Nash leaned over, turned off the ignition, took the key. He got out, walked up the slope toward Brodie, and said, “There's a problem.”

Brodie said, “Is it my problem?”

Nash looked befuddled, so Brodie snapped, “Have you jammed me or my operation up with some bullshit?”

Nash shook his head, then stammered, “I…No, I don't think so.”

Brodie said, “Well, okay then. Go sob on Craine's shoulder.”

“I shot a cop.”

“Really?” Brodie grinned at Bentas and Smith. “Well,
that
ain't right!”

Bentas smirked. “Particularly what with you being a cop and all, too, right?”

Brodie said, “So let me guess—you're here because you want our help with the body?”

Nash shook his head. “No. She's not dead.” He turned and gestured to the car. “Just wounded.”

Brodie bounded off the porch and grabbed Nash by the scruff of his collar, shaking him like a rat. “You stupid fuck! You shoot a
cop
, and you bring her
here
?”

Brodie stared at the car. Jenner was watching impassively from the driver's seat; Brodie could almost
feel
the man figuring his next step.

He turned to Bentas and snapped, “You and Tony get rid of the cop and the ME. Strip the bodies, burn the clothes. Fuck up their faces, tell Tony to cut off the fingers. Then take the airboat and dump them out
there—I don't give a fuck where, somewhere far out enough they'll stay gone a while, though.”

Bentas was walking to the car when Brodie said, “No, wait. Hold it.”

He turned to Nash. “I want to get this straight: you shoot a cop, then you bring her here with another witness? What are you, some kind of fucking retard? This can only end one way—they both die.”

Nash nodded slowly.

Brodie spat, then said, “You started this,
you
finish it. Take them down to the water and get rid of them.”

He started back to the cookhouse, leaving Nash standing there, pale, nerves jangling.

Bentas clapped Nash on the shoulder. “Hey, nut up, buddy! It's your chance to show us what kind of man you are!”

Smith called out, “Yo, Brodie! It's a
chick
! She's pretty fucked up, there's blood everywhere…” He was leaning against the car, peering into the back. He straightened. “She's not a regular cop, she's wearing a green uniform…I think maybe she's a park ranger or something.”

Bentas said, “Maybe she's a fucking leprechaun!”

Brodie walked back to the car and stared down at Deb Putnam, who lay immobile, eyes closed. He turned to Nash and said, “Take care of them in the boat shed. If you don't, I'll let Mr. Bentas do it. Either way, both of them will be dead an hour from now.”

He paused, looked Nash in the eye. “And if you can't handle it, Mr. Bentas will take care of you, too.”

N
ash was jittery and pale, talking a mile a minute. He had Jenner drive down the unpaved road through the lower field to the dock, then held the gun on him while he helped Deb into the boat shed. Nash put a tarp on the ground beneath her; the room wasn't cold, and the tarp served no practical purpose other than to keep the floor clean, but Jenner saw it as a gesture. What would Nash do?

They laid her on the floor, and then Nash hovered, watching Jenner. He was struggling to appear in control; Jenner realized the man was too frightened to go back outside.

He eased Deb flat onto her back, her knees bent. Nash edged away from them, absorbed in his own anguish. He stood at the waterfront window, peering through the security grill out over the mangrove swamp.

Deb seemed to be okay. The bleeding had slowed, and she was breathing normally. Jenner took her wrist and slipped his fingers over her pulse; it was fast but not weak.

There was a creak at the door as Nash stepped outside. He closed the door behind him; Jenner heard the latch fall into place, then the quiet click of a padlock bolting the latch shut.

He whispered to her, “How do you feel?”

She whispered back, “Like someone shot me.”

“Wow!” He smiled. “Screw park-ranger school—you shoulda gone to medical school!”

She didn't smile back. “Am I going to be okay, Jenner?”

Her hand was cool in his. He said, a little too brightly, “You're fine. The bullet went all the way through, through your side. You've lost some blood, but you look pretty good to me.”

“Jenner, don't bullshit me, okay?” Deb pulled her hand back. “I don't want you to fucking kumbayah me—if I'm going to die, I want to know.”

He smiled. “You're going to be fine. If the bullet hit anything important inside you, you'd be a whole lot quieter by now.”

Her expression was dubious, so he said, “Really. I'm telling the truth.”

“And what about the money? Tell me the truth about that. Why did Nash shoot me?”

He told her about the meth, about the lab on Craine's farm. He told her Craine offered him money to walk away, that the money was the only proof he had that Craine was deeply involved in the drugs. That he'd called in the DEA, and that they should be there soon. As he talked, her hand crept into his.

He looked around their cell. The shed was maybe fifteen feet by twenty. One window faced northeast toward the farmhouse, the other to the southwest, over the swamp. The room was lit by a dim yellow bulb, and smelled of pine pitch and gasoline. Orange plastic jerricans were lined up along one wall, next to a pair of canoe paddles and a double-tipped kayak paddle; there was no kayak or canoe in the shed.

A rough wooden table held a couple of fishing tackle boxes and a large wicker-and-canvas catch basket. Next to the bench, several tall, old-fashioned fishing rods leaned against the wall. Jenner knew nothing about fishing, but these were beautiful, each apparently fashioned from a single long stick of flexible bamboo, with circular wire guide loops tied neatly to the rod with black thread and varnished into place. Handmade, expensive.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Jenner noticed a low, heavy bench against the opposite wall. O-rings had been bolted to the scuffed legs, and the floor in front was scraped and battered. There were brown stains spattered on the floor and on the wall behind; he doubted they were fish blood.

There was a scrape as the door opened again.

Brodie nodded at Jenner, then at Deb. He glanced around the shed as if he were a prospective renter, then turned to the two of them again.

“Kind of too bad, isn't it?”

Jenner shrugged. “I'd have liked it better if things had gone differently.”

“You think Nash has the balls to kill you?” Brodie grinned. “I'm not so sure.”

Jenner was silent.

“Well, we'll see.” Brodie motioned toward the bench with the bloodstains. “Tony does.”

“Who's Tony?”

“The tall guy with black hair up there on the porch, the one with the big knife.” He paused, then grinned a little wider. “I figure he'll end up being the one who takes care of you—after all, he took care of the last ME.”

Jenner stiffened. “Ah.”

“
‘Ah?'
That's
it
? What are you, some kind of tough guy? I tell you he killed your buddy, and all you say is ‘Ah'?” He shook his head. “If it's any consolation, because of Roburn, I had to get rid of a couple of my men.”

“What happened?”

Brodie hesitated a second, then shrugged. “I sent two guys to Port Fontaine to transport a body. The body wasn't ready, so the funeral director sent them away for a couple hours. Those fucking idiots went and smoked meth. They got really high, and then went back for the body way late.

“Because they were out there dicking around, the body was still there when Roburn showed up at the funeral home with some paperwork. Later, Reggie Jones noticed the body had been fucked with—someone had opened it and snagged a sample from one of the bricks.

“Reggie put two plus two together and realized it had to be the medical examiner. So I sent Tony to visit the guy…and the rest you know.”

He shook his head. “Your pal figured we had cops working for us, so he didn't know who to turn to. He was probably trying to figure out his next step when Tony showed up on his doorstep—he didn't see that one coming. He thought he had time—you know how that is, right, doc? When you think you have time, but then it turns out you don't?”

Jenner didn't reply.

Brodie grinned.

“He was a tough old fuck—didn't say a word, no matter how Tony carved him up. We tore that place apart but never did find what he took.” He chuckled. “All this over a couple bucks worth of product!”

Brodie glanced at his watch.

“Anyway, just came down to see if that cocksucker had stepped up.” He looked down at them both, then said, “I guess not. But, whatever—things will get taken care of down here pretty soon, by Nash or by Tony.”

He slipped out through the door. Jenner heard him call to Nash, then his voice faded.

Jenner waited a couple of minutes, then went to the window. Nash was alone on the dock, talking on his cell. In the drizzle, the water in the center channel looked gray and cold, cast in dirty lead. Jenner glanced at his watch; it was just a question of time before Nash would be dumping their dead bodies into the dark water. He imagined his body hitting the water, sliding under, being swallowed by the black.

Deb was looking up at him. He caught her eye and smiled, then walked over to look out the back window. Brodie was walking back up the slope to the farmhouse, where several men sat on the porch, smoking and talking. The door to the first bunkhouse swung open, and two men filed out into the rain. They peeled off hairnets and surgical face masks with obvious relief, and stood in the drizzle in their white jumpsuits, happy to be in the wet, fresh air.

Jenner turned and looked down at Deb. Then he noticed a small first-aid kit on the table. He picked through it, found a couple of grubby Band-Aids and a sealed two-inch by two-inch gauze pad; there was no tape.

He squatted next to her and said, “Okay, let's see about patching you up.”

Up at the farmhouse, someone pointed, and all heads turned to the road, where a dark Volvo station wagon was approaching.

B
rodie watched Craine drive up. He climbed onto the porch and eased himself into the rocking chair as Craine got out of the station wagon, spoke to his granddaughter in the back, then approached.

Brodie said, “No Bentley today, Mr. Craine?”

Craine ignored the jab and asked pointless questions about the cook cycle. The fake chatter didn't fool Brodie—in a few seconds, Craine would ask what he
really
wanted to know. Brodie always knew when Craine was about to ask it—the man's speech got faster, pitched up as he got ready to spit it out.

Here it comes, Brodie thought.

“And, uh, Brodie…you have something waiting for me downstairs?”

It was always the same question, the same words spoken the same way. It creeped Brodie out, made him feel sucked into Craine's filth.

He nodded, contempt edging his expression.

Craine stood back, flushed. He glanced at Brodie's men watching them from the porch, at the meth cooks smoking cigarettes under the eaves of Bunkhouse B, then back at the Volvo.

“I'm going to bring my granddaughter inside; she can stay in one of the upstairs rooms. Read a book, or something.”

Brodie nodded, said nothing.

“Okay, then. I'll go get her.” Craine hurried toward the car, then turned to add, “She won't get in your way. Though I think it'd probably be best to lock her in, so she doesn't go wandering.”

Brodie spat. Yeah, it would be best to lock the girl up—she should never see the things her grandfather did in the basement. He gestured at his men; they left the porch and trooped toward the bunkhouses.

He shifted. “Actually, Mr. Craine, there's a matter that needs your attention.”

“Later, Brodie. One thing at a time.”

Brodie grinned. “Yes, sir.” Fine by him—Craine would freak the fuck out later when Brodie told him about the bodies waiting for him down in the boathouse.

Craine led his granddaughter into the farmhouse. She was a pretty little girl, very skinny and watery-pale, but pretty. Brodie stood as she stepped up onto the porch; when he lifted his cap, she quickly looked away.

She didn't like him. Or maybe Brodie frightened her.

The thought stung a little—he wasn't so bad. There were worse men than him.

Brodie listened to the door close behind him. He didn't turn; what happened in the farmhouse wasn't his business.

He walked over to Craine's station wagon. The rear compartment was filled with fancy suitcases; apparently Mr. Craine was off on a little trip. Smart move.

Brodie walked back up to the porch and sat in his rocking chair, but soon the squeals from the basement bothered him, and he walked over to Bunkhouse B to find Tony.

It was time.

“
J
enner? I think the bleeding has stopped.”

He knelt next to her and carefully lifted her shirt.

Deb had kept the gauze pressed firmly against the entrance wound; it was soaked with blood, but the skin around it was dry.

“Can you turn to your side a little?”

Grimacing, she rolled so he could inspect the wound on her back. The Band-Aids he'd pressed across the little slit were holding.

He smiled at her. “Well, the exit looks good, and the entrance wound is pretty dry. But try to stay still—if you move it'll start bleeding again.”

He stood and walked to the other window to look out over the mangrove swamp. Nash was standing forlornly on the dock; Jenner wondered if he'd make a break for it, just grab a boat and go.

But that wouldn't work, and Nash would know it. They knew where Nash lived, and if he tried to run, they'd cut his family down before he set foot back on dry land. Besides, Nash didn't have the guts to run.

When it came down to it, Nash had no choice—if he didn't, they'd kill him, too.

So, okay, yeah. No two ways: Nash was going to kill them.

As Jenner watched, Nash pulled out his pistol and stared at it. He racked it, checked to see there was a round in the chamber.

When Nash turned to look back toward the shed, the window was empty.