West Palm: The Complete Novel (21 page)

F
rom the top of the brick wall he saw her swimming. Each time she breathed she turned her face away from him. Quietly he dropped down into her yard, behind the trees that screened the wall.

He didn't move but watched her do another lap, spellbound by her grace and strength. Her hair, wet, was darker than he recalled it.

He had no idea how many laps she swam. Watching her in the sharpness of sunlight made him breathless.

She climbed the stairs and walked around the pool, shaking her head like a dog. Taking long easy strides, she let the sunshine dry the water glittering on her bronzed skin. In her string bikini she was bigger than he'd remembered, commanding and intimidating as the statue of Justice in front of the courthouse of his conscience where he stood condemned for the scars he'd carved on her. He'd never been so clumsy with a woman before. It was against all Aunt Emmy taught him. But no one had ever fought him like this Tara Stevens did. The thought of how she'd fought excited him.

She strode closer, passing by the stand of trees.

His arm whipped out like a branch torn off in a hurricane.

Her eyes met his, but he'd already fired and she was a puppet dancing at the end of twin electric wires. Spasms ran through her beautiful body. Her arms and legs jerked as she went down, and her head cracked against the tiles.

His heart pounding in his chest, he hurried toward her.

She was unconscious, her limbs convulsing. He dumped his knapsack open on the ground, taped her mouth, and quickly bound her with bungee cords. He didn't want to keep tasering her. He didn't want to hurt her. That's what she had to know.

“I never should've cut you,” he said, gently removing the electrodes from her flesh. “That was a big mistake.”

His fingers caressed the necklace his knife had left around her throat. “I'm sorry about this.”

She struggled awake into dizziness to find him straddling her legs. She forced herself to ignore the painful throbbing in her head. She had to think . . .

He was kneeling upright, his arms extended so his palms pressed down against the front of her shoulders. There was that smell of fetal pig, and the smell of ether, and the odor of her own fear-saturated sweat.

“Don't fight me,” he said. “I'm not your enemy.”

She stared up into the eyes that had been haunting her. All along she'd known she'd be looking into these insane eyes again, and the anger fueling her hatred was swept away in a sickening resignation. This time he would succeed.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” he repeated.

She had an impression of even white teeth, dark stubble, and chiseled features, but she didn't dare move her gaze away from his eyes. Bound and gagged as she was, the one weapon she had to hold him was the look passing between them.

“No one could love you the way I do,” he said. “Only I know you.”

She accepted that this was true, no one would ever love her the way he did; and he did know her intimately, with an intimacy based on him being her murderer. He was the last thing she would see. Her connection with him was the most momentous of her life, wiping from her memory everyone who'd come before him.

“We're going to New Orleans,” he said. “Is that okay with you?”

She nodded her head vigorously.

He stared into her eyes. “You're lying. Please don't lie.”

With despair she realized this was the basis on which he'd killed his previous women, by asking them a question whose answer would always be a lie. Because how could any woman in her right mind want to run away with a man who tasered her and tied her up?

She had a sudden mad idea:
In time, I'll fall in love with him. Then I won't be lying to him, and he'll know I'm not lying, and we'll be in New Orleans together.

“That's it,” he said, reading her eyes. “You're not like the others. I knew you were the one who could love me.”

S
moker's attempt to pull the house down had failed. It was too well built. In the 1920s they made homes to last. They didn't anticipate the necessity of a PI tearing the place apart.

“Son . . . of . . . a . . . bitch.” He tried to twist his wrists again, attempting to shrink them through handcuffs that allowed no twisting. Double-locking hinged Smith & Wessons.
Did I think I was going to be cuffing Spider-Man?

Some cops considered the hinged model cruel, but Smoker's motto was: When it comes to West Palm perps out of their minds on meth, cruel is what you want. Now he was being paid back for his political incorrectness.

It was as futile to try and break the desk legs as it was to split the steel cuffs open. He had a vision of his amazon with her throat slashed and her body decorated. What theme would the madman use this time?

Contorting himself around, he examined the underside of the massive hickory desk constructed by his sons during a college vacation when Dottie wanted to give them work. They'd built it like the pyramids to endure into eternity. But why had they fused it to the wall and floor? What was in their minds? He remembered: He'd complained about his old wobbly desk. So they made two of these permanent monsters, one for him and one for Janine.

“I sent them to college so they'd be better than me.” He looked at their shattered photos as he struggled. “I thought nuclear physicist, gynecologist, even a lawyer, and they're still building desks. And fancy chairs. And fancy cabinets. They're lucky to have jobs, so what am I complaining about? Just this motherfucking desk . . .”

He made another try at wrenching free and wrenched his right shoulder practically out of its socket. Beyond the thundering music on his radio, he heard the thumping of a bass coming from the passing car of a gangbanger.

“Help,” he shouted. “I'm handcuffed to my desk.” It was Janine's desk, not his, but he had no time for splitting hairs. Besides, the radio was louder than he was, which was probably just as well, because if the gangbangers came upstairs, they would only leave him cuffed and strip the place.

The heavy metal station he'd been listening to was a continuous stream of moronic lyrics sung by fabulously rich morons about their so-called problems.

“You think you have problems?” he shouted at the sixteen-year-old diva who was offering solutions for mankind while riding around in a limousine the length of a football field.

His shirt and pants were soaked with sweat. He had to take a wicked piss. And where the hell was Dottie when he needed her?

He knew exactly where she was, bonding with the bridal party. She mothered every bride for months on end while they went back and forth about the frosting, and when she arrived with the cake, in the high emotion of the wedding day the bride insisted that she stay. And she accepted, because she loved weddings. She got misty eyed at weddings. She claimed it was like a renewal of her own vows.

“Dottie,” he shouted. “Enough is enough.”

Attempting telepathy he added, “Can't you feel I'm handcuffed to the desk?”

He looked out the window and groaned. “If the amazon is still alive, it's a miracle.”

He tried to think positively. Find the silver lining. He'd learned something today—that he didn't have the strength to pull down a house. At least a well-made house from the 1920s.

The whiners had taken a break and now it was an anxiety-increasing instrumental on what sounded like a trio of table saws.

A face appeared in the half-open door at Smoker's eye level.

The door pushed open.

It was Katie from next door, the only problem being Katie could neither unlock his cuffs or use the phone, because she was a black Labrador. She often came upstairs, tennis ball clenched between her teeth, asking for a quick game of fetch.

She padded over, deposited the chartreuse ball between Smoker's legs, and eyed him hopefully, as if explaining the rules:
You throw it, I'll catch it, then you'll throw it again, I'll catch it again, then you'll throw—

“I know what you want,” said Smoker. “But now's the time for you to be a hero dog.”

Katie cocked her ears.

He flapped his elbows, indicating the cuffs around his wrists. “Go home and get Stephanie, your owner. You know who I'm talking about, the nice lady who feeds you every day? Tell her I'm handcuffed to the desk while my client's being murdered.”

No ball?
said the look in Katie's eyes.
Well, what about Plan B?

Plan B was the salami sandwich on Smoker's desk, which she indicated by solemnly approaching it, in the full knowledge that she wasn't allowed to eat off desks but with a strong suspicion that Smoker was in no position to enforce this rule of etiquette. She put her front paws on the desktop and glanced back at him.

“Go ahead. Eat it and get it over with.”

The way Smoker liked a salami sandwich was with lots of hot sauce. The way Katie liked a salami sandwich was all at once, jaws snapping, so no other wandering dog could contest the prize. As the hot sauce hit, she shook her head and made a snorting noise, then looked around for more.

“That's it,” said Smoker. “I've sacrificed my lunch for you. Now go. Get Stephanie. Get anybody.”

Katie padded over to him and sat down between his legs. Her eyes said:
Another salami sandwich and I'll do anything for you.

“Here's what a real hero dog would do, Katie. She'd go next door, grab her owner by the sleeve, drag her over here, bring her upstairs, and let law and order flourish.”

Katie's eyes repeated the refrain:
Another salami sandwich and I'll do anything for you.

He realized it was hopeless, and so did she, but she gave it one last shot by covering his face in salami-scented slobber.

Then she looked at him more questioningly, and when no response was forthcoming, an atavistic flicker moved through her eyes, far back in the ancient dog brain. It told her,
This is a downed animal
.

Smoker could see she was ten thousand years back on her canine tree, consulting with her wolf ancestors, and their advice was,
Eat it while it's fresh
.

Ten thousand years of civilizing influence, of creeping toward the fires of mankind, won out in the end. She didn't eat him alive.

She picked up her chartreuse ball and left.

“She's going to get Stephanie,” he said.

She didn't get Stephanie. She went off to mooch another meal.

From the radio a young man sang something about being unable to escape from his personal hell no matter how hard he tried.

“Try being handcuffed to a desk, you little puke.”

The little puke continued his lament, and Smoker resumed his attempt to pull down the temple.

He thought of jailbirds who figured out how to carve handcuff keys from scrap. He thought of the escape artist he'd seen on the pier in Key West who got out of a straitjacket wrapped in chains with padlocks. He thought of Tara escaping her attacker only to be caught by him again.

And the temple didn't fall, and the music played on.

“Y
our loving me is the second miracle to happen to me today,” Zach confessed, and then he hesitated, realizing that perhaps he shouldn't describe how poorly he'd embalmed Mr. Fiorello and how Aunt Emmy's soul had flown away and how she used to sing to him. At least not until they knew each other better. He didn't want to give the impression he was a nutcase who heard voices. So he simply said, “There was someone who used to make me do bad things, but that's all over. I already proved it once today when I had the opportunity. I could've killed that private eye guy, but I gave him back his life . . .”

His words were swallowed in the deafening din of the landscape crew in a nearby garden—leaf blowers, ride-on mowers, everything roaring into activity at once. It was the sound of South Florida, where trees and bushes replenish themselves each day with tropical heat and moisture and have to be pruned back by men from south of the border. Zach attempted to raise his voice above the din. “You're my new beginning. You're strong like I am. You broke my rib, that's how strong you are . . .”

But he saw she couldn't hear him. Time enough to tell her when they were on their way to Louisiana. Then he could explain how fate had kept them apart until Aunt Emmy's departure, so he wouldn't be forced to kill her but only cherish her as she deserved. If he worded it properly, he knew she'd understand, it was in her eyes. No point in shouting against the noise.

Shouting wasn't dignified, and it might frighten her. He never wanted to frighten her again. He touched his fingers to his chest and extended his open hand as if to say his heart was hers.

With a deafening explosion his forehead burst open, the skin around it cracking like the shell of an egg as a red mist filled with white particles spurted out.

He toppled forward and what was left of his face smashed into hers, enveloping her in warmth—warm blood, warm brain, and warm fragments of skull. The roar of the gardening team continued behind the gunshot ringing in her ears.

Through the nightmare that engulfed her, she sensed something splendid. Smoker had come, as she'd always known he would.

The body was rolled off her.

Faith stood there holding the Colt. Her lips were moving, but Tara couldn't hear through the ringing in her ears. Her inhalations were whistling reverberations through nostrils clogged with human debris. Her eyes were filled with grit. She couldn't distinguish between the dead man's blood and her own tears.

Frantically she wriggled to a sitting position, trying to shake off scraps of face adhering to hers.

The leaf blowers came to a halt.

Faintly she heard gardeners joking in Spanish.

Faintly she heard the sound of the front door opening.

Faith swung around and waited, pistol aimed in both hands.

Through the pink haze coloring her vision, Tara glimpsed Matthew emerging from the dim interior to the patio doorway.

He took in the tableau.

“Put the gun down, Mother. You did very well.”

Faith placed the pistol on the nearest lounge chair while he approached and knelt beside Tara.

“Close your eyes and think of Uncle Sam,” he ordered, tearing the tape off her lips with one swift yank.

“Thank God you're only wearing a bikini,” he remarked, unhooking the bungee cords that bound her. “This could've been a fashion catastrophe.”

She rushed her hands to her face to wipe away all traces of her enemy. “We've got to call nine-one-one.”

“I don't think so.”

“What do you mean? This is Zachariah Whitman.”

“I gathered that. But Mother has just blown a hole through his head. And she suffers from dementia. When these two facts are put together, they'll put her in an institution. We can't have that.”

Blinking her stinging eyes Tara looked at Faith, who was vigorous enough to last many years in a nursing home for the demented, warehoused among gaping specters in wheelchairs. “No,” agreed Tara, “we can't have that.”

“The padlock isn't broken on the gate,” Mathew said. “So how did he get in?”

Tara pointed toward the trees against the wall. “He came from there.”

Matthew examined the trees, the wall, then gazed up beyond at the shuttered second-story windows of his neighbor, who was spending her sabbatical year in Finland, which from his point of view was a ridiculous place to pass the winter.

“I'll be right back. You watch Mother.”

Tara sank down on a lounge and watched Faith, who kicked the corpse three times to make sure it wouldn't move again.

Matthew returned, wheeling a bicycle on which were saddlebags and a bedroll.