A Hard Death

by Jonathan Hayes

  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.”

  CHAPTER 111

  Nash 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.

  CHAPTER 112

  Brodie 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 granddaug
hter 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.

  CHAPTER 113

  “Jenner? 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.

  CHAPTER 114

  Nash felt his rain-soaked shirt cling to the gun wedged inside his waistband. He was still scared, but something had turned inside him, and he was ready now.

  Bartley would’ve handled it the right way from the beginning. They’d been partners until Bartley got the nod and moved over to SWAT as a sergeant, and then got the bump to detective. Nash had always felt short-changed, been sure he was every bit as good as Bartley, but now he recognized that wasn’t true: Bartley had always been willing to take that one step further, to do whatever it took to get the job done. And even now, he was the one calling the shots.

  The cell phone still felt warm in his pocket. Nash knew that Bartley was right: he had to kill Deb and Dr. Jenner—they were witnesses.

  Bartley had been putting together his assault team since Nash’s first call, but he still needed at least another half hour. A half hour gave Brodie too much time to get antsy about Deb and Jenner still being alive, so Nash had to get rid of them right away.

  And now, Bartley was thinking much bigger, making a much bigger play. Bartley’s plan would solve all their problems: all the evidence, all the threat, any witness who could tie them to the drugs would be gone.

  And they’d be rich.

  Because Bartley and Nash were going to take all the money in the farmhouse, every last fucking penny.

  Just the money—there’d be drugs, too, but SWAT would need something to show for the raid, and an assault team in full gear, posing with H&K MP5s and Baker Batshields in front of seized assault rifles and stacked bricks of white powder makes for great TV. And Bartley and Nash would kill all the bad guys, make sure none of Brodie’s crew made it out alive. Nash would kill that arrogant scumbag Brodie himself. Then they’d find and hide the money, and they’d be free and clear, sitting on…well, who knew just how many millions the operation had stashed at the farm?

  Everything had to go smoothly, starting with Nash’s own part in the script. All he had to do was get past that first step.

  It was a big one.

  He didn’t want them to suffer when he killed them; he’d known Deb since kindergarten. He tried to think of a way to kill them separately, without the other having any clue: he couldn’t think of one. Maybe if he took Jenner outside first, took him down by the water…

  As Nash walked back toward the shed, he began to cry. He tried to stop it, but he couldn’t, it was all just too much. How had it ever come to this?

  He squatted on the dock; he told himself, After this, it’s all finished—just one more hour and I’m out, done with this forever. Rich.

  The rain was cold on his face and skin, on his scalp.

  His arm shook as he reached back to check that his shirttail still covered the gun; when he pressed the Glock against his clammy skin, it felt solid and real again, a promise, a guarantee he could get through this. And he told himself it was them or him, and he breathed more comfortably.

  Because it wasn’t going to be him.

  CHAPTER 115

  “Hey, officer. Brodie wants to know have you taken care of it yet?”

  Nash looked up to see one of Brodie’s men, the big half-Indian guy, standing on the dock in front of him.

  Nash walked toward him, saying, “I’m just going in to do it, right now.”

  Tony shrugged and said, “Well, Mr. Brodie was very clear in his instructions.”

  “I know. I just needed to get myself…get ready to do it.”

  “I meant his instructions to me.” Tony lifted the TEC-9 and sprayed a short burst, the bullets hitting Nash in a tight arc from his chest to his head, sending him falling backward onto the dock.

  Tony put the gun down, then dragged Nash’s body toward the end of the dock; halfway out, he rolled him off the side. With a splash, the body hit the shallows next to the swamp boat.

  Tony picked up the TEC-9 and looked at the shed. Next!

  Just as he stepped off the dock, the light in the shed went off.

  Ugh. Were there going to be heroics?

/>   God love ’em—there’s only so much you can do against a man with a machine pistol.

  Tony opened the door a crack and poked his head into the gloom.

  “Yoo-hoo. Anybody home?”

  He opened the door wider, and in the half-light felt rather than saw something glitter as it whipped toward his face.

  The steel fish hook at the tip of the rod caught Tony just under the right eye, slashed his face open, carving across his nose, opening up his forehead; the blood instantly gushed down his face like a red veil. He staggered backward blindly, gasping in surprise and trying to sweep the blood from his eyes, his gun firing a half-second burst into the dark before Jenner slammed the canoe paddle into his groin, then again into his head. Tony dropped, Jenner sprawling on top of him, punching at his face, driving his knee repeatedly into Tony’s belly, into his groin, into his hip.

  Jenner kept smashing Tony’s bloody face, and when Tony’s arms could no longer block his blows, when they slumped to his sides, Jenner rolled off him and scrabbled around the floor in the pitch black, desperate to find the gun. The hot barrel seared his fingers; he shoved the weapon around and grabbed the handle. He stood quickly, pointed the pistol down at the man, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

  Deb swung the door open, and Jenner now saw Tony beneath him, a dazed figure with a bloody mask where his face should be. But he was still moving, slowly rolling himself out onto the mud in front of the shed. Jenner followed him, lifted the heavy pistol high, and smashed it into Tony’s face with all his strength. He felt the bones buckle like cardboard, the force knocking the gun from his wet hands.

  Jenner grabbed the knife handle, pulling it out of its sheath, a big steel blade with strips of sawtooth on the back, a big fucking shark of a blade. And he knew the knife and he grabbed a fistful of blood-matted hair and yanked Tony’s head way back, and carved open his throat with the big knife, and felt the blood pour out over his arm, hot and heavy as water from a bath tap. And it felt like a good result, and Jenner carved into the neck again, pulling the blade back as hard as he could.