P. Parrish - Paint It Black

“Got beer,” he said.

The bum smiled as he tried to lift himself up.

He extended a hand and the bum took it, rising. He pulled the bum toward his truck, opened the door, and pushed him inside.

Down the busy street, past the moms and dads and kiddies, moving silently under the flashing neon lights, past the cars. Past the fucking cops. Stupid fucking cops.

The bum started talking.

Shut up. . Shut the fuck up!

This was all wrong. What the hell were all these people doing out so late? It was busy here. Too busy to stop and kill the bum. He would have to drive farther.

Water. . he wanted the water. It always helped, having the water there. It quieted the pounding in his head, made things clear enough so he could do it. The water. He needed the water.

Slowing down at the booth. . the woman inside not even looking at him as he handed over the money. Not like the other causeway, where they were waiting for him now.

Moving on now, slowly. Moving through the dark tunnel of trees, way out to the end.

He opened the window and the ripe night air rushed in. The sting of the salt was in his nostrils, seeping up into his brain.

He killed the ignition. The water. . faint. . he could hear it.

It wasn’t hard dragging the bum out. He thought he was going to drink.

Stupid nigger. You’re going to die.

He shoved him and the bum hit the sand with a thud. The bum’s eyes were glazed, not with the booze, but with a confused fear.

He stepped forward, his knife glinting in the moonlight. He dropped to his knees, straddled him, and pushed the knife quickly into the bum’s chest. Then again. And again.

Yeah. . Yeah.

Fuck! No! No! Shit! Motherfucking piece of shit!

He stopped. Damn it, damn it. Where is it? Where did it go?

Stupid. . stupid!

The stench of blood drifted to his nostrils.

Find it! Find it!

There was too much blood, too much blood, he couldn’t find it. The murmur of the waves at his feet was drowned out by the pounding in his head.

He looked up at the moon just as it slipped behind the clouds. He pulled the can of paint from his jacket.

Finish it!

The body lay faceup at the waterline, the skin dusted with sand that glistened in the slanting early morning sun. The waves crept up, gently rocking the body and then recoiling, as if in horror at the gruesome discovery.

There was no face.

The cheekbones and eye sockets had disappeared into the mushy tissue, and what was left was blackened and puddled with foaming water. Only the teeth were left, smashed and distorted against swollen lips. What little skin remained was speckled with black paint.

Louis wet his lips, his stomach queasy. Tatum and Quick had been beaten, but this one. . this time the face was gone. He steadied himself by taking a few steps away and looking out over the gulf. He concentrated on a lone sailboat, on its shape, a crisp white triangle against the brilliant blue of the sky.

“Damn it, these waves are killing us.”

Louis looked back. Wainwright and another man were standing over the body. Wainwright was the one who had spoken. Louis didn’t know the other man but he recognized the uniform: Lee County Sheriff. He walked back to them. The deputy’s nameplate said G. VARGAS.

“Any evidence left will be crab food,” Wainwright said. “Christ, it’s almost seven. The rubberneckers are going to be out in force soon. Where are your techs, Deputy?”

“They’re on their way, Chief Wainwright.” The deputy hesitated. “I better get things taped off.”

“Good idea,” Wainwright muttered.

Louis heard a car and looked up the beach to the road, but it was just another sheriff’s department unit. He looked back and saw Wainwright watching as the two men, one a suit, the other a uniform, started down to the shoreline. The shorter one in the suit looked like a detective. The other was broader and taller in his dark green uniform, with a windswept tuft of blond hair, sunglasses, and a large square jaw. He was walking with a quick, determined stride and Louis suspected it was Sheriff Mobley.

Louis wondered what Wainwright would do. They had no jurisdiction here and had beaten the sheriff’s department to the scene only because they heard Deputy Vargas’s call come in and had a shorter distance to drive.

This wasn’t Sereno Key, but Captiva, the barrier island on the gulf, one bay west of Sereno. Captiva didn’t have a police department of its own and relied on the sheriff’s office for law enforcement.

Louis saw Mobley’s face sour as he noticed Wainwright. Wainwright looked like he was ready for a fight. Louis decided to make himself scarce until the air cleared.

He turned and walked a few paces down the beach, careful to avoid the footprints in the area around the body. His eyes swept over the broad white beach. They were out on the northern end of the island, with only a few cottages set back at least twenty yards from the beach. The cottages were up on low dunes, hidden by waist-high tufts of sea oats and palms. The beach itself sloped gently toward the gulf and the body was further obscured from view by some rocks. The shoreline was not visible from the road. If there had been any witnesses, they would have had to have been right on the beach to see anything.

He walked farther down the beach, finally spotting a clearing in the trees. He went up the dune and through the sea oats. There was a restaurant, its rough-hewn exterior fronted by a patio that was obviously there to offer patrons a view of the sunsets on the gulf. The sign said THE MUCKY DUCK and listed the hours as 5:30 P.M. to 9:30 P.M. He peered in the windows, but saw no one inside. It was unlikely any customers might have been around late last night, but employees might have lingered. He made a mental note to come back and question possible witnesses.

He retraced his steps back to the beach. When he passed one of the cottages, he noticed a man standing on the bluff. He hadn’t been there before, and he was shielding his eyes against the sun, trying to see what was going on.

The man suddenly started down toward the water. Louis braced himself to rebuff him.

“What is going on?” the man demanded. He had an accent.

“Nothing, sir. Please go back up where you were.”

The man was fiftyish, fat and bald, wearing too-tight red swimming trunks and a pink guayabera shirt open over his tanned belly.

“Did someone drown?”

“No, sir-”

“But there is something bad?”

“No-”

“No? No? Les flics . . the cops. They are there, no?”

The man started forward. Louis pushed gently against his shoulders.

“Yes, there’s been an accident. A man is dead.”

The man drew back slightly. “Dead? Here? Before my house? Grand Dieu!”

“You live here?”

“Yes, I am le proprio, the. .” He frowned. “The landlord for the cottages there.” He pointed to the nearest one, a wood-frame place painted soft gray with a screened-in porch.

“Did you see anyone on the beach here late last night or very early this morning?” Louis asked.

“ Moi? non . . nothing. Rien.”

“You’re sure?”

He started to nod but then stopped. “A man, I saw a man on the beach last night.”

“What time?”

“Nine, ten? I don’t remember. He was walking near the cottages there. People do that. But this is propriété privée . I must run them away.”

“What did he look like?”

“I don’t know. It was dark. He. . il a une sale tete.”

“What?”

He flapped a hand impatiently. “You know, ugly look.”