P. Parrish - The Little Death

“Stop it!” Tink cried.

Dickie raised an arm to backhand her, but she ducked and retreated into her room. Tink watched in horror as he smacked Byrne with an open palm. Byrne tried to fight, but all he could hit were the thick slabs of Dickie’s arms.

“Who the fuck are you?” Dickie shouted, bouncing Byrne against the wall. “What the fuck were you doing here?”

“I was invited!” Byrne yelled.

“Invited!” Dickie spat. His eyes swung to Tink and then down to her disheveled white dress. “What the hell are you wearing?”

“It’s my gown!” Tink cried. “It’s my special gown!”

Dickie pushed her back inside her bedroom and yanked the door closed.

She stood, eyes squeezed shut, hands over her ears. But she could still hear them. No matter how hard she pressed her hands against her head, she could still hear them.

“Get up!” Dickie yelled. “Get up on your feet!”

Byrne was crying now, mumbling things she couldn’t understand. She couldn’t bear it; she had to see what was happening. She opened the door and peeked out.

Byrne was on his hands and knees, gasping, the cream-colored carpet under his head speckled with blood. He was groping blindly for something to pull himself up with, but when he touched Dickie’s pant leg, Dickie kicked his arm away.

“I oughtta make you crawl down those goddamn steps,” Dickie said, “but I’m going to save you some time.”

Dickie jerked Byrne to his knees and kicked him in the belly. Byrne screamed and started to crawl. Dickie kicked him again, catapulting him off the top step.

Tink put her fist at her mouth to keep from screaming, listening to the horrible thumping of Byrne’s body hitting the wall as it tumbled down two flights.

Help him. You can help him, you stupid girl. There’s a phone right here. Use it! Help him!

Hands shaking, she picked up the phone. But she couldn’t remember which speed-dial button it was. She had been told a hundred times, but now she couldn’t remember. Three. Yes, it was number three.

She punched the number and fell back against the wall. As the voice answered, her legs gave out, and she crumpled to the floor. She began to sob.

The woman on the other end of the line was telling her to calm down, to take a breath, that everything would be all right.

“No, it won’t,” Tink said. “He’s going to kill him.”

You all right, Andrew?”

Swann took a moment to look up. The sunglasses hid his eyes, but Louis knew they were bloodshot. When he had roused Swann from the sofa back at Reggie’s this morning, Swann’s eyes had looked like a road map.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a little green under that tan.”

“I’m said I’m fine.”

Louis leaned on the doorbell again. They had been standing outside the Osborn house for almost ten minutes, and so far no one had answered. In the driveway was a white Bentley, a silver Mercedes, and the same blue Camry Louis had seen on his first visit. The Mercedes, Louis noticed, had a government plate, so he assumed it belonged to Carolyn. Louis hit the doorbell again.

Swann let out a belch and a groan.

“Tequila will kill you, you know,” Louis said.

“I’m okay, damn it. Let’s just get this over with and get out of here, okay?”

The door clicked, and a face poked out. It took Louis a second to retrieve the guy’s name from his fuzzed brain.

“Good morning, Greg,” Louis said.

Bitner’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

“Greg, Greg, where’s your holiday spirit?” Louis said.

“The senator isn’t here,” Bitner said.

“I’m not here to see your boss,” Louis said. “We want to talk to her husband.”

Bitner glanced at Swann. “Is this official police business?”

Swann nodded. “We just need to talk to Mr. Osborn.”

Bitner hesitated, then opened the door. They stepped into the cool white entranceway. The red orchid was still there on the table.

“Wait here,” Bitner said. “I’ll go-”

Louis’s eyes swung upward. Tucker Osborn was coming down the stairs. He was dressed in white shorts, shirt, and tennis shoes, his hair wet, his face flushed. He slowed as he saw them.

“What’s going on here?” he asked.

Swann took the initiative. “I’m Lieutenant Swann, Palm Beach PD. We just need a few moments of your time, sir.”

Osborn was looking at Swann, and Louis wondered if he recognized him from the domestic incident years before. Louis could almost see Osborn weighing his options. Finally, Osborn turned to Bitner.

“Go find something to do,” he said.

Bitner reddened, his eyes flicking to Louis. Then, without a word, he turned and left.

“Now, what is it?” Osborn demanded.

“How about we go talk in your study?” Louis said.

Osborn stared at him for a moment, shrugged, and walked away. Louis and Swann followed.

The study was just as it was the first time Louis saw it, the heavy shutters closed, the lights off. Osborn flicked a lamp on as he entered. He went to the leather chair behind his desk and sat down. Swann assumed a position near the door, sunglasses in his hand, eyes in a squint, fighting the throb in his head. Louis took one of the chairs opposite the desk without being invited.

“Make it quick,” Osborn said. “I have a tennis date in ten minutes.”

It was an excuse; the guy looked like he had just gotten off the courts. But Louis wasn’t about to let this asshole dismiss them like he had poor Greg.

Louis pulled the photograph of the sword from his pocket and laid it on the desk. “Do you recognize this?”

Osborn grabbed the photograph. Louis watched the guy’s face, but there was nothing except impatience.

“This is a German officer’s sword,” Osborn said. “I have one-”

He froze.

“You have one just like it, right?” Louis said.

Osborn looked at Swann. “Yes, I have one.”

“Can we see it?” Louis asked.

Something crossed Osborn’s eyes, a cloud of confusion, maybe, but the irritation was close behind. He pushed himself from the chair and went to a dark corner of the large study. He hit a switch, illuminating the inside of the glass-faced cabinets Louis had noticed on his first visit. One cabinet held antique handguns, and Louis guessed that several were German Lugers. But the other cabinet held a display of bladed weapons.

Osborn opened the second cabinet and peered at the weapons for a moment before he turned back to Louis.

“It’s not here,” he said.

Louis rose and went to the cabinet. There were six swords mounted on brackets. There was one set of empty brackets. There were also four daggers, a bayonet-and two machetes.

When Louis looked back at Osborn, he couldn’t tell if the guy was a great actor or genuinely surprised that the sword was gone. But Louis could almost see the gears in his head turning.

“I like your machetes,” Louis said. “Can I take a look at them?”

“They’re quite valuable,” Osborn said.

“I’ll be careful.”

Osborn took the smaller of the two machetes off its brackets and handed it to Louis. It was a good eighteen inches long, and its wood handle was topped with a carving of a dog’s head.

“Very nice. Where is it from?” Louis asked.

“The Philippines,” Osborn said. “It’s late-eighteenth-century.”

“It’s a military weapon?”

“The natives used it against their colonial invaders,” Osborn said. “Now, if you don’t mind-”

Louis swung the machete in a slow arc, making Osborn back away. “What’s with the dog’s head?”

“The head prevented it from slipping from the user’s grasp,” Osborn said tightly. “The end of the blade is rounded so that after it was embedded, it wouldn’t get trapped in the opponent’s body.”