P. Parrish - The Little Death

The young men. There had been a succession of them over the last years-lifeguards, pool boys, waiters, personal trainers-it was never hard to find them in the island’s orbit. When the season ended and the mansions were shuttered and the women headed north to their summer homes, the men were sent on their way with bonuses.

And then, every fall, when the women returned, Bianca had a new bright shiny thing for them to play with.

Paul Wyeth had been an exception. He had gotten greedy and tried to blackmail them, threatening to expose Carolyn. Sam hadn’t hesitated. He was a coke addict, so it had been easy to lure him out to Devil’s Garden and kill him. Cutting off his head before she dragged him into the slough-she had done that only because there had been a certain symmetry to the act that appealed to her.

Sam never told Carolyn why Paul disappeared. Carolyn never asked. But Sam knew she would someday collect on that favor.

Tink was crying again.

“He needs a doctor! Where are we going?”

Sam pressed down on the gas pedal, answering Tink with a roar of the engine. The Bronco lurched forward, fishtailing crazily before the tires caught harder ground. Carolyn let out a gasp. Byrne groaned.

Sam ignored them, more interested in the land before her as the emerging moon vanquished the darkness.

To the west, she saw nothing but swaying grass, rolling brush, and an occasional silhouette of an umbrella-shaped oak.

Far off to the east, she could see the lights of the sugar refinery. Even with the windows rolled up, the smell was there, that stink of burnt sugar.

With the bad smell came the memories.

Papa, limping from the old truck, his lunch pail in his hand, his bottle of rye tucked under his arm, his overalls drenched in the sugary, wet steam of the refinery. He never looked at her, never waited for an answer, but still, every day, he asked the same question.

How was school, Sosie-Mosie?

Mama, standing at the stove, her face still flushed and her mouth still raw from her afternoon visit from Mr. Cooley, the widower across the street with the retarded son. Or Mr. Thomas, the pig farmer who brought them chops for Easter. Or any one of her mother’s men, whose grunts and groans had stayed in her head long after their faces had faded.

Don’t tell your daddy. This is my secret, Sosie, our secret. You hear me?

The stink of the sugar was finally receding. The air grew clean, and the knifelike blades of the cane changed to soft grass and old trees.

David was there in her head now.

They were on his horse, riding through pastures, taking a different cow trail every time but always to the same destination, always to their secret place.

Do you love me, David?

Yes, Sosie, yes.

Why was he with her so vividly tonight? Over the years, he had come and gone, usually like a pale ghost, sometimes like flesh and blood. And in those moments, like tonight, she could feel the hard muscles of his back as she clung to him on the horse, see his sky-blue eyes and feel his soft, sand-colored hair. He had taught her to ride. He had taught her to use his whip so she could flick a tin can off a fence post. But it had been his hands she could remember best. Gentle enough to cradle baby chicks, powerful enough to wrestle a steer, skilled enough to bring his world to life on canvas.

And eventually, sweet enough to please her.

God, Sosie, I want you so bad.

Do you love me, David?

A loud groan drew her back. Tink was crying. Sam slapped the light on and looked in the rearview mirror. Byrne was awake now, trying to get out of Tink’s arms.

Sam reached into her jacket and dug out Bianca’s vial of Percocet. She tossed it back to Tink.

“Give him another pill.”

“No,” Tink said. “He’s already sick.”

“Give him another fucking pill!” Sam yelled.

The Bronco hit a large rock and reeled sideways, spraying mud across the windshield. Sam hit the wipers and slammed on the brakes. The Bronco slid to a steamy stop a few feet from a live oak.

Carolyn spun to Sam, her hand still on the dashboard. “You could’ve killed us,” she said.

Sam didn’t look at her. She stared out the window, gripping the wheel. She knew exactly where she was.

“Stay here,” Sam said.

She pushed from the Bronco and slammed the door. It was windy and cool. She pulled her jacket tighter around her and trudged through the mud, her feet lost inside Hap’s stiff-ankled hunting boots.

She entered a dark tunnel of live oaks and stopped. This was the place, the exact place. But things were different now.

Cool, not hot.

Dark, not daylight.

She was forty-five, not seventeen.

The wild red orchids that he had scaled the trees to pick for her were all gone.

Sam dropped to her knees and closed her eyes. The tears burned hot.

I’m leaving tomorrow, Sosie.

But you said we’d stay here together.

I have to go to school.

David, you promised…

I never promised you anything, Sosie.

Things coming fast now, all of those memories, the bad ones now, coming in a mad rush, just like everything had come in a rush that hot day so many years ago.

The trembling of her hands as she buttoned her blouse back up. The sticky ache between her legs. The hammering of her head. The nervous whinny of a horse. The rough feel of the jagged rock in her hand. The sight of his hair curled against the back of his tanned neck.

The crunch of the rock against his skull.

Red. Red. Red… a slow river of it on the green grass.

David? David?

One moment of blind rage. Then his lips gone cold. Her life gone cold. Everything frozen now, her heart and her head. Everything erased, the future, the past, and the fragile line she had always drawn between love and hate.

He had made love to her.

She had killed him.

And now, somehow, she had to forget him.

The horse stared at her with wild eyes. She moved to it slowly, placed a hand on its heaving neck. It stood still long enough for her to take the whip off the saddle’s horn. Then it jumped back and disappeared into the trees. Cradling David’s whip to her chest, she walked out of Devil’s Garden.

“Sam?”

The voice snapped her back. It took her a moment to make out Carolyn’s form at the edge of the trees.

Sam rose, wiping her muddy hands on her jeans as she walked to Carolyn.

“Let’s get this over with,” she said.

They left their shoes, rifles, and raincoats on the covered porch. Aubry delivered a fresh tray of hot coffee and went to work on injecting new life into the dying fire. The room swelled with warmth and the smell of burning wood.

“Mr. Aubry,” Louis said, “may I use your phone?”

“Certainly,” Aubry said.

Louis dug into his wallet for the number and called the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office. Since leaving Barberry, he had discovered only two new pieces of information: the Orchid Society and David’s painting. Louis hoped it would be enough to persuade Barberry to spare some deputies and a couple of four-wheel drives for a thorough search of Devil’s Garden.

Barberry was off duty, and the swing-shift commander sounded stressed, mumbling something about an armed robbery and a chase, then telling Louis he would try to find Barberry when things calmed down. Louis tried two more supervisors, and after fifteen minutes of being on hold while one tried paging Barberry, Louis hung up.

“You could try Chief Hewitt,” Swann said.

“Not his jurisdiction or his case,” Louis said. “And I don’t think he gives a shit, anyway.”

“You need some fellas to search for your victim?” Aubry asked.