The Little Death

Chapter Thirty-five

Sam eased off the gas as the sign for Clewiston came into view. The last thing she needed now was to be stopped for something as stupid as a speeding ticket. She had to be careful this time.

Not like that time five years ago, when, in her anger and impatience, she had sped through town in Hap’s big old silver Bentley. She had been lucky that night, lucky that no cop had stopped her; lucky, too, that Emilio had been so trusting.

Stupid boy…

Still, that was what had attracted her to him in the first place. He was beautiful, yes, but he wasn’t very smart, and that was what had led her to take him into her bed. He barely spoke English, but she didn’t want a man to talk. He didn’t want to stay and hold her, but she never wanted a man to linger after sex. He never asked about her life, but she didn’t want to have to tell him about her invalid husband. And best of all, he didn’t flinch when she asked him to put his hands tight around her neck during orgasm.

He never asked her for anything. So, she bought him an expensive gold crucifix to replace the cheap one he always wore. She had been angry when he told her he had given it to his sister. And when she bought him the second one and demanded that he always wear it during sex, she had enjoyed his embarrassment. He had been embarrassed, too, about the money when she offered it. But he always took it.

Stupid, stupid boy.

In the end, she was the one who was stupid. Getting giddy over martinis that day with Carolyn at Ta-boo, too impressed that she had been invited to sit at a coveted table by the fireplace, too needy that a woman like Carolyn would even have a drink with her. And then, brassy with booze, asking Carolyn if she had ever experienced “a little death” during sex. St. John Knitted-up Carolyn, whose husband-everyone knew it-had been cheating on her for years. Cautious, controlling Carolyn, who had never had the guts to take a lover of her own but had listened to Sam’s stories about Emilio with animal eyes.

She brought Emilio to the Osborn house that same night. Lots of wine, a dimly lit bedroom. But Emilio, when he realized he was expected to bed two women, had balked and bolted from the house.

Stupid boy. How dare he embarrass her like that in front of a woman like Carolyn Osborn?

When Emilio came to her the next night, saying he wanted out, she said she understood and offered to drive him home to Immokalee. But her anger built the farther west they drove, until finally, she steered the Bentley down a deserted road, and while seducing him one last time, she stabbed him. When he tried to run, she whipped him and, in a blind rage, cut off his head. She put the head in the trunk of the car.

Hands red with his blood, her body burning with a sexual rush, she drove back to the island, eased the Bentley into the huge old garage, and dead-bolted the door. The old car had stayed there for the last five years, untouched.

Sam turned left, heading south now through the narrow streets of the black neighborhood they called Harlem. Then the little houses fell away, and the lights of Clewiston dwindled to blurs in the rearview mirror. Now there was nothing but muddy pastureland, not even a rutted service road or trail. But she knew exactly where she was going.

She hunched over the wheel and peered up at the dark sky. The rain had stopped, and the last of the clouds were drifting east, leaving a pitch-black sky and a full moon.

Light. Yes. There would be light now. The cattle pen would be lit up like a stage.

She glanced over at Carolyn in the passenger seat, one hand braced against the dashboard, the other clutching the handgun. A striking image, Sam thought, Carolyn’s perfect red nails against the cold steel of her husband’s Luger.

Carolyn had begged her to keep this one simple, just find a deserted place in West Palm, put a bullet in Byrne’s head, and walk away. But that seemed so tame, so unimaginative. Why kill the boy if there was no pleasure to be derived from it?

“Sam, where are we going?”

Carolyn’s voice sounded funny, like she was straining to be heard through a static-jammed microphone. Sam knew what it was. This woman, this powerful woman, who had destroyed careers for the smallest political slight, who had sat across tables from world leaders, was not in charge. For once, she wasn’t the one in control, and taking away control, Sam knew, was like depriving Carolyn Osborn of air.

“I told you where we were going,” Sam hissed.

“This isn’t the same way we came before.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

A whimper came from the backseat. Sam glanced at the rearview mirror. It was too dark to see anything, so she fumbled for the switch to turn on the dome light. It was important to know what that loony bitch was doing every second.

Tink was cuddling a drowsy Byrne, stroking his hair and whispering nonsense.

“Tink, shut up,” Sam said.

“Leave her alone,” Carolyn said. “You know how she feels about him. Why did you even bring her?”

It was a good question. Tink had been a loose link in this chain, but Carolyn had always had a soft spot in her heart for the poor old thing.

Can’t we find a man for her?

Good God, Carolyn, who would want her?

We can pay someone, can’t we?

It was Carolyn who had the idea that they find a way to organize and hide their affairs. It had been easy to lure Bianca into the proposition by giving her a healthy percentage. It had been easy, too, to find other women on the island willing to pay for sex, but it always came back to the three of them-Sam, Carolyn, and Tink.

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.