The Little Death

Chapter Thirty-seven

Was it possible to go to hell twice in one life? What a stupid thing to think about now. But that was what was ricocheting around in Carolyn’s mind as she watched Sam pull Byrne from the Bronco. She hadn’t wanted to come to this place that first time-God, had it been only two weeks ago? — but it had taken all three of them to handle Mark.

She didn’t want to think about that night. And she had been able to stuff the memories in a box somewhere deep inside her, put on her public face, and go on. But now, back here in this place, it was all there again.

Mark Durand had been a mistake. The first time he had been in her bed, she had known that. His idea of seduction was to get drunk on Tucker’s bourbon, then bed her with a quick pawing and brute force. One night she caught Mark in Tucker’s office and called Bianca, telling her to cut him loose.

But Tink was on his appointment book for the next night. And that’s when everything went wrong.

The call had come to her private phone at midnight. It was Tink, wailing that she had killed him by hitting him with a lamp. Carolyn arrived to find Sam trying to calm a hysterical Tink. Mark’s half-naked body was on the bedroom floor. He wasn’t dead, but then Sam said something that made Carolyn’s blood go cold.

Well, maybe the bastard should be.

The details spilled out of Tink. He had called her vile names and said he couldn’t stand the feel of her wrinkled skin or the “old dead woman” smell of her body. Sam reminded them both that Mark had been demanding more money and that she suspected him of stealing a painting from her bedroom. But it was when Carolyn spotted Tucker’s Patek Philippe watch on Mark’s wrist that even she became convinced that he needed to be punished.

They tied him with Tink’s old Hermès scarves and dragged him outside. By the time Durand came to in the backseat of the old Bentley, they were in Clewiston. They let Sam do all the talking.

Where are you bitches taking me?

You’ve been a bad boy, Mark. But you do your job tonight, and you’ll get a nice big bonus.

Carolyn had felt a tingle of excitement as they drove past the dark cane fields, like she was in some grand adventure. But when Sam slowed the Bentley and Carolyn caught her first look at the old fence, she knew it was no game.

Sam prodded the groggy Durand into a pen and ordered him to strip. When he refused, she pulled out a whip and, with one quick move, cracked it across Durand’s back. Carolyn backed up against the fence in horror.

But Tink…

Doped up on her Valium and vodka, she had watched with fascination at first, then broke into cheers when Sam started to crack the whip repeatedly across Mark’s back. Before it was over, Tink had wrestled the whip from her and took her own turn. By the time Mark had stopped moving, Tink had collapsed in the dirt, half laughing, half crying. Sam ordered Carolyn to take Tink back to the car and wait.

They sat silently in the dark of the Bentley. Sam finally emerged from the pen, the whip coiled around her shoulder. As she slid in behind the wheel, Carolyn saw her hands, red with blood.

Sam, what did you do?

Never mind. Let’s go.

It was two days later that Carolyn read the story in the newspaper that Reggie Kent had been questioned in the murder of Mark Durand. When Reggie was arrested, Carolyn finally called Sam. That was when Sam told her she had put a pair of Hap’s boots on Reggie’s patio.

Don’t worry, Carolyn. It’s all under control.

A moaning sound brought Carolyn back to the present.

Byrne was lying in the mud, holding his head.

“Keep the gun on him,” Sam said to Carolyn as she started toward the back of the Bronco.

Carolyn kept the gun down at her side. She had shot a gun before, back when her father took her out in the groves to practice on cans and bottles. But that was a lifetime ago. Tucker’s gun felt heavy and slippery.

Carolyn heard a thud and saw Sam coming around from the back of the Bronco. She was holding a whip in her left hand and a machete in her right.

“No, Sam,” Carolyn said.

Sam smiled. “I don’t think you have any bargaining chips here, Senator.”

She stuck the machete into a leather sheath hanging from her belt and looped the coiled whip over her shoulder. She pulled out a nylon cord and, kneeling next to Byrne, bound his hands in front of him. He screamed as the cord tightened around his broken wrist.

Tink dropped down into the mud next to him, crying.

Carolyn closed her eyes. There was nothing to do but go through with it now. She just had to get through this night and get back to the protection of the island. That was her plan, to do whatever she needed to do to survive tonight.

Tink started to wail. Carolyn’s eyes shot open.

“God damn it, shut up!” Sam yelled.

Suddenly, Sam stood up and looked at Carolyn. “Shoot her.”

“What?”

“Shoot the bitch! Now!”

Carolyn shook her head and started to back away. Sam lunged at her and wrenched the gun from her hand.

“No!”

A flash, a boom. Tink fell back into the mud.

Carolyn couldn’t move, couldn’t even pull in a breath. She stared at Tink, hair splayed in the mud, a small dark hole in her forehead. Her eyes were still open.

The jab of the gun butt in her stomach jolted her back.

“Take it,” Sam said.

“No, I don’t want-”

“I don’t care what the fuck you want. Take it!”

Carolyn took the gun with shaking hands. She watched through tear-blurred eyes as Sam went back around the Bronco and yanked Byrne to his feet. He stood there, wavering, his face white and slick with sweat in the moonlight.

Suddenly, Byrne swung his bound hands up. His fists caught Sam in the jaw, and she fell backward. Byrne began to run.

Sam stumbled to her feet, holding her cheek, her eyes raking the brush and trees. Carolyn saw what Sam saw: the white blur of Byrne’s shirt disappearing into the darkness.