Chapter FORTY-THREE
Logan and I walked through the door to the front porch. Two black men were standing in the front yard, spread out a little, perhaps ten feet separating them. They weren’t young, probably in their forties, but they were big and muscular. They looked like men who worked the cane, worked hard getting the stalks to the trucks that hauled them to the refinery. One man held what I took to be a cane cutter, although in this day of mechanization I was sure it was obsolete, maybe an antique. It had a wooden handle about a foot and a half long with a leather strap at the end, fashioned to go around the wrist so that the instrument wouldn’t slip out of the hand of its wielder. The business end had a blade set into the handle at a right angle and fastened by a screw and bolt. It was slightly curved and seemed to be sharpened on both sides. The blade terminated in a rounded point. An ominous weapon.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?” I asked, standing on the porch, Logan beside me. We’d left Jenny inside.
“Jenny called us, mon. Said narcs were coming. I guess that’s you. You narcs?” His accent was Jamaican, the harshness of his tone ameliorated by the Caribbean lilt that coated his words.
“No. I’m a lawyer from Longboat Key.”
I heard the screen door open and felt the presence of Jenny behind me. Before I could turn around she pushed me in the back, hard. I felt myself falling forward and put my foot out to catch myself. My momentum took me down two steps and into the yard. I caught myself before I fell and stood upright my feet planted on the dirt.
Jenny was screaming, crying, words cascading like so much water over a dam. I finally made out what she was saying. “He killed Pete, the bastard. He killed Pete.”
I knew she was pointing at me, but I couldn’t turn around to see. I was in a staring contest with the big man holding the sugarcane cutter. I knew Logan was also on the porch and I was sure he was on high alert.
“Did you kill him?” asked the man with the cutter.
“No,” I said.
“Yes he did,” screeched Jenny. “The television said it was him.”
The two men had now closed ranks and were standing a foot or so apart. The second man pulled a large knife from a scabbard at his side, holding it by the hilt, bouncing it slowly in his hand, his eyes hard on me. The first man raised the cane cutter and took a step toward me. We were close, five or six feet. I took a step backward, felt my heel bounce against the first step. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Logan standing stock-still on the porch, trying to decide what to do. I saw with some relief that he had a pistol in his hand, holding it down by his side. It was the small one he often carried in an ankle holster. I’d seen him take it off when we started into the jail that morning, but I hadn’t seen him put it back on. He must have done it while I was in the McDonald’s in Clewiston ordering coffee.
The man was raising the cane cutter and making a quick move toward me when I heard the shot. I watched him stagger as blood began to stain the front of his white shirt. He crumpled to the ground, dropping his weapon. I dove for it, thinking I’d get to it before the other man and maybe this mess would be over.
As I hit the ground, I heard a cry of pain from the porch. I grabbed the cane cutter and rolled to a sitting position. The man who’d held the knife had turned and was running away from us. I looked back to the porch and saw Logan moving toward Jenny. She had fallen back against the side of the house and was sinking slowly into a sitting position. The knife the second man had been holding was sticking out of her chest.
No more than a second or two had elapsed since the man came at me with the cane cutter. I picked myself up and ran for the porch. Jenny was in big trouble. The blade had sunk to the hilt into her chest. I didn’t think she’d survive that kind of wound.
I pulled my phone out of a pocket and dialed 911. “I’ve got one man down from a gunshot, probably dead, and a woman with a large knife in her chest, critical. Can you get a location on me from the GPS on my phone?”
“I’ve got it. Who is calling, please?”
“Get somebody out here now.”
“I need your name, sir.”
“Matt Royal. We need help.”
“It’s on the way, Mr. Royal. Please stay on the line.”
“Did you capture my phone number?”
“Yes, sir.” She read it back to me.
“That’s it.”
“I’ll need to ask you some questions, sir.”
“Call me back if it’s important.” I hung up. I’ve never figured out why the 911 operators bother you with a lot of useless questions when you have a life-threatening emergency.
I looked down at Jenny. Logan was holding her hand, talking quietly to her. He looked up at me. “She’s gone,” he said. “Goddamnit. I just wasn’t quick enough.”
“You saved my life, buddy.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t save hers. Just as I shot the guy with the cane cutter, the other one threw the knife at you. When you hit the ground it went right over you and got Jenny in the chest.”
“Nothing you could do, Logan. If you hadn’t shot the guy trying to kill me, I’d be dead. Jenny called them because she thought I’d killed her boyfriend. I guess she wanted a bit of revenge, and turns out, it bit her in the ass. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Why the meltdown?” asked Logan. “She didn’t seem to care much whether Pete was dead or alive.”
“I think she was just buying time until the men she’d called got here. Didn’t want us to know she cared about Pete. I guess she really did care.”
“Who’s going to tell her kids?”
“That’ll probably fall to her father. It stinks, but what can you do.”
We stood there in the stillness of the cane field, the quiet broken only by the stalks ruffling in the breeze. The sun was warm now, and bright, moving higher in the sky. It would have been a pleasant place to spend an hour or so if there weren’t two dead people lying about. We’d left the bodies where they fell and were leaning against the rear quarter panel of my Explorer, waiting for the law. Logan had put his pistol on the hood of the vehicle, as far from us as possible. Unless we wanted to give up our leaning post. Which we didn’t. But we didn’t want to excite the officers, either.
In less time than I would have thought, I heard sirens and in a few minutes saw an ambulance and a sheriff’s car bouncing down the track that led to the house. The cruiser pulled into the yard, and a deputy got out and walked toward us. The ambulance came to a stop, and the paramedics went to take a look at the bodies.
“You Matt Royal?” he asked.
“I am, Deputy.”
“Could I see some ID?”
I handed him my driver’s license. He looked at it carefully and handed it back to me.
“Then I guess this is Mr. Hamilton.”
“Right,” said Logan, handing over his driver’s license.
“The sheriff told me you were okay. Part of some sort of drug task force.”
“Not exactly,” I said, “but the sheriff can explain it to you.”
“The sheriff overheard the 911 operator calling the dispatcher. She had your name. He radioed me. He’ll be along soon. He has to come all the way from LaBelle.”
“Thanks, deputy,” I said.
“We got forensics coming,” said the deputy. “I might as well get a statement from you two while we wait for them. Is that Jenny Talbot up there on the porch?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“What happened?”
I gave him the short version. I knew the statement would be very detailed. When I got to the part about the man throwing the knife into Jenny’s chest, the deputy looked down, as if he’d just heard a sad story. I guess he had. The people in these parts tended to stay here their whole lives. They knew each other and knew the families. It was a close-knit society of blue collar people. The smartest ones found a way out of the cane business. I suspected this deputy was one of the smart ones.
“That’s a shame. She wasn’t a bad kid. Worked up at Kelly’s Diner for a couple of years, but he had to let her go when she got into some kind of drugs.”
“Doesn’t look like she ever had much of a chance,” said Logan.
“Can’t disagree with you there,” said the deputy. “Her old man’s full of piss and vinegar, but he loved that girl and took good care of her after her ma ran off. I’ve known him since first grade. He never made it out of high school. Dropped out in about the ninth grade and went to work in the cane.”
“I take it he still works in the cane industry,” I said.
“Yeah. He’s worked himself up to some kind of supervisor over at the refinery.”
“What about Jenny’s kids?” asked Logan.
“Oh, boy. They’re one and three. Nobody seems to know who the daddy is. Whoever he is, he’s pretty much gone. Hell, it might have been two different fathers. Jenny was a pretty wild little gal. She kind of spread it around, if you know what I mean.”
I nodded. I knew what he meant.
“What’ll happen to the kids?” asked Logan.
“Don’t know. Probably the state’ll take ’em. They’ll end up in the foster care system. Jenny’s daddy sure can’t take care of ’em. But Lord, he does love those kids. It’s gonna be tough. Lose his only child and both his grandkids.”
“Any chance of catching the guy with the knife?”
“Who knows? I hope so. He killed somebody’s mom. He shouldn’t get away with that.”
He pulled out a tape recorder and set it on the hood of the patrol car. He turned it on and started the interview. We told him everything we knew and how we came to be at that sad little house in the vast cane fields.