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ADAM WAS FEELING MORE relaxed when he returned to the car. He’d already lit his first cigarette, and the rush of nicotine both calmed and energized him.
He was glad to see Harriet had fallen asleep in the back, the blanket over her. She didn’t even wake up when he pulled pack out onto the road.
He didn’t want to think of Harriet as the kindly woman who would give him a glass of tea or a cold Coke when he came by. He didn’t even want to think of her as human. He had to push all those memories out of his mind and focus on his plan. He knew there was only one way to ease his pain. Nothing was going to stop him.
“It’s only fair,” he said out loud, more to himself than to the blanket-covered lump in the back seat. “Mr. Deale, you were a good man. The best. And even after she led you on and told all those lies about you, you tried to give her another chance.”
Sampson finished his cigarette, tossed it out the window, and then reached for the bottle of off-brand bourbon. He knew there were folks who thought he wasn’t too smart, but they’d have to eat their words after today. He’d gotten Florentin Menard to tell him where Harriet was. He’d spun a tale for her about how Menard had sent him for her, and she’d believed it. He’d left his own beat-up truck at the hospital and taken a fancy car from the doctors’ lot, where it wouldn’t be missed for hours.
“She’s not gonna run away from you again, Mr. Deale.” Sampson unscrewed the top from the bourbon and took several gulps, then set the bottle down. It fit perfectly in the cup holder, another sign that things were going his way today.
Far behind him, Adam saw an SUV or a truck—it was too far back to make it out. Just in case it was the law, Adam eased his foot off the gas. He didn’t want to give anyone a reason to run the plates.
The bourbon put him in a talkative mood.
“You know it wasn’t my fault, right, Mr. Deale?” Adam said. “It wasn’t my fault. I messed up the first time the first time cause those other ladies were there with her. But I knew you was gonna be disappointed in me if I didn’t do a good job for you. I just wanted to do a good job for you.”
Adam Sampson realized he was sobbing. But there was no time to think about that. They had arrived at Sinful Cemetery, and he had work to do. He took another belt of liquid courage from the bottle. It would’ve been perfect justice to use the little Derringer he’d found in Mr. Deale’s office, the same weapon that had killed Mr. Deale. But when Adam made his mistake, his terrible, terrible, mistake, he had stuffed the little gun into a basket and forgotten about it.
But Adam had something almost as good. Mr. Deale’s old Bowie knife. The one Deale used to keep on his desk. He’d pick his nails with it when a meeting got boring.
Why didn’t Mr. Deale tell Adam that he was planning to visit Harriet that night in her apartment? Why couldn’t it have been Harriet who had surprised Adam as he poked around her bedroom?
This was all her fault.
He took another swig of bourbon, hopped out of the driver’s seat, and yanked the back door open.
A long leg shot out from under the blanket and hit Adam square in the chest so hard he went airborne. He landed flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him. The next thing he knew, he was face-down in the damp grass, something hard pressing into his back. He felt zip ties tighten around his wrists, and then saw a pair of women’s sequined sneakers next to his face.
“Y’all need some help, Miss Fortune?” asked a gentle voice.
“Nah, I got it,” said a Yankee woman’s voice from somewhere above him. Sampson felt himself yanked to his feet, his shoulder nearly dislocated in the process.
“Put some plastic down before you throw him back there,” another, less gentle voice ordered. “He looks like he’s gonna puke!”