They took Adam out to the fields south of Bel Arbre, Bentas driving, Tarver in the passenger seat, Adam wedged between them, shaking. It was after dusk when they turned off the highway and started to move through the orange groves, the fruit bright dots, vivid against the dark leaves and overcast sky.
The world flew by Adam in a blur of tangled green under dying light. He saw the trees first as chaotic jungle, then the mass of vegetation would resolve itself into rows stretching off into the distance before collapsing again into disorder as his perspective shifted.
Tarver and Bentas spoke across him as if he weren’t there, a snippy argument about what Tarver should and shouldn’t record. Adam barely registered the words. They were now on the empty dirt back roads, the workers long gone.
Bentas flicked the headlights on, and instantly blinding white flurries of insects engulfed them, spattering against the car, dazzling showers of radiant particles.
And Adam wanted them to just keep going, because he knew that when the car stopped…
It stopped.
Bentas said, “Here’s good. He said not too far from the highway.”
Tarver was fussing with the battery for the spotlight for his camcorder. Bentas said, “Forget it! Just fucking forget it, you fucking sick freak! ¡Conio! Why are you even like that?”
Tarver started to get all high-pitched and whiny, but Bentas cut him off.
“Let’s just do this. You sure you can hold him, you sick fucking freak?”
Bentas climbed out of the car and put on a pair of rubber gloves. He turned back to watch as Tarver started to drag the boy out of the truck. Adam hung on to the headrest, trying desperately to hold on as Tarver grabbed at his flailing legs. He didn’t cry out.
Bentas roared with laughter. “Ooh! Ooh! Tarver! Tarver! Get his legs! Get his legs!”
Stung, Tarver stepped back and pulled out a pistol.
Bentas said, “Oh no you don’t! Oh no you fucking don’t, bitch!”
He pushed Tarver aside, leaned into the passenger compartment, and did something to the boy’s head that Tarver couldn’t see. There was a screech, then Bentas effortlessly slid the boy across the seat and out onto the dirt.
“Jesus, Tarver, you fucking dickless bitch! Can’t you do anything right?” He looked down at Adam, who was whimpering in the dirt.
“Get up, kid. Get up or I’ll do it again.” Covering his head with his arms, Adam slowly stood. “Tarver, you take him by the arm now. And try not to let him go, okay? And don’t mark him up, either.”
As Tarver led the boy to the edge of the field, Bentas snugged the gloves on his hands, leaned into the pickup, lifted the tarp, and pulled out the wine bottle lying by the dead farmhand’s legs.
The three stood at the edge of a big field. The furrowed black earth was riven by long, straight ridges of arched white plastic film that shone silver in the shadowy moonlight, stretching all the way to dark trees. Beyond the trees, the highway.
Adam stood there sobbing, cheeks glistening with tears. The occasional sound of a car out on the highway floated across the field; he could see the soft yellow glare of approaching headlights, see the faint red glow of the taillights as they went. Not so far away.
So far away.
The night breeze picked up, and for a second Adam caught the faintest smell of something sweet, something fresh and green. He turned to see that Bentas had torn open one of the row covers and was plucking fruit from a bush.
Strawberries.
Adam was going to die in a strawberry field.