Flame fc-4

by John Lutz

  Butcher said, “Clear shots, huh? Had to get damn near close enough to touch her to get pictures like this.” He gave his grating giggle. “Wouldn’t mind touchin’ her.”

  Ogden said, “They were taken just this morning. Less than an hour after you left Miss Talbot.”

  Something in Carver drew tight. He knew what this was going to be. He hadn’t snapped at the money in Atlanta, now they were ready to apply another kind of pressure to get him to drop the investigation.

  He was right, and then again he was wrong.

  Butcher said, “She’s a nice piece, your Edwina Talbot. Great legs and ass.”

  “Too pretty a woman to let her get messed up,” Courtney Romano said.

  Ogden patted at his hair. Discovered the wayward wing above his right ear and tucked it back deftly with a crooked forefinger. He said, “Butcher told you the truth; we were close enough to touch the young lady this morning, The point is, you don’t want her touched. Neither do I. Now Butcher, here, he’s another story.”

  “Another species,” Carver said.

  Butcher said, “There goes that sense of humor again. Dangerous.”

  “Someday he might die laughing,” Courtney said.

  Carver thought, Jesus, don’t egg him on!

  Ogden crossed over to the desk so he was standing close to Carver. He was still smiling, but not with a single thermal unit of warmth. He used a manicured finger to spread out the photographs on the desk. There were about a dozen of them, all of Edwina. Edwina in her suit and rubber thongs, walking across the veranda toward the pool, her hair not yet wet. Edwina in the water, head and shoulders visible, right arm slung forward, hand cupped, stroking toward the pool’s edge. Edwina pulling herself up out of the pool, her suit wet and plastered to her body, her buttocks straining against the thin and flexible material. Butcher tapped that photo with his knuckle. “That’n there’s my favorite.”

  “We took these photographs,” Ogden said, “to show you how accessible your Miss Talbot is to us. The camera might just as well have been a … well, something else.”

  Carver said, “I could make sure she wasn’t so accessible.”

  “Could you really?” Ogden seemed remotely amused. “For how long? One thing we’ve got is patience. Another is time.”

  “He thinks he could move her to another state,” Butcher said, gloating about Carver’s predicament. “Just give her another name and make believe she’s somebody else.”

  Courtney said, “We’d find her.” She looked at Carver and he thought he saw something, a momentary soft earnestness, in her eyes. “I mean that. We’d find her.”

  “That I promise you,” Ogden said. “And we always keep our promises.”

  Carver knew they were right. It wasn’t necessary to kidnap Edwina in order to use her continued well-being for leverage. And they knew she wouldn’t simply give up her life in Del Moray, even if Carver asked her to leave for her own safety. Besides, leaving was no guarantee of a long and untroubled existence. Always there’d be the apprehension, the imagined movement in the corner of vision, the shock of the late-night phone call or doorbell. Not a way for Edwina and Carver to live, holding their breath in Oskaloosa, Iowa, or some such place where they might pretend to be distant and secure, knowing all the time they were pretending.

  “You’re telling me to drop my investigation,” Carver said, “or you do something to Edwina.”

  “No, no,” Ogden said, shaking his head. “Things have changed.”

  “What changed them?”

  “Some thoughts we had after our little get-together in your hotel room in Atlanta.”

  Carver glanced at Courtney. She was staring straight ahead, nervously kneading the chair back behind her with her square, strong hands.

  “Main thing is,” Ogden said, “we know the two men you talked to in Frank Wesley’s condo were federal narcotics agents. They don’t like you mucking around in this investigation any more than we do, but there you are, mucking around, and I think it’s safe to say you plan to continue.”

  “Safe to say,” Carver agreed. “Mucking is in my blood.”

  “What we want,” Ogden said, “is for you to talk to those two agents whenever either of them suggests. From time to time you’ll get a phone call, and you’ll report what those conversations with the DEA were about. You’ll report anything else that might interest us. I making myself clear?”

  “You want me to spy on the government for you.”

  Courtney said, “I think he’s got it.”

  Ogden picked up three or four of the photographs and let them slide from his hand, back onto the desk. “I think you want to spy on the government, Mr. Carver, considering that if you don’t, Butcher gets Edwina Talbot for as long as he wants her.”

  Butcher beamed and said, “For me it’s a win-win situation.”

  Ogden said, “Tough choice for any man, but I’m afraid we don’t have much time to wait for your answer. What’s it gonna be, Mr. Carver, love or patriotism?”

  Carver stared down at the photographs. The shutter had been slow, catching splashed water in midair but making it look milky. Slightly blurring but lending grace to the arm Edwina was using to stroke.

  “Mr. Carver?”

  “Love’s harder to come by,” Carver said. “I’ll be your informer.”

  Courtney pushed away from where she was propped against the chair. Shoved up the three-quarters-length sleeves of her blouse so they were wadded above her elbows. “That’s a sensible response.”

  “I think so, too,” Carver told her. But they both knew that now he posed a danger for her.

  Ogden said they’d contact him soon. Walked out of the office and was followed a second later by Courtney, then Butcher. Might have been a sneer on Butcher’s round face. Might have been a smile. Might have been gas.

  A few minutes later, when they drove away from the office in a rented white Lincoln, Carver followed them. Ogden had mentioned love and patriotism. Forgotten about ethics.

  Chapter 22

  They drove inland fast, due west directly away from the sea. Carver stayed well back in the Olds, watching the distant white form of the big Lincoln shimmer in the heat like an illusion.

  But it was real enough. The big car, the people in it, the problems they’d brought with them.

  Within an hour they were in central Florida’s orange-grove country. Fields of citrus trees, their lush green dotted with oranges or grapefruits that somehow didn’t seem to belong, as if a child had dabbed repeatedly and randomly at a landscape scene with a soft crayon. The land stretched level on both sides of the highway. The trees were in neat rows whose receding parallels made their march to the horizon seem even longer than it was. Here and there awkward iron pipework loomed among the trees like a child’s erector set, irrigation equipment jetting rainbowed sprays of water into brilliant sunlight, lending a waxlike gloss to the leaves.

  A semi roared around the Olds, and for a short while its boxy trailer blocked Carver’s view of the Lincoln. Then the truck drifted into the passing lane again, and he was surprised to see that the Lincoln was only about half a mile ahead, brakelights flaring, turning onto a side road. The speeding truck snaked around it and belched dark smoke, making time toward its destination.

  The road the Lincoln had turned onto was unpaved as well as unmarked. Carver jockeyed the Olds past it and parked on the gravel shoulder, trying to decide what to do.

  There was no telling how far the road ran through the fields of citrus trees. Narrow as it was, turning a car around on it would be difficult; he’d be taking a chance tailing the Lincoln along it in the mammoth Olds. Might find himself with no way to go except forward toward something unpleasant.

  He drove down the highway to a spot where he could turn the Olds around, then parked out of sight on the other side of the road.

  He got out and stood alongside the car, peering westward. The Lincoln must be traveling fast; dust from its passage hung in a low haze over the bright tops of
the orange trees. Heat rolled out from under the Olds and over Carver’s feet and ankles. Damned uncomfortable.

  He set the tip of his cane, crossed the highway at an angle, and began walking up the dirt road.

  Carver stayed to one side and limped along one of the Lincoln’s tire tracks, where the powdery earth was packed flat and firm. There was no sound but the soft drag of his feet and cane in the dust, and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze that played over the orange trees. He figured he could duck into the thick rows of trees if he heard a car coming. Make himself reasonably invisible.

  The trees were all about the same size, not large enough to provide shade on the road. Now and then the breeze kicked up, and the insistent rustling of the leaves, all around him, was like urgent whispering. The sun was a hot weight on his shoulders, burdening him and slowing him down.

  He’d gone only a few hundred feet when, through the trees, he saw the dust-coated white trunk and chrome rear bumper of the Lincoln.

  It was parked in front of a small and decrepit white clapboard farmhouse. Not much more than a cabin, with slanted wood front steps and a wide screened-in porch.

  Carver crouched motionless in the cover of the orange trees and watched. There was movement behind the rusty screen. The indecipherable murmur of voices.

  Then Ogden, Butcher, and Courtney Romano came out of the house. The screen door was on a spring, and Courtney let it slam behind her. The slap of wood on wood reverberated over the fields like a rifle shot.

  Butcher was carrying two small red-and-white TWA flight bags. Courtney had a black garment bag slung over her shoulder. The three of them stepped down off the porch and walked out of sight around to the back of the house. Courtney was walking with a kind of rolling, cautious strut, the way women do in high heels on soft ground. The heels of the two men were kicking up powdery clouds of dust.

  Carver moved closer to the house, then off to the side so he could see behind the low clapboard structure.

  There was a large rectangular clearing behind the house, green and level. A small, new-looking, single-engine airplane sat at the edge of the clearing. It was a high-winged plane, white with a red propeller. Had red stripes down the sides of the fuselage. Carver thought it was a Cessna but he wasn’t sure. As with boats, types of aircraft had proliferated.

  Butcher swung open a door and loaded in the flight bags. Took Courtney’s garment bag and carefully laid it inside. Ogden and Courtney climbed up into the plane. Butcher raised a beefy arm in a casual wave.

  There was a grinding sound and the engine coughed and turned over; the red propeller danced and then became a shimmering blur in the sun. Butcher dashed around the plane and yanked chocks from in front of the wheels.

  The engine snarled louder and a hurricane of dust rose and drifted toward Carver. Through the haze he saw the plane’s flaps and vertical stabilizer wriggle back and forth in a test of the controls. Then the plane, perfect for short takeoffs and landings, bounced over the field and out of sight behind the house.

  A huge form was moving through the dust haze. Butcher. Head down, swinging his arms. Like prehistoric man lost in time. Which maybe he was.

  Carver braced with his cane and shuffled back into the trees. Bumped his head on an orange or grapefruit.

  But Butcher was in a hurry and didn’t notice him. Climbed into the Lincoln and was pulling away even as the plane’s motor changed pitch and roared in takeoff.

  Butcher and the Lincoln were gone, leaving only tire tracks and settling dust. Carver didn’t think Butcher would notice his footprints inside the car’s previous tire tracks, or the Olds concealed on the other side of the highway.

  He glanced up through the branches and caught a glimpse of the plane. It was climbing steeply, heading north.

  After a few minutes the drone of its engine faded and died. Carver was alone in the heat and silence.

  He straightened up and limped toward the house.

  The closer he got, the more it struck him that there was an air of desolation about the clapboard structure. Paint was faded and peeling. A section of gutter over the porch sagged wearily. Up close, the front-porch screen appeared even rustier and there were gaping holes in it.

  Moving quietly, he made his way to the shade side of the house and peered in through a dusty window.

  Nothing.

  Not even furniture visible through the dimness. Carver limped around to the front of the house, up the slanted wooden steps, and through the screen door onto the porch. The porch floor wood was rotted. A dusky palmetto bug at least an inch long crawled sluggishly into a shadowy gap near the front wall. At first Carver thought the door to the cabin was open, then he saw that there was no door. It was leaning against the opposite wall and draped with cobwebs. He went inside, his cane making hollow thumps on the plank floor. Wiped his forehead. Stood in muted light and stifling heat and listened to the steady drone of flies. What was drawing them were several crumpled white McDonald’s bags in a corner. An open foam container that held traces of a hamburger. Lettuce, something gooey-maybe cheese. A few curved strands of onion stuck to the Styrofoam. There were footprints in the dust on the floor. Two sets of men’s. One of a woman’s high heels. Against a wall was an old oak table, a couple of wooden chairs. A chair lay on its side like something dead near the table. Sunlight lanced through a hole in the roof and spread a bright puddle of light near the upended chair. Dust motes swam where the sun penetrated.

  Obviously the cabin itself was unimportant, and the citrus trees primarily cover for a landing site.

  As he limped back outside into brighter air and lesser heat, Carver asked himself what he’d expected to find. Bales of marijuana? Kilos of cocaine? The Southern Christian Businessmen’s League would run a narcotics operation that was too efficient and sophisticated to play so loosely with its product.

  He used his tongue to work grit from his teeth and then spat. Moved down the narrow, dusty road toward the highway. Limping in the same tire track he’d used to guide him to the parked Lincoln and the desolate house.

  Laboring with his cane, he remembered the hulking, primal form of Butcher loping effortlessly through the haze, and he shivered in the heat.

  Chapter 23

  Carver drove toward Orlando, stopping once at a roadside restaurant to wash the dust from his throat with iced tea and eat a club sandwich for lunch. The restaurant was called Citrus Charlie’s and featured orange juice drinks with every meal, some of them innovative. Fancied itself a family establishment, according to scrawled lettering on the orange-colored menu. Below “Desserts,” right under “Orange Dip Delite,” was written “Jesus Saves,” as if He were a regular customer and always ordered the special.

  There were orange THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING signs all over the place, so after eating, Carver paid his check and limped outside. Glared up at the orange sun, and then stood in the shade of the souvenir shop built onto the side of the rough-cedar building and smoked a Swisher Sweet cigar. Watched the traffic on the highway. Lots of campers and motor homes out today. Northerners dumb enough to come to Florida in the summer.

  Even in the shade, the sun got to be too much after about five minutes, so he flicked the cigar butt away and got back in the Olds.

  It wasn’t much cooler in there. Carver started the car and got back on the sun-blanched highway. The Olds’s prehistoric engine didn’t mind the heat. Not like a little four-cylinder, flailing away at peak efficiency just to hold the speed limit.

  He set the air conditioner on high, and after about twenty minutes he could touch the vinyl upholstery without burning himself.

  Today it was marimba music. A syncopated song of lament throbbing like a strong but irregular heartbeat from the portable radio on the sill behind Desoto’s desk. Next to it the yellow ribbons tied to the air conditioner grill whipped from side to side like pennants in a sea breeze. Made the office look cool, anyway.

  Desoto sat behind the desk thinking about what Carver had just told him. He had his w
hite shirtsleeves rolled up in concession to the heat, but his ice-blue silk tie remained tightly knotted. He was even wearing a thin gold tie bar to keep the knot at a stylish angle.

  When Carver was done talking, Desoto said, “Sometimes they’re like wolves, amigo. They just lie back and watch. Nothing happens till you run, then they give chase.”

  “You saying I should leave Edwina in Del Moray?”

  “Might be the best thing. You gonna tell her she’s been photographed and is being watched?”

  “I don’t know yet how to play it,” Carver said, “I’m not sure I should tell her.”

  “She’ll be pissed off if you don’t.”

  “Pissed off if I do. And she might try something stupid, like confronting Butcher.” Jesus, earlobes!

  Desoto leaned back in his chair. Laced his fingers behind his head carefully and lightly, so as not to muss his sleek dark hair. More a pose than a relaxed attitude. As if there might be some photographer sneaking around here, snapping shots for a most-eligible-bachelor calendar. He said, “I think you should bring McGregor into this. Let him assign somebody undercover to protect her.”

  “I thought of that. Don’t like it but I might do it.”

  “As it is, you got no choice but to play along with the Atlanta crowd. You’ll be spying on the DEA while the government knows about it. Spying on the Wesley operation all the time you’re doing that.” He shot Carver his matinee-idol smile. Handsome matador out of place and costume. “What’s that mean, I wonder; you’re a double agent? Triple?”

  Carver said, “Means I’m in the middle.”

  Desoto brought his arms around in front of him and sat forward. Folded his hands on the desk. The breeze from the air conditioner stirred the dark hair on his right forearm. The marimba band harmonized softly and earnestly in Spanish. “This citrus ranch with the deserted house,” Desoto said, “you think it’s nothing but a drug drop?”