by John Lutz
Carver stroked in closer. Palm fronds shook themselves in the warm breeze, sometimes waving between him and a lighted window and giving the impression that someone was moving around inside the house. There was a narrow pier built out from the beach. A large pleasure craft was docked there. Its graceful hull had to be fifty feet long. Light glowed behind three portholes and, faintly, higher up on the bridge.
Carver swam closer to the boat and could make out a name lettered near its bow: Bold Entrepreneur. That figured, on a boat that had to cost at least half a million.
As he stroked in nearer to the beach, he caught sight of a racing dark figure on the sand. Another trailing it. Like swift animated shadow. The dogs. Romping and kicking up sand. Damned things were even on the alert for someone coming in from the sea. One of them barked twice, but Carver was sure it wasn’t because of him. Too playful. And he was still several hundred feet from the beach.
He swam farther out, then angled in so the graceful shape of the boat was between him and the direction the dogs had taken.
Breaststroking easily and almost silently, he moved up very close to the boat. Could have touched its hull. He was sure someone was on board, and he was hoping he’d hear something useful. But the only sound other than the sea lapping at the hull was music wafting out through one of the open portholes. Bach maybe? Beethoven? Elton John? Carver might not know the difference.
He swam alongside the hull until he could gaze around the stern at the house. The boat rose and fell gently, shoved a wave at him and he tasted saltwater. He breathed in instinctively, gagged and almost coughed. He had to be careful; if he choked, someone on board might hear him.
The house and grounds were quiet. Now and then Carver glimpsed one of the dogs trotting through its rounds. Once he thought he saw someone in uniform, probably a security guard, swagger along the beach wearing a nightstick and holstered gun like a cop.
Maybe it was a cop, Carver thought. Bent cop, moonlighting with drug kingpins. This must be where the strategy confab of the SCBL drug smugglers was going to take place. The private plane, and then the limo, had delivered one of those attending. Did Jefferson know about this location? Was Courtney Romano able to contact him and tell him? Did she know?
Carver decided to swim back to where he’d entered the water. He’d crawl back on land, get dressed, and then drive to a phone so he could get in touch with Jefferson and let him know what was happening and where.
Careful again to keep the boat between him and the beach and house, he stroked seaward. Glancing back now and then to make sure there was no one on deck who might notice him.
When he was far enough out on the dark sea, he swam south, angling gradually toward shore. Passed the dancers again. Watched until he spotted the illuminated steps leading up to the lighted house.
He swam toward a point just north of the steps, and ten minutes later he hauled himself onto the beach less than a hundred feet from his cane. Quite the navigator.
After retrieving the cane, he limped to where he’d left his clothes. Brushed water out of his thick fringe of hair and quickly got dressed.
He found that scaling the slope back up to level ground was easier than going down. He could plant the cane like a mountain climber’s piton and use it to lever himself along. Still, by the time he’d gained the top his breathing was deep and ragged. The ocean swim had been less of a strain.
He made his way back to the road, then limped along its shoulder, sure that he wasn’t attracting undue attention. The sea breeze had almost dried his clothes and hair; what remained might have been perspiration.
He saw the dark shape of the Ford and hurried toward it.
As he settled in behind the steering wheel, he let out a loud sigh and smoothed back his damp fringe of hair again. Attack dogs, armed guards, fences with barbed wire. Like a luxury command post in a state of war. Hell of a thing to contend with. He was glad the night was over. That he was back in the cocoonlike safety of the car and could get away from here.
As he leaned forward to fit the key in the ignition, a motion in the rearview mirror caught his attention. He glanced at the mirror and his gaze froze on it. A pair of eyes was staring back at him.
Eyes he recognized.
Eyes that paralyzed him with surprise and fright.
Before he could move he felt a cold blade on the side of his neck. Vincent Butcher in the backseat, leaned close to him and smiled in an oddly amused and tender way. Carver could still see him in the mirror. Smelled his fetid breath. Their gazes were still locked. Horror became hypnotic.
Butcher said, “Where you been, sweetmeat, nosin’ around?”
Gravel crunched outside the car. Footsteps.
The passenger-side door opened and Walter Ogden slid in and sat down. He was dressed impeccably in a window-pane-checked gray suit with a blue handkerchief in the pocket. Handkerchief matched his tie. He smiled at Carver. “Well, you seem to have dropped from sight,” he said in an amiable tone, “Time you filled us in on where you been and why.”
Carver said, “You didn’t get my postcard?”
Butcher probed with the knife point. Might have drawn blood. “There’s your funny bone actin’ up again,” he said. “Cut it out, huh, Carver? Or maybe I will.”
Ogden, with less flair for melodrama, simply said, “Talk.”
Seemed to mean it.
Chapter 29
Carver made up most of it as he talked. And it was good. Afraid as he was, he had to admire his skill. Almost believed it himself. Verbal dexterity came easy when inspired by a knife at the throat.
All the while he talked he could smell Butcher’s sour breath. Feel the knife blade vibrate with his own heartbeat. Then he realized the blade was steady, it was his carotid artery that was pulsing against unyielding steel. Life against death.
“I laid low in Miami,” Carver said, not wanting them to know he was aware of the citrus farm and the deserted house with the landing field behind it. “Kept moving and staying at cheap motels. Knew you or the DEA or both’d be looking for me.”
“Why would a smart ol’ boy like you do such a thing?” Ogden asked. Didn’t quite believe Carver; sounded puzzled.
Carver shrugged. Felt the knife burn in and sat still again. “I was in a box. Right where you put me. Didn’t know what to do, so I decided to do nothing.”
“Don’t sound like you,” Ogden said musingly. “Not judging by what we know about you.”
“Which is?”
“That you’re an asshole,” Butcher said softly.
Ogden ignored Butcher. He said, “You don’t have a history of sulling up like a possum when trouble comes your way. If you’re nothing else you’re a determined asshole”-a nod to Butcher-“who keeps scrambling no matter what. No, more than determined. Obsessed.”
Carver was tired of hearing himself described that way. “It’s hard to be obsessed with something when you have no choice. When you’ve been forced into it.”
Butcher said, “Speakin’ of forcin’ somethin’ into somethin’ else,” and pressed with the knife point hard enough to make Carver gasp and draw back his head, arching his back as if sitting at military attention. What Butcher wanted to see.
Ogden sat quietly for a while with his head bowed, thumb and forefinger toying with the crease in his pants. Headlights from passing cars now and then illuminated his thoughtful features. “Know what I think?” he said, after a truck had passed and rocked the parked Ford with a brief turmoil of wind. He kept his head lowered thoughtfully, staring at the glove compartment. “I think you didn’t short-circuit and go to Miami at all. I think you calculated we wouldn’t know what to do if you simply dropped from sight, so we’d do nothing. Wouldn’t that be just like you, to find a move we hadn’t thought of? One all the way off the table?”
“Just like,” Carver said.
“But to make sure your lady friend’d be safe, you kept an eye on us. Probably me in particular. That’s what you’ve been doing the last several days,
not jerking around down in Miami, but watching us. You followed us here, didn’t you?”
“Think so?”
“How else could you show up here?”
Carver said, “You’re the one dreaming up the story. I already told you the truth.”
“No,” Ogden said, “you’re not to be trusted.”
“Well, I’m not as upright as you two guys and Courtney.”
“We spotted this car parked here,” Butcher said. “Wondered why. Thought it was too much of a coincidence. Then we seen it was a rental so we waited to find out what happened. What happened was you limped outa the dark and climbed in. I wasn’t surprised, Carver.”
“That’s because you’re so good at thinking ahead.”
“You bein’ sarcastic?”
“Don’t you know?”
Butcher said to Ogden, “He’s pretty feisty, ain’t he?”
“That doesn’t matter,” Ogden said. “Question is, did he manage to get on the property and see or hear anything?”
“With the fence and them dogs and security guys? Not hardly. Asshole here’s probably been limpin’ around tryin’ to figure a way in without gettin’ chewed and buried like a bone. Besides, ain’t there an alarm system, too?”
“There’s that,” Ogden said, sounding annoyed that Butcher had mentioned it. Dumb to show a hole card when it wasn’t necessary.
Carver knew they didn’t realize he’d gone for his nighttime swim; they attributed his remaining dampness to perspiration. It figured. Butcher was used to making people sweat.
“Well, your lady’s still okay,” Ogden said, “though Butcher here was hard to hold back at times. He was awfully angry at you for disappearing.”
“I wanted to skin some choice parts of her,” Butcher said in a low monotone. “I can do that so it takes hours afore a person dies. Works on ’em just like it does on hogs.”
Carver wondered if he could whip his elbow around fast enough to mash Butcher’s nose and still avoid the blade. Decided he couldn’t; Butcher knew his business. Knew knives. How much bluff he was, Carver couldn’t be sure. None, probably.
Carver said to Ogden, “Your friend’s a psychopath.”
Ogden said, “Sure. That’s why he’s good at what he does. Only problem is, sometimes we run into someone like you who doesn’t realize the gravity of the situation. That irritates me, but Butcher doesn’t mind.”
“That’s because Butcher has no mind.”
Butcher gave his deep phlegmy chuckle. There was no anger in it, only an amused patience with an edge of anticipation. Carver didn’t like that.
Ogden said, “I gotta admire you, sitting there with a blade at your neck, smarting off all the same. But then, maybe it’s because you know we still need you and won’t open your throat. That it?”
Carver said, “I guess that’s part of it.”
“You can be wrong,” Butcher said.
“Sure can. That’s why I’m sitting here with you.”
“Okay,” Ogden said, his tone suddenly softer and serious. “Here’s where all this leaves us. You don’t stray again, or we’ll consider your usefulness ended and your lady will meet Butcher. You stand by our original agreement and relay the content of any and all conversations you have with the DEA, in particular with Jefferson or Palma. If you don’t stand by our agreement, or you drop outa sight one more time, sooner or later Edwina Talbot dances with Butcher. Maybe you can hold things off and make it later instead of sooner, but believe me, they’ve got a date.” He took a deep breath and swiveled in the seat to face Carver. “Now, we finally got an understanding? Know each other’s hearts and minds?”
Carver said, “Sure. You made it all clear.”
“Well, I thought I had the first time.”
Ogden nodded to Butcher, then opened the door and slid out of the car. Fresh outside air moved in to take his place. A pleasant interlude that didn’t last long.
As soon as the car door slammed, Carver felt Butcher’s arm close on his throat. Somehow he still held the knife so it’s point was digging into the side of Carver’s neck. “Let’s get outa the car, sweetmeat.”
Carver opened the door and heard the rear door open at the same time. The blade was away from his neck for only an instant as Butcher moved with so much quickness he seemed to be standing outside the car even as the door opened. He laid the edge of the blade against Carver’s neck again, then used his other hand to summon Carver out with a little scooping motion of his thick fingers. All the time with a sadistic grin that would have looked silly if Carver hadn’t known the twisted drive behind it was real.
Ogden was standing in the shadows near the front of the Ford. “You wanted to see what was behind the gates,” he said, “so we’ll show you.”
Butcher withdrew the knife. Said, “You wouldn’t try to limp away on that cane, would you?” He laughed like a schoolkid who’d heard a dirty joke.
Ogden said, “Mr. Carver’ll accompany us without any trouble. After all, we’re taking him where he was trying to go. Actually he should thank us.”
“Hear that, Carver?” Butcher said in a gloating whisper. “You oughta say thanks.”
Carver limped along silently, setting the tip of his cane firmly with each step. He wasn’t going to thank these bastards.
Butcher said, “Okay if you don’t say it this time. You’ll tend to get more agreeable as the night wears on.”
They crossed the highway and walked back along the slanted shoulder to the driveway with the closed gates.
Chapter 30
It was a long way up the driveway. Carver couldn’t make out much about the house except that it was large, as it had appeared from the ocean. Only a few windows were lighted in the front part of the house. Oddly enough, he saw or heard no sign of the dogs or any other security measure. Apparently, when Ogden had used the intercom outside the gates, the way had been cleared immediately for them to set foot on the grounds.
Carver was led through a side door. Then, flanked by Ogden and Butcher, he was ushered down a long hall. The walls were sand-colored and rough. The floor appeared to be real marble, a pink-veined gray that reminded Carver of flesh struck lifeless. There was no furniture other than a long, uncomfortable-looking wood bench along one wall, and a potted miniature fruit tree near the far end where the hall either ended or made a right-angle turn. Sparse but stylish.
Ogden stepped ahead and opened a tall door with oversized hinges and knob. Butcher shoved the back of Carver’s head to indicate he should follow Ogden into the room. Carver stumbled forward and almost fell, but he managed to remain upright. Knew he must look like a drunk lurching in a swaying world.
It was a large room, carpeted in deep maroon and with matching floor-to-ceiling drapes of some kind of velvet material. The walls were darkly paneled and covered with arrangements of fox-hunting prints. Red-coated riders on sleek horses leaping hedges and fences. Hounds streaming through fields in frantic chase. Carver noticed that the fox didn’t appear in any of the prints. On a sort of pedestal near a massive stone fireplace was a stuffed fox, head turned, one front paw raised delicately, looking alert and ready to bolt for safety. The taxidermist had done a good job; the stuffed creature probably seemed more alive and aware than had the fox itself when blood coursed through its veins. Almost worth shooting again.
Butcher noticed Carver looking at the fox and said, “You and your furry friend’ll have a lot in common you try any more bullshit.”
Ogden said, “Sit down, Mr. Carver,” and motioned with his hand toward a blue leather sofa.
Carver limped to the sofa and lowered his body into a corner of it. The leather was incredibly soft and he sank deeper than he’d anticipated. It wouldn’t be easy to get up in a hurry if he had to; he propped his cane against the cushion, within easy reach, giving himself another second or two if it became necessary to act.
The door they’d come through opened with a faint brushing sound as it skimmed the carpet, and Carver turned his head to see a ta
ll silver-haired man in his mid-sixties enter. He was long-limbed but thick through the middle, with a pronounced stomach paunch; it made him slightly resemble a spider. He had on pin-striped gray pants, a white shirt, red suspenders. Without speaking, he came around to stand facing Carver. Looked down at him sitting on the sofa and smiled with large yellow teeth. His eyes were pale blue and they weren’t smiling. Something about him. He did look a lot like Bert Renway. The late Bert Renway.
Still smiling, he said, “Mr. Carver, I’m Frank Wesley.”
There was an air of certainty and authority about him that Renway hadn’t had. And a hard quality to the eyes. He filled his space in the world and was very much whatever he was. One look at him and people knew it instantly. Sensed his energy. Wesley was the sort of man who had his private concept of reality and could sell it to others by virtue of his belief in himself. People like him achieved fame or fortune marketing used cars or leading nations into wars. With Wesley it had been hogs. But now it was drugs. More money in drugs. More power.
Carver said, “You’re supposed to be dead.”
Wesley shrugged. “We’re all supposed to be lotsa things we aren’t.” He had a thick Southern accent only hinted at when he’d first spoken. Maybe he could control it. Used it only when he wanted to, for effect. He said, “While I had the chance, I figured I oughta talk to you, explain there’s big things in the wind and you’re not one of ’em. You’re a small thing might just get blown away if you’re not careful.”
“I try to be careful,” Carver said.
“No, sir, I disagree. That’s not your track record. But you are reputed to be a man of good sense, so I’m going to state to you the simple fact that there’s a deal working that involves so much money it’d just be a meaningless figure to you if I said it. You understand, that much money ’bout to flow, we’ll kill you in a minute if it don’t look like you’re of much use to us anymore. You follow that logic?”