by John Lutz
Beth looked at the frail, gray figures inside the car and said, “Hell of a way to treat senior citizens,” still with the same icy anger.
“Or the middle-aged,” Carver reminded her.
She stared at him with a tenderness in her eyes that somehow didn’t touch the pinpoints of cold light in their centers.
“I’ll drive,” she said, and Carver handed her the keys.
On the way to the medical center Carver explained what had happened.
“Before Beed reached the house, I poured Jerome’s medication into a bourbon bottle from one of the cabinets and left it on the counter. Then I tried to grind up the prescription bottle in the disposal and couldn’t. But the bottle did jam the mechanism down out of sight in the plumbing. I knew if I simply tossed it into the trash or hid it and Beed found it, we’d all be useless to him and killed immediately.”
“It figured an alky off the wagon would go for the booze,” Beth said, staring straight ahead out the windshield, “but he mighta consumed all of exhibit A.”
“He drank most of it,” Carver said, “but there should still be enough left in the bottle that it can be separated from the bourbon and analyzed. Or they can analyze Beed’s stomach contents. Either way, it’ll make the case against Mercury Laboratories.”
“So Beed went the same way Jerome Evans did,” Beth said. “Sudden massive coronary.” She smiled in a way Carver didn’t like. “Hattie’ll appreciate that.”
Carver thought she was probably right. These two women from different backgrounds might understand each other in a way he could never fathom. Beth had once told Carver he had a prehistoric view of women. Called him a dinosaur, specifically a brontosaurus, but said he could learn from her.
She tapped the horn as they pulled into the medical center driveway, then parked by the Emergency doors and ran inside.
Less than a minute later, several attendants and Solartown volunteers bustled out with stainless steel wheelchairs and removed Hattie and Val from the back of the Ford, rolled them into the medical center.
“This one, too,” Beth said, pointing to Carver.
“Not yet,” he told the young nurse who was appraising him while moving toward him. He pushed past her and limped in through the darkly tinted glass doors, Beth close behind him. The pain in his ribs was getting worse, making him take shallow breaths that hit like fresh blows from the rubber hose.
Emergency was tiled and painted in shades of green. There was a long counter with computers on it, a small waiting area lined with brown plastic chairs. Two old women sat in the end chairs near the TV jutting from the wall, staring not at the game show in progress but at what was going on around them. A dog-eared Reader’s Digest slipped off the lap of one of them and dropped to the floor, but she didn’t notice.
Several wide halls led from the admitting area, two of them sectioned off by swinging doors.
The old man Carver had seen drive into the Warm Sands lot after Roger Karl’s body was found in Carver’s car was leaning against the wall near the waiting area.
He strutted over to Carver and said, “I’m Commander Rubin, Solartown Posse. That Dr. Sanchez shagged ass outa here just after I picked up the call on the police frequency. Two Posse patrol units pulled his car over near the highway exit. Against the rules, but what the hell? He didn’t resist. He’s being held till the other police get there.”
“Right now,” Carver said, noticing that Rubin smelled strongly and dizzyingly of pipe tobacco, “what I’m interested in—”
He stopped talking as he saw Dr. Wynn and Nurse Gorham approaching. They were halfway down the long hall and hadn’t noticed him. He moved over out of line with the doorway, almost out of sight, but where he still had a narrow view of the hall. Waited. Commander Rubin squinted at him and stepped aside, as if Carver might have been struck unaccountably mad and needed reassessment. But Beth had observed him and figured out what was happening.
Wynn saw Hattie Evans being wheeled into one of the observation rooms and stopped. Nurse Gorham, surprised, halted with him, so abruptly that her rubber-soled white shoes eeped on the tile floor.
It was too late. They were already too far into the waiting room and couldn’t retreat.
Wynn turned, saw Carver, and froze while realization and fear distorted his features. He instinctively started to bolt. Carver brought his cane across the doctor’s back and he stumbled and fell. He scrambled to get up and run, making it halfway to his feet, but Carver tripped him with the crook of the cane and he fell again. This time he crawled to a corner and sat curled with his head bowed.
Nurse Gorham had stood paralyzed and watching during the few seconds this had taken. Then she moved. Maybe she’d recovered from shock and intended to run, or maybe she was simply walking over to stand by Wynn. She only managed two steps before one of Beth’s black high heels flashed out and slammed into the back of her nyloned knee, driving her to the floor.
On her hands and knees, eyes wide with astonishment, she turned around awkwardly on the hard tiles and struggled to rise.
The shoe darted out again, catching her squarely in the side of the neck with a sound Carver felt in his stomach. Nurse Gorham lay flat on her back, whimpering in pain and pawing the air in slow motion with clawlike hands.
Beth, standing over her, said, “Guess you changed your mind about leaving.” Carver knew she’d said it to plant in the minds of witnesses that Nurse Gorham had attempted to escape, and the violence had been necessary. Beth covering herself in the event of future litigation.
Carver stared, feeling his heart banging away at his sore ribs, and said, “Christ!”
Beth smiled over at him, then calmly and with accuracy spat on Nurse Gorham.
Said, “You need a wheelchair, Fred.”
39
IT WAS A WEEK before Carver’s bruises began to fade. He’d suffered two hairline rib fractures on his left side, and he still wore elasticized wrapping around his midsection most of the time. The pain still sneaked up on him at night, or grabbed him after sudden movement, but less frequently now and with less bite.
He and Beth stayed at the Warm Sands while he healed, giving up her room so she could move in with him.
They were lying now on the artificial beach, side by side on large towels they’d carried down from the room. Carver was on his back with his eyes closed, letting the sun do its healing work, listening to the shouts and laughter of kids down by the artificial lake.
His eyelids fluttered as he felt Beth’s light touch on his bare chest, the pleasant coolness of the sun tan lotion she was rubbing into him with soft circular motions. She had hands like no woman he’d ever known.
“I got a call from Hattie this morning,” she said.
Carver said, “Hmm.”
“She’s feeling pretty good now, comparatively. Jaw still hurts, but it’s getting better. Least you can understand her on the phone okay.”
Women and phones, Carver the brontosaurus thought.
“She didn’t say it, but she’s enjoying nursing Val back to health, taking care of him. She called from his house. I don’t think she’s spending much time in hers these days.”
Hmm.
“Things work out for people sometimes,” Beth said, “if they just keep keepin’ on. That old bastard Val’s finally got what he wanted. He’s happy as a pig in shit just to lie around and let Hattie nurse him. Kinda pathetic.”
Carver didn’t say anything. A warm breeze moved over his body. Beth’s hands continued to work their miracle. He knew exactly how Val must feel. Felt the same way himself.
Liked it.
A Biography of John Lutz
John Lutz is one of the foremost voices in contemporary hard-boiled fiction.
First published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine in 1966, Lutz has written dozens of novels and over 250 short stories in the last four decades. His earliest success came with the Alo Nudger series, set in his hometown of St. Louis. A meek private detective, Nudger swills antac
id instead of whiskey, and his greatest nemesis is his run-down Volkswagen. In his offices, permeated by the smell of the downstairs donut shop, he spends his time clipping coupons and studying baseball trivia. Though not a tough guy, he gets results. Lutz continued the series through eleven novels and over a dozen short stories, one of which—“Ride the Lightning”—won an Edgar Award for best story in 1986.
Lutz’s next big success also came in 1986, when he published Tropical Heat, the first Fred Carver mystery. The ensuing series took Lutz into darker territory, as he invented an Orlando cop forced to retire by a bullet that permanently disabled his left knee. Hobbled by injury and cynicism, he begins a career as a private detective, following low-lifes and beautiful women all over sunny, deadly Florida. In ten years Lutz wrote ten Carver novels, among them Scorcher (1987), Bloodfire (1991), and Lightning (1996), and as a whole they form a gut-wrenching depiction of the underbelly of the Sunshine State. Meanwhile, he also wrote Dancing with the Dead (1992), in which a serial killer targets ballroom dancers.
In 1992 his novel SWF Seeks Same was adapted for the screen as Single White Female, starring Bridget Fonda and Jennifer Jason Leigh. His novel The Ex was made into an HBO film for which Lutz co-wrote the screenplay. In 2001 his book The Night Caller inaugurated a new series of novels about ex-NYPD cops who hunt serial killers on the streets of New York City, and with Darker Than Night (2004) he introduced Frank Quinn, whose own series has yielded five books, the most recent being Mister X (2010).
Lutz is a former president of the Mystery Writers of America, and his many awards include Shamus Awards for Kiss and “Ride the Lightning,” and lifetime achievement awards from the Short Mystery Fiction Society and the Private Eye Writers of America. He lives in St. Louis.
A two-year old Lutz, photographed in 1941. The photograph was taken by Lutz’s father, Jack Lutz, who was a local photographer out of downtown St. Louis.
A young Lutz with his little brother, Jim, and sisters, Jacqui and Janie.
Lutz at ten years old, with his mother, Jane, grandmother, Kate, and brother, Jim. Lutz grew up in a sturdy brick city house that sat at an incline, halfway down a hill; according to Lutz, this made for optimal sledding during Missouri’s cold winters.
Lutz in his very first suit, purchased for his grade school graduation.
Lutz’s graduation photo from Southwest High School.
Lutz sitting on the front porch of the first house he and his wife, Barbara, ever owned. According to Lutz, the square footage rendered the house smaller than his last apartment; nevertheless it was an important milestone and tremendous relief—there was no one upstairs to abuse their stereos or bang on the floor (or to complain when they did the same).
On January 6, 1966, Lutz officially became a “professional writer” with his first story sale to Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. After the publication of his first story, Lutz quickly became a regular contributor to the magazine. Lutz has said that he enjoys writing, “as much as when I began. It’s a process that lives and grows.”
Lutz in St. Louis with his daughter Wendy.
Lutz in his home office in the early eighties. When asked about his discipline and writing practice, Lutz has said that “being a writer is like being a cop; you’re always on, even off duty.” In the late sixties and early seventies, he published four books and many celebrated short stories.
Lutz in the mid-eighties, crafting the first twists and turns in the Fred Carver series. Lutz published a Fred Carver novel nearly every year from 1986 to 1996, steadily building a cult following for the series. In his younger days, he wrote all of his fiction on an IBM Selectric typewriter nestled next to his most prized possession: a 1904 roll top desk.
A photo of Lutz’s Edgar Award, won in 1986 for his short story “Ride the Lightning.” This year was also the publication of Tropical Heat, the first novel in the Fred Carver series.
Lutz with his wife, Barbara, at a family celebration in 1990.
A photo of Lutz’s Lifetime Achievement Award, received from the Private Eye Writers of America (PWA) in 1995 for his inimitable stories and masterful contribution to the genre.
A photograph of Lutz celebrating his honorary degree with his wife, Barbara. In 2007, he was awarded a Doctor of Arts and Letters degree by the University of Missouri - St. Louis. In reflecting on the degree, Lutz said, in his characteristic wry humor, that it “establishes my bona fides as an absent-minded professor. It’s OK now to lose the car.”
Lutz enjoying a bright, warm day in Sarasota, Florida, where he and Barbara take respite from the cold, harsh winters of St. Louis.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1993 by John Lutz
cover design by Kris Tobiassen
978-1-4532-1895-2
This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Contents
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
A Biography of John Lutz
Copyright