by John Lutz
He turned and limped across the sun-baked concrete toward the flagstone walk.
Behind him the sprong! of the diving board reverberated and he heard Lilly Rainer enter the water again.
He called, “Nice dive!” but didn’t look back. He didn’t have to. All her dives would be perfect tens. She could afford no less.
26
After his conversation with Rainer, Carver was surprised to see activity across the water that night within minutes after he’d taken up position in the blind. Through the infrared binoculars he watched as Davy dollied two large crates on board the Miss Behavin’. Hector scurried back and forth between boat and house with smaller objects, what looked like plastic grocery sacks. He was using only one hand, and though the temperature was in the eighties, he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. Carver was sure there was a wrist cast beneath the sleeve on the arm he wasn’t using. Hector, meet Beth, not your standard victim.
Lights glowed on the boat, but it remained at the dock after activity around it had ceased. For a long time there were only dim moonlight and screaming crickets, and a ship’s faint running lights passing slowly far out at sea. Sweating, itching, Carver shifted position to ease cramped muscles.
Just before one o’clock Walter Rainer, wearing what appeared through the binoculars to be huge white bib overalls and a white T-shirt, waddled down to the dock and boarded the boat, blending with the craft’s whiteness like a radar blip merging with the mother ship. A few minutes later Davy, now empty-handed, swaggered on board. One-armed Hector loosed lines from the cleats, but he didn’t hop on board as the Miss Behavin’s twin diesels revved up and sent a low rumbling over the water. The boat edged away from the dock.
All its lights, including running lights, suddenly winked out, and Carver could barely discern its faint form. Then there was almost total darkness, only the white wake catching glimmers of moonlight as the boat made its way out to sea at a pace that suggested nothing so much as stealth. There was no doubt the Miss Behavin’ was attempting to leave Key Montaigne without attracting attention.
Carver swept the binoculars from the shimmering wake back to the dock. All quiet and motionless over there. Hector had already returned to the house, apparently its only occupant now other than Lilly Rainer.
An insect stung or bit the back of Carver’s left hand, and he rubbed the hand across his thigh, felt another sharp sting, heard something buzz away. Letting the binoculars dangle by their leather strap slung around his neck, he gazed out at the vast blackness of sea and night sky. He wondered why Rainer would leave in the boat when he knew he or Beth might be watching. The fat man had been under surveillance for several nights now and might have known it almost from the beginning, but perhaps the pressure of whatever illicit business he was running forced him to act despite the risk.
Of course, Carver thought, there was the possibility he was meant to observe what went on. That he was being misled and set up for a fall.
Carver was curious about the large wooden crates Davy had wheeled on board. They were about the size of the crates automatic washers and dryers came in, only they seemed not nearly so heavy. Davy had managed them almost effortlessly with the two-wheel dolly, as if they contained very little weight. Maybe they were empty, and Carver was supposed to think they were full. But bales of marijuana, kilos of cocaine, would fit in such crates in Mexico, along with enough ballast to tug them beneath the surface if the Miss Behavin’ happened to be approached by the Coast Guard and had to jettison cargo. They might be specially built, with signal and flotation devices so they could be retrieved after danger had passed. That would explain why they were being onloaded at this end of the journey. Carver remembered drug runners off the Mexican coast who’d used technology that way. Barrels of narcotics were jettisoned, then later brought to the surface when radio signals triggered inflatable rings. But the Coast Guard and Drug Enforcement Administration were on to such tricks these days; whatever technology Walter Rainer’s crates might contain, there’d be no way to dump them overboard and surely recover them later.
Something touched Carver’s shoulder and he sucked in his breath and jumped.
“Me, lover.” Beth had approached him silent as a shadow. “After what happened.to me here, I figured it’d be smart for both of us to be on hand.” She looked out at the cove. “Anything going on across the way?”
He explained to her what he’d seen, what he thought.
She said, “We need to find out more, make sure we’re not being suckered.”
“Ideas?” Carver asked.
“Uh-huh. It’s a great night for a swim. Cool us off.”
He considered. He didn’t like sequels. Or reruns. “What about Rainer’s alarm system?”
“I think I know how to deal with it. You said Hector and Lilly are the only ones left over there. So you keep an eye out for trouble and I’ll get in the house and look around.”
“Hector’s still dangerous, even with a broken wrist.”
“Lilly might be more dangerous, but I don’t plan on being seen. And it’s not likely they got the small boat repaired yet, even if they see us and we have to swim for it.”
Carver said, “Where’d you learn about alarm systems?”
“Roberto was paranoid on top of having plenty to worry about. He had everything wired. Times I thought he was gonna have me wired.”
“I don’t remember tripping a wire over there.”
“Figure of speech. You probably got in range of a photoelectric alarm, kind that detects motion when its field is broken. When we get to the other side, you stay just short of where you raised a ruckus the other night, wait for me to neutralize the alarm, then move in close and watch while I see what I can find out inside the house. Good plan?”
“I’m not sure.”
But she was already removing her shoes. “Get undressed, lover.”
She was almost as strong a swimmer as he was. Carver liked to think that, anyway. He wouldn’t want to test her.
He lay on firm ground now, waiting, wet and afraid and gloriously cool in the ocean breeze. Tonight he’d made the swim with his cane tucked in his belt; it would hinder him if there was trouble, but he knew now the paucity of branches or anything else he might be able to use here as a substitute. He also knew the vulnerability he’d feel without his cane.
Beth had moved off to the side, her dark skin and black shorts and T-shirt invisible in the night. She’d dressed for this before approaching him in the blind, certain she could convince him. She’d been prepared to come here no matter who was on the grounds, no matter what the degree of danger. Well, here they were.
He saw her when she was less than ten feet in front of him, but beyond the point where he’d passed and set off the alarm.
“It was a motion alarm, all right,” she said softly. “That means they don’t have dogs patrolling, any of that kinda shit. I did my thing with it. You ready to move in close while I get inside the house?” He picked up the excitement in her voice. She was getting her jollies.
“Don’t take chances,” he warned her.
“That my Fred talking?” And she lost herself in the night.
Carver stood in a crouch with the cane and limped quietly toward the house.
He found cover behind the pool’s filtering system. He could see into the three ground-floor lighted windows from where he sat with his bad leg out in front of him. The other lighted window was upstairs, on the third floor.
After about five minutes Beth appeared in one of the ground-floor windows, looked in his direction and gave a slight wave. She must have watched him before breaking in and gotten a fix on where he’d taken cover. She knew her stuff, all right. He tried not to contemplate her background, the kinds of crime she’d lived through as perpetrator or victim. Some areas of the past you left alone.
He continued watching the window where she’d appeared. Now and then he could see her moving around inside, smooth, nimble, seemingly unafraid, her lean dark body more capable th
an his for this kind of task.
He caught a glimpse of movement in the window two rooms from where Beth was, grabbed his cane and scooted over behind a low wall topped with planters so he could get a better view. Almost knocked over a potted geranium.
There was Hector, slumped in a brown leather chair and reading a magazine. Good. Carver liked knowing where Hector was. He was only two rooms away from Beth, but Carver would know if he got up from his chair. He saw Hector pick up a glass and take a sip of something, his eyes not leaving his magazine.
Carver settled down and continued to watch, occasionally glancing to his right to try to catch a glimpse of Beth. He couldn’t see her, but he noticed a moving shadow and knew she was still in the same room. She must have found something of interest there.
Hector shifted in his chair but didn’t get up.
Carver’s nerves were singing. His mouth was dry. He wished he could be inside instead of Beth, even though he knew that how they were working this made more sense.
He was in close enough to see what Hector was so avidly reading. It looked like pornography, nude figures on the large glossy cover. Tall red letters: naughty nymphets. Hmm, that should keep Hector involved enough not to know Beth was in the house, as long as she didn’t venture into the room where he sat. Carver picked up a pebble. If she went into the middle room, next to the one occupied by Hector, he’d toss it at the window, warn her to get out of there. Carver had a particularly clear view of that room, a kind of den with pale wicker furniture and pastel artwork on the walls.
Uh-oh. Above him! He thought he saw someone in the third-floor window.
There! Again!
It was Lilly. She was standing at the window and looking out at the sea. She was very erect and smiling with a vaguely cruel confidence, like a goddess surveying her domain. He stayed completely still. She hadn’t seen him yet, and wouldn’t unless she peered down through the darkness.
Then she cocked her head suddenly, as if hearing something that had aroused her curiosity. Drew back from the window and out of sight.
A light appeared in a window directly above the middle room. Lilly was on the move.
Now Beth was in the middle room, looking out the window at where Carver used to be, giving her little “I’m okay” wave.
Shapely legs and a pink skirt appeared in the second-floor window above Beth. It looked in on a staircase, and Lilly was descending!
Motion on the left caught Carver’s attention. Hector had put down the magazine and was sitting forward in his chair.
He got up, inserted a finger to scratch beneath the cast on his left wrist, and started toward the middle room.
Carver could only watch. He felt like screaming for Beth to run, but he knew that would only make things worse.
Lilly’s head passed from view, she was almost on the ground floor, only seconds from the room where Carver had last seen Beth.
Finally he remembered the pebble in his sweating palm and tossed it at the window. Too hard. It made a startlingly loud sound and almost broke the glass.
Hector picked up his pace.
Lilly was nowhere to be seen.
Neither was Beth.
Carver’s heart was the loudest sound in the night.
He could only wait.
Wait.
There, Hector and Lilly were in the middle room! They were looking only at each other, talking. Lilly, in a delicate pink wrap unsuitable for her athletic frame, was waving an arm as she spoke. Hector held on to his cast and gazed around. Shrugged.
Carver got the idea. They’d both heard the pebble striking the window, not nearly as loud as it must have sounded to Carver, and both thought the sound might have been made by the other. That was improbable, but it was the kind of thing he could hope.
He wanted to bolt, but he waited for Beth.
Then he saw her over by the pool filter, searching for him. He stayed low and hobbled toward her, keeping his silence.
She saw him and ran wordlessly to him; the wind had died and he could hear her bare feet pounding the hard lawn. My God, she was grinning!
She whispered, “Time to make like fishies again,” and slowed her pace to his as they moved through the darkness to the sea.
When they were a hundred yards from land, the floodlights came on around the Rainer house, and Carver thought he saw Hector walking the grounds.
By the time they’d reached the opposite shore, the lights had been extinguished.
In the cottage Beth showed Carver a soaked and ink-smeared paper she’d brought with her on the swim back. It was illegible now, but she told him the room she’d spent so much time in was an office, and the paper was an unsigned letter insisting that “the cargo had to be shipped, whatever the danger.”
Might the letter have been a plant, part of an elaborate scheme to set him up?
He doubted it. There was no way for Rainer to be sure the house would be broken into, and the alarm Beth had neutralized would have activated the sound and light show that had driven Carver away on his first visit to the Rainer estate.
He and Beth decided they should proceed on the premise that Rainer had been compelled to load the Miss Behavin’ and put to sea.
Carver limped into the bathroom and got a towel, but Beth asked him not to dry himself. She wanted to make love wet. He was exhausted but he understood her need. Shared it. They’d been flying on fear and excitement, and it wasn’t so easy to land.
Adrenaline took over.
At breakfast Beth said, “Some night, huh?”
“On which shore?” Carver asked.
She stirred her coffee. “Why wouldn’t Rainer just put to sea during the day? You figure he doesn’t want anybody being able to swear when or how long the boat’s been gone?”
The morning hadn’t heated up yet, and Henry’s kitchen window was open. There was a breeze, the ancient-new scent of the sea pressing in. Carver took a sip of coffee. Yech! It was in a ceramic mug with a yellow smiley face on it, but it tasted like the coffee from the thermos bottle and didn’t appeal to him. He hadn’t slept well after last night. He was suddenly sick of Walter Rainer and all the Walter Rainers and the people who sucked up to them and even the people who merely tolerated them. Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to swim far, far out to sea, join Henry Tiller. He admonished himself; he hadn’t been haunted by thoughts like that for a long time. Not since he’d been with Edwina. Hadn’t allowed it.
“Fred?”
“I figure it’s more than the boat coming and going,” he said. “He also doesn’t want anyone seeing him load or unload those crates, doesn’t ever wanna have to explain them. He’s got to know that at any given moment he might be under surveillance. But like the letter said, time was beginning to run out on some kinda deal, so he had to take a chance. If we did happen to be watching, we’d only know crates were taken aboard in the dead of night to ferry something somewhere.”
“Not hard to figure what that something is, though,” Beth said. She calmly buttered her toast. The cut on her forehead still looked nasty, almost luminous, but her bruised cheek was much better. She healed fast. “Maybe you better talk to Chief Wicke.”
“No,” Carver said, “not Wicke.”
Beth gave him a smile as she laid her knife across the edge of her plate. “Now you’re beginning to understand the drug trade, Fred.”
He said nothing. Took a bite of toast and chewed thoughtfully.
“What’re you thinking?” she asked.
“Wondering where you got this coffee mug with the smiley face on it.”
“Back of the cabinet over the sink.”
“I never did like this beaming little bastard. I was hoping I’d about seen the last of him.” He rotated the mug on the table and saw that its glaze was finely checked. A survivor from the seventies, Carver thought.
Beth said, “The Coast Guard’ll be able to intercept that boat on its way back from Mexico, if that’s where it’s going. It’s like Rainer himself, built for luxu
ry, not speed.”
“There’s plenty of time,” Carver agreed. “An intercept’s what I was actually sitting here considering. The idea grows on me.”
“Wicke won’t like it, you going over his head,” Beth said, “but some things you gotta do.”
That was for sure.
“Think the DEA or Coast Guard’ll listen to you?” Beth asked.
“No, but they’ll listen to Desoto, or whoever Desoto gets to contact them and request a search at sea.”
“Desoto’ll be sticking his neck out. Will he do that for you?”
“He’ll do it.” Which Carver knew was true; the thing was, he hated to ask Desoto to do it. But he remembered seeing Davy wheeling those big lightweight crates on board the Miss Behavin’. Being careful with them. Under cover of darkness. Secretly as possible.
“You could tell them about the letter.”
“Right,” Carver said, “and trespassing and burglary.”
“It was only a thought. What if they stop the boat and don’t find anything incriminating on board?”
“Then the letter meant nothing and Rainer will have made chumps of us, and his innocent act’ll be that much more convincing. He’ll be all the harder to nail. But I think something’ll be in those crates. And if the crates themselves aren’t on board during an interception and search at sea, Rainer’s explanation’ll be interesting.”
“To you, but maybe not to the DEA or Coast Guard. Rainer wouldn’t have to explain where he left the crates or why. You’re the only one saw them being loaded.”
Carver sipped his bitter coffee. “Well, there’s some satisfaction in making Rainer jettison valuable cargo, and maybe having to chance going out later and trying to retrieve it.”
“That what you’re looking for in this, Fred? Satisfaction?”
“Of one kind or another,” Carver said.
“I figured,” Beth said. “I sure as hell knew it wasn’t money.” She sank her even white teeth into her buttered toast.
Carver shoved his smiley mug away and stood up. He limped to the phone and called Desoto.
He was playing on the edge again.