by John Lutz
She smiled down at him, then she bent at the waist, picked up her silk panties, and moved toward her room. As she walked away nude in the bright morning light, her lean, taut body writhed like dark flame.
Carver, breathless, said, “My God!”
She glanced back. “Huh?”
“Nothing.” He grinned at her.
She closed the connecting door, and five minutes later he heard her shower running.
Carver reached for his watch on the nightstand and angled it so its dial didn’t reflect light. Nine-thirty.
He sat up on the edge of the bed and pulled the phone to him. He couldn’t call Edwina at home; it was possible her line had been tapped by Gomez, or maybe even McGregor, trying to keep tabs on him. He direct-dialed the Quill Realty number.
Quill’s honey-voiced receptionist said Miss Talbot was in, asked who was calling, then told him just a minute and put him on hold. Muzak played, a neutered Rolling Stones number from the sixties. Moss had gathered.
The music stopped and Edwina’s voice said, “Fred?”
She sounded like a stranger. “Fred,” Carver confirmed.
“Where are you?”
“Can’t say.”
“Sure, I forgot.” Her voice was disinterested.
“I called to make sure you were all right.”
“You’re the one supposed to be in danger,” she said.
“Yeah, that’s true.”
“Fred?”
“Why do you keep saying that? Like you’re not sure it’s me?”
“I told Jack Lester I’d take the position in Hawaii, Fred.”
Just like that. Over the phone. He didn’t feel guilty now. He felt injured deep inside, even though he’d expected this. Even, he knew, secretly hoped for it.
“Fred?”
“Christ, stop saying that!”
“Saying what?”
“My name.
“I’m sorry. But you understand my decision, don’t you?”
“I understand.” And he did, though not all of it. Maybe nobody ever really understood all of something like this.
“Gonna come with me?” she asked.
He didn’t hesitate. They both knew the answer. “No, I can’t.
“Why not?”
“A list of reasons. When do you leave?”
“Two weeks,” she said.
“I’ll see you before then.”
“When?”
“I don’t know for sure.”
“Okay, Fred.”
He could think of nothing to say. He had nothing for this woman he’d lived with and eaten with and slept with and held in the night.
Nothing to say to her.
There was a silence that lasted light-years before she said softly, “ ’Bye.”
He told her good-bye and hung up.
The swamp was in the room now, in his head. Screaming and thrumming and sucking and croaking.
Primal and deadly.
Alive and frightening.
He closed his fingers around his cane propped against the nightstand. Slowly raised it and touched its tip to the wall, as if to reassure himself there was a barrier between him and what was wild and incomprehensible in the outside world.
A full minute passed before he broke contact with the solid wall and lowered the cane.
He leaned back on the bed and gazed up at the ceiling, where Beth had been staring, and he trembled with a chill.
Lakes turning.
25
Carver sat up in the bed when he heard the crunch of tires on gravel stop right outside the door. He felt his bare back stick to the headboard above his wadded pillow. Reaching his cane, he stood up and hobbled to the window. He peered out through the crack between the drawn drapes, narrowing his eyes against the morning glare.
A dusty white Ford with red and blue roof-bar lights was parked next to the Olds. It had a thick, bent antenna jutting from a rear fender. A blue and gold shield on the door, with what looked like a decal of an alligator above it, said DARK GLADES POLICE. Above the alligator, black letters spelled out CHIEF. A man with a Smokey hat sat behind the steering wheel. His face was in shadow, but he was obviously staring out the windshield at Carver.
Carver didn’t pull away from the window. He watched as a tall, well-built man in a blue uniform climbed out of the car and nonchalantly slammed the door. A holstered revolver, a nightstick, and handcuffs dangled from his thick black belt, along with a square, black walkie-talkie. All that paraphernalia made him walk with a lazy swagger, arms floating out to the side to keep them from bumping equipment. He was young and had a handsome, angular face. A friendly face. He smiled at Carver as he passed from sight. His knock on the door was soft but insistent. The foreplay of the law.
Carver limped to the door and opened it.
The man was still smiling amiably. He looked more like a college football hero than a backwater town police chief. A broad-shouldered wide receiver who could run and block and would be hard to bring down.
“I’m Chief of Police Ellis Morgan,” the man said.
Carver nodded. “Fred Carver.”
“I know.” Morgan made a face and glanced in the direction of the fierce morning sun angling fire in over the treetops. “Can I come in where it’s cool, Mr. Carver?”
“Sure, sorry.” Carver stepped back and to the side. Morgan eased past him, glancing at the cane, no surprise or pity in his eyes. He removed his Smokey hat and let spring a shock of thick black hair. Hatless he looked even younger, no more than twenty-five.
“Feels good in here,” he said, dabbing at his forehead with a blue shirt sleeve. His friendly blue eyes did a turn around the room and didn’t flicker when they took in the bed, which had obviously been slept in by two. He said, “Came by to talk about the trouble happened in Whiffy’s yesterday evening.”
“It’s over, I hope,” Carver said.
Morgan let out breath in a way that made little popping sounds between his pursed lips. “Nope, not likely. The Brainards aren’t the type to let something like what happened go by. I mean, your lady friend, black woman at that, was whipping ass on big Junior when Whiffy broke it up. Old Farnham was watching from where he sat at the counter, said lucky for the Brainards Whiffy came in when he did, or they’d have been royally stomped.” He grinned. “That the way it went?”
“That’s how it might have gone,” Carver said.
“The lady said her husband taught her to fight tough like that. Martial-arts stuff. And you’re not her husband?”
“I’m a friend.”
The blue eyes darted to the bed and back. “Now and then we get tourists stay here, Mr. Carver. For the fishing or to take airboat rides or some such. But I tell you, you don’t strike me as the fisherman type.”
“How about airboats?”
“Around here, Mr. Carver, airboats are mostly used to poach ’gator or smuggle drugs. You don’t want me to think you might be that type.”
Carver said, “I’m glad I’m not wearing my alligator shoes.”
Morgan leaned back with his buttocks against the edge of the dresser and crossed his arms, still with his amiable country smile. Maybe he slept wearing that expression. “I gotta be impressed, a guy puts up here at the motel, drops by Whiffy’s for supper with his lady, then the two of them are well on their way to whaling bejesus outa the town’s leading muscle. Go ahead and eat their supper after the commotion dies down. I mean, ordinary folks just don’t behave such a way.”
Carver said, “Sure came as a surprise to B.J. and Junior.”
“Lots in life surprises them boys.” Morgan idly twirled his hat in both hands by its stiff brim. “Mr. Carver, you’re some rough man, even though you walk with a cane.”
“Cane can be a potent weapon.”
“ ’Pears that’s true. And you look in fine physical shape other than the bum leg. How’d you pick it up, car accident?”
“I was hit by something,” Carver said. He saw that the chief wanted to find out more
but had decided not to ask.
Morgan said instead, “What kinda work you in?”
Carver figured it was wise not to underestimate the man, young and backwater or not. “I’m a private investigator from up north.”
“North?”
“Central Florida.”
“On a case?”
“Not exactly. Just here with my friend. She’s a Florida State student and she’s received some threats from the people where she lives. Because I stay there overnight sometimes. It’s a condo where the neighbors are mostly from Southern states and don’t think highly of interracial love.”
“Love, is it?”
“Maybe. You’re getting awful personal, Chief.”
“Well, I don’t give a damn what you two are to each other. None of my business. I’m trying to save you and the lady some trouble, Mr. Carver. You see, compared to here in Dark Glades, the neighbors at the condo up north might seem like the NAACP.”
“Whiffy led me to believe that.”
“He’s right. Whiffy’s a good man to listen to. Lived a lotta his life out away from here. Played baseball in the minor leagues, then did a brief stint with the Atlanta Braves. Poor guy couldn’t hit the high hard one.”
“He told me,” Carver said. “He was a catcher.”
“Yeah, tell that looking at his hands.” Morgan stood up straight and his expression changed. He was smiling more warmly. “Morning, ma’am.”
Standing in the doorway to her room, Beth smiled and returned his good morning. She was wearing her jeans and a khaki shirt that had oversized pockets with flaps over her breasts. Her hair was still glistening with water from her shower, and she was barefoot.
Carver looked at her and said, “This is Police Chief Ellis Morgan.”
She came the rest of the way into the room. “I overheard while I was getting dressed.” She sat down on the bed and crossed her legs. Her presence seemed to make Morgan nervous. He was young, all right, and hadn’t seen many women of any color with Beth’s high voltage,
Morgan made himself look into her eyes. Brave man. He said, “You from Del Moray like Mr. Carver?”
Carver realized Morgan had run a make on his license number, gotten his address.
“No,” Beth said, “I live farther south. I go to school.”
“Having trouble where you live, I understand.”
Beth said, “Yes, I am. That’s why we wanted to get away for a while.”
Morgan said, “I wish I could say you came to the right spot. Wish I could advise you to stay.” He looked at Carver. “Instead I gotta advise you to leave.”
Beth’s voice was incredulous. “You’re running us out of town?”
Morgan laughed. “Lord, no. I wouldn’t do that even if I could. Anyway, I admire what you did last night. Thing is, Junior and B.J. are into illegal drugs. Maybe Carver here knows how nasty that game can be, or maybe he don’t. But I’m telling you it can be rough. And the people in it value their reputations for toughness. Last night you shredded Junior’s bad-boy image, and he’s gotta get it back. I mean, just gotta! Even if he wasn’t a stupid, vengeful bastard, it’d be good business for him. Necessary business. So the two of you stay around Dark Glades, you can just about count on more trouble.”
Beth said, “Are you offering us protection if we don’t leave?”
“Sure. But I gotta be honest, I can’t protect you ’round the clock from the Brainards. Only me and two officers on the force. We got two patrol cars, and one’s running about half the time. The city budget kinda limits what I can do for you.”
“Go talk to the Brainards,” Beth suggested. “Scare them into thinking of other matters.”
“Gotta talk gorilla to get through to them boys. Not real advanced gorilla, at that. Running drugs, poaching ’gators, whipping ass-that’s what their lives are about. You snatched a third of that away by making them into fools in Whiffy’s. Ain’t a big place, Dark Glades, and talk gets passed around like a common cold, only quicker.”
Carver said, “How big is the drug trade around here?”
Morgan shrugged. “Shit, folks in these parts grow the stuff like it was dandelions. And what they don’t grow they buy and pass on for profit. Not many other ways to make money in a place like this. Tell you the truth, I’d suspect that was why you were in town, as part of some kinda drug deal. Only if that was so, you probably wouldn’t’ve mixed it up with the Brainards; they’d have been in on the deal or known about it.” He edged toward the door, putting on his hat and fastening the strap beneath his chin. He smiled widely at them. “I just wanted to meet you two after what you did last night. Wanted to let you know how things stood in Dark Glades. We ain’t what you’d call a progressive city, I’m afraid. Around here, affirmative action means a lynching.”
Carver said, “Whiffy’s done okay.”
“Well, Whiffy, he’s another story.”
“He’s black.”
“Not exactly,” the chief said. “Not in what you’d call the Dark Glades sense. He’s been around, Whiffy has. To the big leagues and the big cities. Makes him sort of cosmopolitan. Whiffy’s different.”
Beth stood up, looking beautifully angry. “We’re all different, Chief Morgan. Don’t you watch ‘Geraldo’?”
“So you are,” Morgan said. His smile looked as if it might slip off his face and shatter at his feet like crystal. “Didn’t mean to insult you, ma’am.” He sounded genuinely sorry.
Beth didn’t answer.
At the door he turned and said, “Wish you folks’d be sensible and leave. Avoid real trouble.”
Carver said, “We’ll think about it. Thanks for the advice, Chief.”
“Do try to talk some sense into the lady.” He extended two fingers, as in a Cub Scout salute, and tapped the brim of his hat. “Been a pleasure.”
He shut the door behind him, but not before a couple of flies had found their way in.
Carver stood with both hands folded over the crook of his cane. He listened to Morgan’s car start, then the gravelly crunch of tires as it backed out of its parking slot. When it got straightened out and accelerated, there was a deeper rattle of gravel.
The flies that had been let in circled and buzzed against the light filtering through the drapes. They sounded desperate. Carver looked down at Beth, still perched on the edge of the bed with her legs crossed. He said, “We better talk about this.”
Beth said, “Sure. Talk’s cheap.”
“Sometimes life is, too.”
“I can only run from one thing at a time, Carver. You think these pissant redneck drug dealers scare me?”
My, my. “I dunno. They scare me.”
She grinned and said, “Yeah, but only up to a point.”
He looked at his new lover, the marked-for-murder wife of the drug kingpin. Not Edwina, but a woman who was in many ways still a stranger. He felt a cold and echoing emptiness.
Yet, in a stronger sense, Beth was anything but a stranger. Momentum had them. They were moving toward each other in a vortex of new and unknown passion, the age-old endless discovery. It was a whirlpool neither could resist, and neither wanted to escape.
26
By the time the fried eggs and bacon arrived at their table at Whiffy’s, Beth was no longer misty-eyed. Before they’d left the motel, she’d called again to check on Adam and had a lengthy, tearful phone conversation with Melanie. Carver figured there was a time limit on keeping mother and child separated. He wasn’t sure how long that might be.
Marlene the waitress gave them each a shy grin as she set the plates before them. She glanced with unabashed awe at Beth, then told them to signal when they wanted more coffee. She returned to the sizzling grill behind the counter.
There were about a dozen customers in Whiffy’s, mostly rough-looking men. Just three women, one of them very old and almost bald. No sign of Whiffy this morning. Maybe he only appeared when there was trouble, when Marlene drew him like a gun. Occasionally, one of the men would look over at Carver
and Beth, features set in barely disguised hostility. The women were less reserved in letting their faces show their curiosity and disapproval. Carver experienced what Beth must have felt all her life in places like this. He wondered how a person learned to live with it and not explode.
The scent of the eggs and bacon wafted up to him, spurring his appetite. Beth was pouring cream in her coffee. She seemed calm now, completely over her phone call. And seemingly unconcerned about the attitude of Whiffy’s clientele. It was, after all, what she’d expected.
He picked up his fork and began to eat.
The eggs were greasy but good. Biscuits were terrific. Coffee strong, the way Carver liked it. He could see why Whiffy’s had no serious competition in Dark Glades.
When they were finished eating and on their second cups of coffee, Carver said, “Sure you wanna stay here? It doesn’t make much sense to me.”
“Yes it does,” Beth said. “You understand.”
“You’re running for your life,” Carver reminded her.
She sipped her coffee and considered. Above her, one of the ceiling fans ticked like a metronome as its wide blades rotated. “Might be this kinda trouble wherever we go.”
“Not in a big city. We could lose ourselves in Miami. Or maybe the Tampa area.”
“You kidding, Carver? Those are the places Roberto operates heaviest and has the most connections. You were the one came up with the idea of going to the boondocks, and it was a good one.”
“That was before we knew what kinda place this was. Before we met Junior and B.J. Brainard.”
Beth stared at him with something like pleading in her dark eyes. “Carver, you gotta understand, I just can’t run from people like Junior and B.J.; I made it the basis of my whole life, not running from them and their kind.”
“You mean you joined them instead?”
She sat back and looked as if he’d kicked her in the stomach.
He reached for his cup, then set it back down without having raised it more than an inch. “Damn it, I didn’t mean it like that, Beth! You know it.”