by John Lutz
Beth said, “I’m sure there are lots of automatic weapons in the area.”
The chief said, “Yeah, that’s sorta my point. I don’t want this thing to escalate.”
Carver said, “Sounds like you’re twisting our arms, Chief.”
“Guess I am, because I know the Brainards better’n you do. You could be walking around with Stinger missiles and it wouldn’t help against them, ’cause they either got guided missiles of their own, or they’ll shoot you in the back from ambush casual, as if you was jackrabbits in season.”
Beth said, “We’re not rabbits.”
“So I understand.” He gave his hat a few twirls between nimble fingers. “All I’m asking is you reconsider staying here and courting trouble. I believe that’s reasonable.”
“It is,” Carver agreed, ignoring the look Beth aimed at him.
“So talk to the lady,” Morgan urged. “Some women got too much fire in their blood, and I’m afraid she’s one of ’em.”
Carver said, “Don’t worry, we’ll talk.”
Morgan shook his head. “Hard not to worry, way the last couple days have gone.” A helicopter-size mosquito that had entered with him circled down on the back of the hand holding the hat. Morgan slapped at it with his other hand but missed. “Well, I done all I can. Police number’s there in the front of the phone book if the Brainards come back.” He lowered the hat to his side and ambled to the door. “No offense, but I hope I don’t hear from you. Hope I don’t see either of you again.”
Beth smiled and said, “No offense taken, Chief.”
Morgan gave her a reciprocal smile and a final, appraising stare. Nodding good-bye to Carver, he opened the door. He plunked his hat square on his head as he walked out, swinging his arms wide.
As soon as the door closed, Carver said, “We’re leaving.”
Beth shook her head. “I don’t see it that way.”
“Not because of the Brainard brothers,” he told her, “because of Chief Morgan. He’ll do what he said, go to his office and start checking on me. He’ll probably consult the Del Moray police.”
“So what? We-”
She bit off her words, suddenly aware of what Carver was thinking.
“If the police, or even the DEA, find out where we are, it’s possible Roberto’ll soon know. There are certain lines of communication between the law and big-time drug dealers. You told me yourself how the law was riddled with bent bureaucrats.”
Beth said, “Yeah, Roberto can find out from the cops where Chief Morgan’s information request came from. And fast. He has informers in places that’d surprise you.”
“He can’t shock me,” Carver said. “I’ve met his wife.”
“Former wife,” Beth corrected. “That’s how I try to think of myself, anyway, even if it’s not quite true yet.”
Carver leaned on his cane and touched her shoulder. Felt the physical energy of passion flow into him. “I think of you that way, too.”
“How long you figure it’d take Roberto to get here, once he finds out the police chief of Dark Glades requested information about us?”
“He might be here by this time tomorrow,” Carver said. “To play it safe, we need to leave before nightfall.”
“So let’s pack,” Beth said. “Get away from here soon as we can.” She was plainly apprehensive now, taking Roberto Gomez much more seriously than she did the simple brute threat of the Brainards.
Carver thought getting away that soon was a good idea. He got his suitcase and slung it onto the bed. Beth disappeared into her room to get busy. As he emptied the dresser drawers, he could hear her moving around on the other side of the wall. The big mosquito that had assaulted Chief Morgan made a pass at him. He swatted at it, knocking it to the floor, stepped on it. Simple. Maybe things were starting to break the right way, the planets swinging into line, luck changing and odds brightening. Could be.
Within a half hour they had their clothes stuffed in their suitcases. Carver told Beth to stay inside while he walked over to the office to return the keys and tell Watts they were leaving earlier than planned. He left her standing between the two suitcases near the door.
But instead of going to the motel office, he stood in the stifling heat and then limped back into the room, remembering the large sheath knife on B.J. Brainard’s belt.
Beth asked him what was wrong, sounding worried, and he motioned for her to look out the window at the car while he used the phone to call for a tow truck from Dark Glades.
All four of the Olds’s tires were flat. They’d been slashed dozens of times with a wide-bladed knife that someone had wielded with the enthusiasm of Jack the Ripper.
Carver and Beth would have to leave Dark Glades tonight or tomorrow, or whenever new tires were available for the Olds.
Beth turned away from the window. “The Brainless brothers!” she said venomously.
Carver said, “They’re not very innovative, but you almost have to admire their persistence.”
“You admire them,” Beth said. She strode angrily back to her room.
Too much fire.
28
Within an hour a dusty red tow truck with MURRAY’S GARAGE lettered on its door, and a thick chain clanging musically against its stubby steel boom, rumbled into the Casa Grande parking lot. It was old and its left front fender was missing.
Carver and Beth watched out the window as it positioned itself behind the Olds. The truck jerked back and forth, its tires tossing gravel. The racket of its motor caused an explosion of birds to fan up and out darkly from the edge of the swamp.
The tow truck’s door opened and a short, husky man in grease-stained gray coveralls leaped from the cab. He stood for a moment swaying, his chest puffed out and his hands floating at his sides, like a cocky astronaut who’d just emerged from a spaceship into different gravity. Then he examined the stub of a cigar jutting from his mouth to make sure he hadn’t bitten into it during the impact of his drop to the ground.
Carver limped outside and said hello to him. Saw that he was about fifty and had a chubby, ruddy face that was so grease-stained it made him resemble an Indian warrior painted and ready to fight. A miniature Crazy Horse, lost in time.
The little guy even smelled like oil. Gnats swarmed around him, but he didn’t seem to notice. The name tag sewn crookedly onto his coveralls said his name was Jack Murray.
He said, “You the guy what called? A Mr. Carver?”
Carver said he was.
“Jack Murray,” said the stocky little man. He propped his dirty fists on his hips and studied the flat tires on the passenger side of the Olds, strutted around and peered at the other flat tires. When he returned to stand facing Carver again, he said, “My, my, it ’pears somebody don’t like you.”
Carver said, “I’ve got an idea who.”
“Well, they done a good job. For certain ruined them tires. Shame, too, as there was plenty of rubber left on ’em.”
“Can you tow the car in and get some replacement tires on it soon as possible?”
“Sure, but soon as possible’s sometime this afternoon.”
“That’ll be fine.” Had to be.
Beth walked out of the room and stood behind Carver. Murray looked at her, then back at Carver. “Hey, you two’re the ones I heard about did a number on the Brainard brothers at Whiffy’s.”
Beth said, not without pride, “That’s us.”
“Well, Christ, ain’t no wonder you got your tires slashed. Fuck them Brainards, they always fuck back.”
Beth said, “Get the tires fixed and we’ll be outa here and they can fuck themselves.”
Murray grinned at her with bold admiration. A couple of missing front teeth lent him a devilish look. “I’d advise it. Advise you to flag down the next Greyhound bus if one came through here. Sell me this old car cheap an’ forget it, count yourselves lucky to get outa here without bein’ worked on like them poor tires.” He shook his head. “Michelins, too.”
Beth tucked her fin
gertips in the back pockets of her Levi’s and smiled at Murray. The way she was standing caused her elbows to brace backward and made her heavy breasts jut out aggressively. Carver wondered if she was working on poor Murray. She said, “Will the Brainless brothers object to you repairing the car so we can leave here?”
“Heh! Heh! The Brainless brothers, huh?” Clearly, Murray liked Beth. “They might object, but who gives a flyin’ leap? Them two are the kinda worthless swamp turkeys don’t work for a livin’ an’ make fun of folks that do. They don’t like me turnin’ an honest dollar, piss on ’em.” He puffed out his chest again, like a proud pigeon, and strutted toward the truck to work the winch. “Only question’s whether I got four tires this size.”
Carver said, “Any size that fits the rims will do.”
Murray started the electric winch and played out chain. They he got down on all fours to fit the tow hooks to the car’s frame. He said, “Wait a friggin’ minute,” and scampered to his feet.
Carver limped toward him. “What’s the matter?”
Murray bent at the waist as if reaching to touch his toes. Amazingly limber. He rubbed at a white dusting on the gravel, then ran this thumb and forefinger together in a circling motion and frowned. After touching his finger to the tip of his tongue, like a chef testing a souffle, he said, “Well, goddam!”
Carver watched as Murray loosened the Olds’s gas cap. He stood staring into the fill pipe. Motioned Carver over with a wave of his grimy hand.
Murray said, “Looka this.”
Carver looked and saw white granules around the edge of the fill pipe. He knew immediately what it was.
Murray screwed the gas cap back on. Both men listened as it made a grating sound. Murray said, “Some sonuvabitch poured sugar in your tank. Sugar don’t dissolve in gasoline; you start this car up an’ it’ll get into the engine an’ the metal parts’ll grind themselves till they bind together. ’Scuse me for sayin’ so, but it’d turn an old car like this the resta the way into junk. I mean, these vintage Olds’s has got engines powerful as Arnold Schwartzenwhatever, but as you can see, rust is startin’ to take over the body.”
“So what do you have to do to get us on the road?” Carver asked.
“Aside from replacin’ the tires, I gotta drain the gas tank. Take it off the car an’ flush it out good. Drain the fuel line, too, just to make sure we got all the sugar outa the system. Then we let everything dry off good an’ put it back together. Pump in some fresh gas, turn the key, an’ hope we got it all an’ the motor’s the way God an’ Detroit intended.”
“How long’s all that gonna take?” Carver asked.
“Realistically, you ain’t goin’ noplace till tomorrow mornin’. I ain’t even sure I got tires’ll fit. Might have to send outa town for some.”
Carver stared out at the swamp, close and looming and green and thrumming with life and death. Something back in the ooze emitted a throaty, primitive cough. An alligator? “Okay,” he said to Murray, “whatever it takes.”
He gave Murray his Visa number, then watched as the Olds’s back end was hoisted and Murray made sure the steering was locked.
When the tow truck dragging the raked, bouncing car had disappeared in a haze of dust, Beth said, “Guy’s a kinda greasy Mr. Goodwrench.”
“I hope so,” Carver said. He did have the impression Murray knew cars. Loved them the way some men loved all women.
Dust settled in the sunlight, and Carver and Beth went back inside Carver’s room.
They locked the doors and lay side by side on his bed, knowing they were stuck in Dark Glades, but glad to be out of the heat. They didn’t make love, didn’t even talk much, both of them listening to the labored, lulling hum of the air conditioner and thinking.
Finally, when it was a few minutes past one, Carver got restless and climbed out of bed. Pacing around with his cane, he talked Beth into admitting she was hungry.
Then he borrowed Watts’s battered Ford pickup, and they drove into town to get something to eat and check on whatever progress Murray was making with the Olds.
29
Carver and Beth returned to Whiffy’s after Murray had run down a list of needed parts with a greasy, authoritative finger. He’d informed Carver he had only two tires in stock that would fit the Olds, then told him the car would be ready sometime tomorrow morning. Some kind of rare gasket and the tires were due in around sunup on a truck from Haines City.
Marlene the waitress kept their coffee cups filled. That was fine with Carver; he figured it wouldn’t be a bad idea to stay up and alert most of the night, maybe in shifts. He and Beth let Whiffy entertain them with tales of dropped pop flies and outrageously called third strikes. To believe Whiffy was to be convinced that only a blind spot in his batting eye had prevented him from becoming another Hammering Henry Aaron, only better looking.
It was almost dark when Carver jockeyed Watts’s old pickup truck back over the rutted dirt road to the motel. As he steered into the lot, he noticed three other cars parked in front of cabin doors. A long Lincoln with Canadian license plates, a red Toyota with clothes piled high on the backseat, and the blue Plymouth with the rental decal on its trunk. None of the guests were staying within two rooms’ distance of Carver and Beth, Watts making sure that if anything did happen, victims would be kept to a minimum.
Carver parked the truck near the office, then sat and waited for the dieseling engine to palump! palump! to silence in the heat. The swamp was hard on things mechanical as well as people.
Beth opened the passenger-side door and hopped to the ground. Envying the way she could move, Carver struggled out of the truck with his cane.
He locked the truck, then limped into the office and saw Watts seated behind the desk, watching a “Mayberry RFD” rerun. Watts glanced over at Carver from his perch on a high stool. “Goddam Barney’s a scream, ain’t he?”
Carver agreed, then dropped the truck keys on the desk. “Thanks, Watts.”
“Car wasn’t ready, I s’pose.” Watts didn’t avert his eyes from the TV. Barney had bought a used motorcycle and was showing it to a skeptical Sheriff Andy.
“It’ll be ready tomorrow,” Carver said. “Anything happen around here?”
“Nope. No messages, no gunfire.”
Beth had gotten tired of standing in the doorway. She walked all the way into the office and stood near Carver, gazing over at the TV. She said, “I always thought Barney was a prick.”
Watts looked at her as if she’d spat on a holy object. “Hey, he’s just a harmless little deputy.”
“Yeah? You get hassled by assholes like that and see how harmless they strike you.”
Watts stared at her and chewed the inside of his cheek, then gave her a nod as if maybe she had a point.
Carver watched as Barney sped away on the motorcycle, leaving the embarrassed sheriff sitting in the sidecar that had come unattached. Watts howled. The laugh track liked it even more. Carver grinned. Beth shook her head sadly.
Carver said, “We’ll be in our rooms the rest of the night.” He limped toward the door.
Watts waved a hand in acknowledgment, engrossed in something Floyd, the Mayberry barber, was saying.
As they were walking across the gravel lot to their doors, Beth said, “What now, a holding action?”
Carver ran the backs of his knuckles gently down her cheek. “Sounds like a good idea.”
She shoved his hand away. “Get serious, Carver.”
He was, he thought. He said, “We’ll lock ourselves in tight, put the Uzi and the Colt by the bed, and in the morning we’ll drive Watts’s truck in and pick up the Olds. Murray said he’d drive the truck back for us.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“Should work; the Brainard brothers are simple.”
She laughed. “So’s the atomic bomb, once you hear it explained. Still lethal, though.”
Carver considered pointing out that she was the one who originally wouldn’t leave Dark Glades. Then he de
cided he’d better not. They’d both underestimated the homicidal sincerity of the Brainards.
Insects were screaming. Carver waved away what felt like a moth fluttering against his face and paused, peering into the night. The dark swamp lay around them, like entangled terrain of the mind, the genesis of nightmares.
He was hot and coated with oily sweat. Suddenly he had a hard time breathing the thick, damp air and wanted to get out of it.
He quickly unlocked the door to his room. Opened it and limped inside. Flicked the light switch, then leaned on his cane while Beth came in. He closed the door and carefully locked it with the knob latch, the dead bolt, and the chain lock. The solid clicking and snicking of the locks made him feel more secure, even though he knew Junior Brainard could jolt the door off its hinges with one kick. The locks, the four walls, kept the swamp at bay, held off the nightmare.
Their packed suitcases were still on the floor, where they’d been left after Carver discovered the Olds’s slashed tires. There was something unsettling about the abandoned luggage. All packed up and no place to go.
Beth said, “I need some stuff outa my bag. Toothpaste, nail polish.”
Her body gave a slight jerk and she stared down at the Gucci suitcase,
Carver tightened his grip on his cane. “What’s the matter?”
“A piece of a dress is caught in the zipper. I think my suitcase has been opened.”
Carver and Beth both moved toward the suitcase. Beth was bending over it when the connecting door to her room opened.
Junior waddled in, cradling a high-powered rifle, B.J. followed. He was holding Beth’s Uzi submachine gun aimed at Carver.
Junior grinned like a schoolkid about to pull wings off flies. “Betcha we know what you’re lookin’ for.”
B.J.’s lean face was creased leather. He said, “We found it”-gave the Uzi a little bounce in his hands-“but we never found that handgun of yours, Carver. Be so kind as to get it out from under your shirt or wherever and lay it down there on the bed.”