by John Lutz
It was possible.
Just as possible as that Red Sea thing in the Bible. Water and miracles seemed to have a lot to do with each other. Wine into water . . .
The hall ceiling tilted and rose up and up, and the pain floated Carver away.
41
“EVERYBODY’S TALKING ALL AT once and about each other,” Wicker said to Carver and Beth the next morning on the cottage porch, “and here’s how it was.” The sea was shooting silver sparks of sunlight in the background and gulls were crying above the rushing whisper of the surf. Wicker leaned with his buttocks against the porch rail, the ocean at his back. Only the palms and backs of his hands were bandaged now, and he was regaining mobility in his fingers. “Dr. Benedict and Adelle Grimm had been having an affair for more than a year. Adelle discovered after her husband’s death that she was pregnant.”
“With Benedict’s child?” Beth asked.
“She had no way of knowing for sure. Benedict was pressuring her to have an abortion. At the same time, she was beginning to suspect to her horror—that’s the way she put it—that Benedict might have had some connection with the clinic bombing. Wracked with grief and guilt, in emotional turmoil over Benedict and whether to carry the child to term, she went to Martin Freel to hear from his own lips his denial that Operation Alive was responsible for the bombing. She wanted to try to get a glimpse of the truth, and perhaps to try to find her way to a decision through religion.”
“That’s when I saw them meet at the Blue Dolphin Motel,” Carver said, remembering the intensity of their conversation and how he’d mistaken it for romantic attachment.
“That’s right,” Wicker said, “and she didn’t find the understanding and solace she was seeking. Now we get to Benedict: Adelle had refused to leave her husband for him, and he decided the only way to possess her was to kill Dr. Grimm. Additional incentive was the decreasing profitability of the Women’s Light Clinic due to Operation Alive’s demonstrations and terror tactics. And Benedict was convinced that soon abortions would be effected through pills, in private, and the clinic would become obsolete. The explosion and ensuing insurance settlement seemed the only way out of the downward financial spiral and would also clear the way for Benedict to be with Adelle. It was Benedict who sent some of the threatening letters to Grimm and to himself, who fired the late-night shot into the clinic, who used Norton as the fall guy. And Benedict hired Ezekiel Masterson to plant the blasting caps in Norton’s car and try to scare you off the case so even more blame and suspicion would be focused on Operation Alive. It was Benedict who planted the bomb in Coast Medical Services, in the storage shed so it wouldn’t harm anyone, to make it appear that Operation Alive was trying to avert suspicion from Norton.”
“So he wasn’t the idealist his wife imagined,” Carver said, remembering how Benedict had harbored no suspicion that his wife drank. The secrets people kept from each other.
“He was an idealist in love and afraid of how his world was changing,” Wicker said. “He’s expressed a lot of grief over the death of the patient and the maiming of Delores Bravo at Women’s Light, said he only wanted to kill Dr. Grimm but he wasn’t knowledgeable enough about explosives and the bomb was more powerful than he intended.”
Carver watched a gull soaring in narrowing, ascending circles above the surf. “Then Adelle wasn’t involved in the bombing and knew nothing about it.”
“That’s right,” Wicker said. “Dr. Benedict alone planted the bomb in the clinic. He’s been charged with the murders of Dr. Grimm and Wanda Creighton. Masterson’s been charged with Lapella’s murder.”
“Is Norton free?”
“Released from custody this morning.” Wicker stared down at his bandaged hands and seemed to shiver slightly in the sun. “I talked to his wife. She said Norton was going to plant a bomb in the clinic during the demonstration. That’s why he went around behind the building. Then Benedict’s bomb exploded, and for a moment Norton thought his own bomb had gone off prematurely and he was going to die. He ran away in a daze, and he and his wife managed to hide the bomb he’d intended to plant.”
“Why would she tell you that?” Carver asked.
“It was off the record and without witnesses, so she can always deny the conversation. It’s the way these people think. She was boasting.”
“He’ll try it again,” Beth said.
Wicker smiled sadly. “That’s what his wife told me. He’ll try it again someplace else. I believe her. She seemed proud of him.”
Wicker jammed his hands deep into his pockets, tugging his pants low enough for his belt to slide beneath his protruding stomach.
“Now come the lawyers,” he said.
“They’ll keep coming and take over the world,” Carver said.
Wicker smiled and shrugged. “We already have. I meant it was the prosecutors’ turn now.”
Lawyers and accountants with guns.
Carver and Beth watched Wicker trudge through the fierce sunlight back to his car, his heels dragging on his pants cuffs. Carver was amazed, as he often was, at how the truth had finally spun out. Though it had become a cause célèbre, the clinic bombing and the issue of legal abortion actually had nothing to do with each other.
“It won’t be that simple,” Beth said.
He looked over at her. “What won’t be?”
“The whole abortion rights issue. It’s far too complicated to be settled by demonstrations or a bomb, or even a pill that ensures privacy.”
Carver figured she was right, thinking of Norton, of what his wife had told Wicker: He’ll try it again someplace else.
Proud of him.
42
CARVER WAS LYING ALONGSIDE Beth on the big beach towel with the flamingo design on it that afternoon. They’d both been swimming, and he’d gone back to the cottage and returned with sun blocker for Beth and two cans of cold Budweiser. He lay now on his stomach on the towel, listening to the sea and feeling the hot sun on his back while beside him Beth applied the sun blocker to her arms and shoulders. His head was sideways and resting on his arms, but still he saw the shadow on the sand.
He raised his head and tilted it far back, as if he were a turtle. Adelle Grimm was standing over them. She was wearing green slacks and a loose white blouse and holding a white sandal in each hand. She didn’t yet look pregnant.
“You’re surprised to see me,” she said. The sun was behind her, turning her hair into a halo and making it difficult to make out the expression on her face.
“I suppose so,” Beth said.
Adelle seemed to be looking at Carver. “I came for . . . I don’t really know. Absolution, maybe.”
“I’d give it to you if I could,” Carver said. What had she done? Stepped out on her husband. It wasn’t an uncommon transgression. She’d had no idea it would mean his death.
But it had. He was dead and now maybe she was pregnant with his child. Somebody’s child. Either the husband she’d cheated on or the man who’d murdered him.
“I guess that’s really why I went that day to see Martin Freel. For understanding and absolution.”
“Maybe you should see him again.”
“Are you going to have the baby?” asked Beth, the woman who, because of Adelle’s lover, wasn’t going to have a baby.
“I don’t know. I can’t decide.” The pain in her voice was more burning than the sun.
“You came here for advice,” Beth said. “We can’t give you any.” Carver was surprised by the hardness in her tone, almost a cruelty. “It’s your decision. Yours alone. People like Martin Freel don’t know it yet, but that’s the way it has to be. It’s that way for every woman.”
Adelle backed up a step, her bare toes digging into the hot sand. She didn’t seem to mind the heat, as if the burning of her feet might be some sort of benediction.
“What are you going to do?” Carver asked in a tone kinder than Beth’s.
Adelle waited a moment before answering, staring out beyond him at whatever held her
eye on the sea. “I’m not sure,” she said at last, “but I have to make up my mind soon. I have to get this settled.”
She turned and walked away. Carver lay watching her still-slim figure as she climbed the wooden steps from the beach. She bent gracefully to slip her shoes back on, then passed from sight. Beyond her he could see distant storm clouds stacking up for miles in the western sky, blowing in from the Gulf.
He dropped his head and rested it again on his arms. His wristwatch was a hard lump at his temple. Through his ear, through the bones around his ear, he could hear it ticking away time.
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 antacid 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 © 1996 by John Lutz
cover design by Kris Tobiassen
978-1-4532-1899-0
This edition published in 2011 by Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
Table of Contents
Cover
Lightning
Dedication
Contents
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
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
A Biography of John Lutz
Copyright
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John Lutz, Lightning