Flame

by John Lutz

  As soon as he got into the Ford, he noticed the little square receiver for the transmitter he’d placed on the boat was gone from where he’d left it on the front seat. He bent forward and reached under the seat. The Colt automatic was still there, cool and heavy to the touch. It felt like doom.

  He started the car and drove from the lot, down along the dock and away from where the Bold Entrepreneur was tied up. Made a couple of left turns and parked in the next block.

  Between two low brick buildings, a dry cleaner and a bookstore, he could barely see the bridge of the Bold Entrepreneur. He sat in the car for a while with the engine idling and the air conditioner blasting, watching the boat, admiring how the setting sun glanced orange-red off its brightwork, letting his mind turn over. Then it occurred to him that Jefferson might be free from the handcuffs by now. Might have gotten together with Palma to go looking for him. The Ford would be easy to spot.

  Carver moved the Ford down a block. Then he got the Colt out from under the front seat and tucked it in his waistband beneath his shirt, next to Jefferson’s smaller .38 revolver. A dangerous thing to do and an easy way to get your balls shot off, but it kept both guns out of sight.

  He got out of the car and crossed the street. Limped back a block, to near where he’d been parked, and then went between the bookstore and dry cleaner and walked behind them.

  He was in a kind of wide alley. There were dumpsters and trash cans along one side, but all neat and clean. A tidy stack of newspapers, bound with twine, sat next to one of the trash cans. Carver figured the truck that picked up the trash would suit the area, be new and bright, with a smiling, uniformed crew.

  On the other side of the alley was a grassy area with palm trees and two bleached white concrete benches. Though the sun was low now, the temperature remained high. Probably in the nineties. Carver was sweating; he felt hot and oily. He limped over to one of the benches beneath the palm trees and sat down. He had a better view of the dock from here, through another line of gently swaying palms, and he wasn’t noticeable himself.

  He sat patiently, practicing what he was good at: waiting. Putting together what he was going to do. Trying to, anyway.

  Farneaux arrived just before dark.

  A long blue Lincoln coasted along the dock, past the Bold Entrepreneur at about twenty miles an hour. It must have let Farneaux out some distance from the boat, because it was a good five minutes before Carver saw a short, well-tailored man with iron-gray hair step jauntily from the dock onto the Bold Entrepreneur and quickly duck through a door and into a companionway beneath the bridge. There were lights on aboard the boat now; the portholes glowed, and occasionally there was shadow movement beyond the thin curtains. A loop antenna above the bridge began to revolve. Heightened activity.

  The boat could set to sea now. All the players were aboard.

  All but one.

  Carver stood up from the bench and planted his cane firmly. Limped toward the line of palm trees and the dock.

  Toward the gently rising and falling white hull.

  Knowing what he had to do, even if he didn’t know exactly how to do it.

  Chapter 36

  AS CARVER THUMPED ACROSS the rough plank dock he could smell the rotted-fish scent of the water beneath him. He was still a hundred feet from the boat when a man in dark slacks and an unbuttoned white shirt emerged from below deck and made his way up to the flying bridge. Another man followed him up onto the deck but walked toward the stern. He hopped nimbly onto the dock, bent over, and with a deft motion untied the aft hawser from its cleat. Swaggered along the dock toward the bow to untie that line so the Bold Entrepreneur would be floating free.

  Busy with the line, he didn’t notice Carver. He and Carver stepped on board the boat at about the same time. Carver almost fell and had to steady himself for a moment by hooking the crook of his cane over the low rail. The sudden movement and clatter of the cane caught the man’s attention. Carver was in too close to be seen by the man on the bridge, and a generator was chugging away and covering softer sounds.

  Startled, the man in the unbuttoned white shirt stared at him. He had bushy black hair trimmed short and wild, a chest matted with more black hair. Broad shoulders. Very flat-bellied and lean through the waist. Kind of guy who could give you trouble.

  He cocked his head and dropped his hands to his sides. Took a step toward Carver. Said, “Help you?” His voice was neutral; he didn’t know which way to play this, how he should act.

  Carver said, “I’m supposed to deliver a message to Frank Wesley. Important.”

  That made the man even more curious. Over the chugging of the generator, Carver was barely aware of voices, loud laughter, from below deck. Where were Jefferson and Palma? He was sure they knew he’d come on board; he hoped they wouldn’t charge in after him, fuck up everything.

  The man moved closer. Carver smiled. Into this now. “You Mr. Ogden?”

  The man started to answer, barely parted his lips, when Carver rammed the tip of the cane deep into his abdomen just beneath the sternum. Breath whooshed from the man and his eyes widened in surprise and pain. When he clutched his stomach, Carver whipped the cane across his throat, playing for keeps. The man dropped to his knees, bent over sharply, and rolled onto his side. He was gagging and trying to catch his breath all at the same time, unable to make much noise with his crushed larynx. One hand clawed at his throat.

  Twin diesels clattered and roared to life, and the boat began to vibrate and head out to sea. Carver shoved the stricken man overboard, knowing he might drown, knowing that leaving him on board might be fatal to himself and Edwina. Playing for keeps. Over the roar of the diesels, he had to strain to hear the splash.

  The deck’s vibration running up his legs, into the core and blood of him, Carver drew the Colt from his waistband. His heart was racing and he felt the odd exhilaration that told him he was ready. More than ready—eager.

  He limped to the low door he’d seen Farneaux disappear through. Opened it. Saw a narrow set of polished wood stairs. Lifted the cane and used the strength of his arms on the railing to steady himself as he dropped through the companionway and below deck.

  Landed on soft carpet and quickly found his balance with the cane.

  Silence hit like a bomb. In the surprisingly spacious, plush area below deck, they all turned and stared at him. At the gun.

  Walter Ogden was there, seated with his legs crossed on a red velvetlike bench that curved along the side of the hull. Four men in shirtsleeves, one of them Frank Wesley, were sitting at a round poker table, not playing cards but eating. Not caviar and champagne but steak and red wine. Except for Wesley, who had a glass of what looked like bourbon in front of him. A small black man who was actually wearing a tall white chef’s cap was standing over the table, delicately holding a bottle of wine in both hands. His eyes riveted on the gun, he slowly sat down next to Ogden on the bench, cradling the wine bottle as if it were an infant he needed to protect.

  Carver couldn’t hear the generator down here, but it or power off the engines was doing good work, keeping the boat very cool. The smell of the sea didn’t penetrate from outside. The carpet was thick and red, the color of the curved bench, and there were matching little red curtains framing the portholes, which were covered by white sheer curtains. On the paneled walls were fox-hunting prints, like those on Willoughby’s walls down in Hillsboro Beach.

  All four men at the table started to stand, as if they’d all reached the same conclusion with the same mind. Or maybe there’d been some sort of signal.

  Carver waved the gun in a tight circle. Said, “Stay sitting, gentlemen.”

  They lowered themselves back into their canvas sling chairs, again in unison. Ogden, on the low red bench, hadn’t moved.

  Carver had what he thought was a bulkhead behind him, so he wasn’t worried about his back. “Where are the others?”

  Ogden said, “Farneaux’s in the head.” Still without moving.

  A door opened
and Farneaux, now with his suitcoat off, ducked his head and stepped in from what looked like a narrow teak-paneled hall with a bathroom off to the side. He had a puffy face and a yellowish complexion that suggested he was ill. When he saw Carver and the gun he looked even sicker. His eyes rolled. His slash of a mouth opened to trail a thread of saliva and then arced down in fear and disgust.

  Carver said, “Where’s Butcher and Courtney?”

  Ogden seemed to be the only one with enough presence of mind to speak. “Resting.”

  “Get them in here.”

  Ogden didn’t have to get up. He reached above his head and pressed a button mounted on the smooth white ceiling.

  Within less than a minute, Courtney stepped through the same door Farneaux had come through. Her thick black hair was mussed and she had on red shorts and a khaki blouse. Red high heels. Looked like a hooker. Part of her act, Carver figured. She blinked as if she were tired. She appeared surprised for a moment, then her face went blank. Carver could imagine her brain spinning behind those calm dark Latin eyes.

  Butcher followed her, ducking almost to a squat to get through from the low passageway. He was wearing white shorts and was barefoot. Didn’t have a shirt on. He was fat, but below the layer of blubber muscles rippled like separate live things trapped in cellulite. Might have been a sumo wrestler. He was wearing the obscene rawhide necklace of cured earlobes around his fat, perspiring neck. One of the lumps of flesh was a lighter color than the others. There didn’t seem to be a hair on his body, not even on his tree-trunk-thick, slightly bowed legs.

  He gave his piglike little grin and said, “Well, looka what we got here.” He’d been holding his right hand behind him. Moved it around now to show he was gripping a knife with a long, thin blade. “I got me a new charm on my necklace, Carver. But you know about that, don’t you? How’s the ear feel today?”

  “Feels like it’s time for you to shut up.”

  Wesley stood up and faced Carver. “To what do we owe the dramatics, Mr. Carver?”

  Carver said, “Sit back down.” He didn’t like Butcher and Wesley both standing. Not to mention Courtney, who didn’t yet know the game. His eyes shifted to the grotesque necklace. A new charm.

  Wesley didn’t move. Instead he said with something like impatience, “We all know it’s not in you to squeeze that trigger. It takes a certain type of man to kill face-to-face. You’re not that type. Butcher is. So let’s waste no more time pretending.”

  “I have the gun,” Carver reminded him.

  “Means nothing.”

  “Guns always mean something.”

  “Not in this case. Because you’re the product of your morality. Of too many books, TV shows, and movies that taught you how to behave. Made you what you are. You’re a hard man, but you have compunctions, Mr. Carver, and they’ll freeze your finger on the trigger.”

  “Can you be sure?”

  “I certainly can,” Wesley said in a condescending voice. “Because I know about people. How they think. What they become. How they can’t help what they are and, under extreme stress, can’t be anything different. Being sure, and acting on it, is how I’ve reached the pinnacle. Why I don’t fall off.”

  “You might make a mistake.”

  “Haven’t made one yet. Sheep never attack wolves; it isn’t in nature’s plan. No mistake here, Mr. Carver, except for yours.”

  Ogden stood up now. He’d been listening. Wesley had convinced him. He nodded to Butcher.

  Butcher put on his dreamy grin and moved toward Carver. The boat rocked gently, as if influenced by his weight.

  Wesley said, “You made the mistake by coming on board, Mr. Carver. But we can talk about it. Sit here at the table and sip fine wine and make our respective positions clear. Be men of reason. Agreed?”

  Carver squeezed the trigger. Butcher’s head jerked and blood sprayed. He remained standing but the top of his skull was gone. Red and gray matter patterned the teak wall behind him. There was a stupid, incredulous look on his face, as if he’d just been told a joke he didn’t understand. No top to his head, he had to be dead, but he wouldn’t fall. Hadn’t even dropped the knife.

  Carver shot him again, this time in the chest, and he dropped in the lifeless, limb-splayed heap of the dead.

  Wesley sat back down.

  So did Ogden. Farneaux was slumped in a corner, vomiting, stinking up the place. He’d been standing close to Butcher and his white shirt was spattered with blood and brain matter. The cook was shaking violently on the bench, his chefs cap cocked at a crazy angle on his head. He’d dropped the wine bottle but it hadn’t broken on the soft carpet. Wine was gurgling from it. Everyone at the table looked sick; no one could take his eyes off Butcher.

  They hadn’t seen killing firsthand, none of them. They’d caused plenty of deaths since the King assassination, but their victims had been rival middlemen and burned-out addicts. Poor, trapped kids and desperate dealers they’d never met. This was different. This was someone they knew, even if they didn’t like him. This was blood and bone and gristle. Violence right here with them and about them, where they could see it and smell it and couldn’t deny or escape it.

  Courtney was trembling like the cook, but her expression was still impassive.

  Ogden was the only truly calm one. He said, “What the fuck you want out of this, Carver?”

  Carver said, “Edwina Talbot. Get her.”

  Ogden didn’t answer at first. Then he laughed. Wesley glared over at him as if he’d done something obscene.

  Ogden said, “She’s not on board. Never was.”

  Carver swung the Colt toward him. “I don’t mind squeezing the trigger again.”

  One of the men at the table said, “Jesus, no! Don’t!”

  Ogden seemed unconcerned. “We don’t have her. Didn’t take her. If somebody told you we did, they were lying.”

  Carver looked at Courtney. Courtney, no longer trembling, said, “He’s telling the truth. She’s not on board.”

  Wesley was regaining his composure, though his face still had a greenish tint. He swiveled in his chair to face Carver and said, “Search the boat if you’d like. It’s not that large.”

  Carver told him to stand up.

  Ogden said in an amused voice, “Minute ago you wanted him to sit down.”

  Carver gripped Wesley’s soft arm and jammed the Colt’s barrel hard into his temple. Wesley made an involuntary whimpering sound and backed with Carver into the narrow passageway, leaving the door open.

  Quickly Carver checked the two staterooms and the bath. They were empty. Wesley was right; the boat wasn’t that large, there weren’t many places to look. And if Edwina were on board, Courtney probably would have said so. Somebody would have admitted it. Shooting Butcher had made the desired impression.

  Carver shoved Wesley back out into the main room. Told him to sit down again. Wesley obeyed.

  But the action seemed somehow to have cleared Wesley’s mind. It was clear that Carver had miscalculated; Wesley saw that as a weakness to be exploited. He said, “You believe us now? That your lady friend isn’t on board?”

  Carver said nothing. Trying to figure it. Why he’d been lied to and what was the angle.

  “Which means,” Wesley said, “that we’re guilty of nothing. On the other hand, you’ve forced your way on board and killed a man.”

  Carver said, “I doubt you’ll radio the Coast Guard.”

  “Point is,” Wesley said, “your heroic rescue turns out to be a farce. Where’s that leave you?”

  Carver knew where it would have to leave him. He’d known it from the moment he’d heard the powerful twin diesels as the boat nosed out to sea.

  He said, “There a lifeboat on this thing?”

  Wesley laughed, feeling the balance of power shift. “Only an inflatable raft, I’m afraid. Not a very romantic way for you to make your exit.” The rest of the men at the table were gaining confidence along with Wesley. One of that prosperous group actually smiled. Nobody
was looking at Butcher’s body now.

  Carver said, “Call your man on the bridge. Tell him to set the boat on course and to get down here.”

  Ogden shrugged and stood up. Leaned over an intercom and said, “Harry, set her on course and come below.”

  In a minute or so a pair of jeans-clad legs were descending the companionway. Rubber-soled deck shoes touched carpet.

  Harry was only in his twenties, but he was solidly built and tough-looking, like the man Carver had taken out at the dock. He looked around and sized up what was happening. When he saw Butcher his face got hard. His eyes got older. He’d been around enough, this one.

  Carver said to Courtney, “You know where the raft’s stowed?”

  She nodded. Still trying to understand what was happening. She knew it had to be Jefferson or Palma who’d told Carver Edwina was on board. Obviously didn’t know why.

  Carver instructed her to sit on the bench where Ogden had been. Then he motioned with the gun for everyone else to go through the door into the hall leading to the head and cabins.

  Wesley said gloatingly, “So you yourself are going to take a hostage. You’re getting in deeper, Carver.”

  Carver said nothing. He made Wesley lead the way so the rest would follow. Which they did, wordlessly.

  When they were all on the other side of the door he closed it and jammed the table up against it. Wedged two chairs between the table and the opposite wall. They’d be able to force the door open eventually. But when they did they couldn’t be sure Carver wasn’t still out there with the gun.

  He looked at Courtney and said, “They know about you.” Which wasn’t true but would gain her cooperation. Carver didn’t want to take the time to explain about the explosives Jefferson had sent on board with her.

  She stared back at him, then nodded. Had no choice but to believe him.