Hot

by John Lutz

  His body tensed and he was quiet and still. Listening.

  He heard clearly now a soft scuffing noise, like that of a small animal scampering over the dock.

  He remained still, then saw whatever it was skipping and rolling across the rough wood.

  Not an animal. Nothing alive.

  With relief he reached out a hand and snatched it from the breeze.

  A New York Yankees baseball cap being propelled by the wind. It was a very small size; possibly it belonged to Lilly Rainer. He tossed it aside, nothing to worry about, but his heart was still pumping fast. He felt vulnerable. Here he was, barefoot and without his cane, in enemy territory.

  Forcing himself to move forward, he stayed low and inched alongside the splintery dock and onto the lawn. Time for tactics. He wanted to work in closer to the house, maybe even peer into a window. He was no longer breathing hard from his swim. Behind him the Miss Behavin’ bumped softly against the dock buffers, and he could hear water lapping at its hull.

  About ten feet from the dock was what looked like a small shed that probably contained tools and the nautical supplies necessary to service the yacht. And possibly something he could use as a makeshift cane. Carver reached it and found the door secured with a padlock the size of his fist. But there was something leaning against the side of the shed, in shadow. Tools, maybe.

  No, not tools. What he’d seen was only a collapsed folding stool, canvas and metal. Something portable to sit on for lengthy jobs during boat maintenance.

  He ripped the canvas away and bent one of the metal legs back and forth until it broke, leaving him with a two-foot length of hollow steel tubing with a sharp point on one end. Not much of a cane, but at least it would serve as a weapon if he couldn’t hobble fast enough to escape danger. He hefted it in his hand, feeling better, looking around.

  About fifty feet away lay some dense shrubbery. He decided to use it for cover, then figure where he might go from there. Setting the pointed tip of the metal tube in the ground, he moved in an awkward crablike gait toward the bushes.

  He had no sensation of tripping the alarm.

  A horn blared from the direction of the house. Carver swallowed his heart. Half a dozen windows suddenly glowed, even as he was hurriedly backing away toward the sanctuary of the water.

  Floodlights bathed the grounds in white brilliance as he crossed the dock and scooted backward out of sight, found the coolness of the water. He’d been exposed for only a few seconds. Maybe he hadn’t been seen. Maybe he had a chance here. The horn screamed no, he didn’t.

  He surface dived and swam underwater until his lungs ached. When finally he came up for air, he began a crawl stroke away from the light and noise behind him.

  Then the horn abruptly ceased its frantic wailing and the only sounds were Carver’s ragged breathing and the splashing of his strokes. Glancing behind him, he saw that the floodlights had been extinguished.

  He swam another hundred yards before easing back on his effort. His adventure had almost proved a fatal mistake. He should have realized Rainer might have an alarm system that extended beyond the house.

  No real harm done, he assured himself. He’d tried to snoop in close, activated an alarm, and made his escape. Disaster averted.

  Thought he’d made his escape.

  He heard the boat roaring toward him before he saw it.

  It was a small, open speedboat with what looked like only one man in it. He was standing up so he could see over the low windscreen, a dark form in the bucking little boat. Hector, Carver thought, but he couldn’t be sure.

  He treaded water slowly, with only his head above the surface, praying he wouldn’t be seen on the glimmering dark plain of the sea.

  The speedboat, he saw now, was a fourteen-foot runabout, the kind that could go like crazy if powered by a large enough motor. It slowed and settled lower in the water, cruising in a wide circle as the figure behind the windscreen leaned forward, scanning open water.

  The man suddenly straightened, and the bow of the boat swung around to aim at Carver. The motor snarled and the bow rose to cut through the low waves, picking up speed as it closed on him.

  It was difficult to judge speed and distance in the dark, to reject panic and think calmly through his fear. Carver waited until the boat was close, then dove underwater and stroked straight down.

  He was buffeted about by the boat passing just a few feet above him. He surfaced in its churning wake, spitting seawater, peering in all directions. No danger of panic now; he was angry enough to hold fear at a distance.

  The boat was turning around for another pass.

  As Carver treaded water something jabbed him in the thigh. He realized he was still gripping the metal stool leg. Then he heard the snarling engine, and the runabout was after him again.

  This time he didn’t wait so long. He ducked underwater and swam at a right angle to the boat’s line of attack. Hung suspended below the surface and watched the tumultuous passing of the boat’s hull twenty feet to his right.

  When he poked his head above water, the boat was drifting with its motor idling, not fifty feet from him. He heard the roar and saw the cleaverlike bow come around as he ducked down again. The boat’s pattern was narrowing. His death was going to be the result of close up work, each pass leaving him less and less time to take evasive action.

  He knew, and the man in the boat knew, that soon he’d tire himself out and fall victim to the speeding, slashing hull or the whirling prop.

  Carver jabbed himself in the leg again. Damn! He dropped the metal tube so he could swim better, then on second thought groped for it and caught it before it sank out of reach. An objective kind of desperation had come over him, his mind darting like a bottled insect seeking escape and survival.

  He surfaced gradually, studying the boat that was waiting for him. It looked, and had sounded slapping the waves, as if it had a fiberglass hull. The man in the boat had something in his hand now. As he spotted Carver and raised his arm, Carver realized the something was a handgun with a long silencer fitted to the barrel. His assailant had decided it would be easier and faster to use firepower. He gulped air and went underwater, sensing or feeling the passage of a bullet spiraling past him.

  Christ! This was getting out of hand!

  When in doubt, do the unexpected.

  Remaining submerged, he swam toward the boat.

  It was now almost motionless in the water, its motor idling, so it provided a stable platform and enabled the man with the gun to take accurate aim when Carver surfaced.

  But Carver wasn’t ready to surface. He stroked lower, then arced straight up at the bottom of the fiberglass hull, jabbing the sharp-tipped metal stool leg at it with all his strength. He jabbed again! Again! Focusing the might of his powerful upper body. Kicking from the hip with both legs’ for maximum force. Wishing he had swim fins to gather even more power for his frantic upward lunges.

  There! He thought the metal tip penetrated, but he couldn’t be sure. His lungs were burning and crying for oxygen.

  Fifty-fifty, he thought, and surfaced on the boat’s starboard side. Gasped for air. There was noisy scrambling in the boat and a man very calmly said, “Here’s something for you.” Carver heard the nasty spitting sound of the silencer as he ducked down again beneath the water.

  He thought he saw damage on the bottom of the hull, and he attacked the same spot with his spear of steel. But it was impossible to break through the thick fiberglass.

  As he was preparing to strike again, the prop churned and the boat shot forward. Instinctively he jabbed upward as the hull passed over him. The length of sharpened steel was wrenched violently from his hand and sank.

  He came to the surface for air and saw that the boat was slowly turning.

  But its motor didn’t sound right. It was laboring, its pitch rising and falling. It began a sickly, muted clanking. Carver realized he must have snagged the prop as he’d jabbed upward with the sharp metal.

  He swam a
way from the boat slowly, watching the man standing up in it and peering around, looking for him. As the man’s head turned toward him, Carver let himself sink gently beneath the surface and swam a few strokes. Surfaced again and saw that the man was now facing away from him. He edged farther away from the boat, making hardly a ripple in the dark water.

  Using a lazy sidestroke, he continued to put distance between himself and the crippled boat. Soon he’d be out of accurate range of the silenced handgun.

  He kept watching as the man gave up the hunt and the boat putted slowly and laboriously toward sfiore with its damaged prop.

  Carver floated on his back for a few minutes, staring up at the night sky and regaining strength and wind. He offered a brief prayer of thanks, to whom or what he wasn’t sure.

  Then he got his bearings and stroked for land.

  19

  IT WAS A LITTLE after five when Carver struggled back into his clothes. He turned his back on a majestic sunrise and through fading shadows made his way the three hundred yards to the cottage. Serious tropical heat was building already, and sweat was rolling down his face as he pushed through the screen door and used his key on the main door. He tried not to let his cane thump on the wooden floor, didn’t want to wake Beth.

  The cottage’s interior was dim, but he could see well enough to move cautiously to the bathroom. There was a long scrape on the heel of his hand from when the boat’s propellor had yanked the length of steel from his grasp. He peeled off his clothes, soaked from perspiration and the sea, and let them lie in a pile on the floor. Tidiness could wait until he woke.

  After a quick shower, he toweled dry, retrieved his cane from where he’d leaned it on the washbasin, then made his way into the bedroom.

  It was hot enough outside even for Beth. The air conditioner was toiling away and she was sprawled nude on top of the sheets. She opened one eye halfway, as if merely to register his presence and identity, then closed it and appeared to go back to sleep.

  Still damp from the shower, he lay on his back beside her, feeling his sore hand throb and currents of cool air play over his body. She moved one of her feet slightly so her toes barely touched his ankle, continued reassurance that he was there beside her. Beneath the hum of the air conditioner he could hear her deep, even breathing. He stared for a while at the shadows fading on the ceiling, then closed his eyes. Dreamed he was being pursued by a gigantic buzzing mosquito. Or was it an airborne speedboat?

  When he opened his eyes Beth was gently shaking his shoulder, telling him it was ten o’clock, when he’d said he wanted to get up. She was wearing a white blouse with a black triangle pattern. The warm denim roughness of her Levi’s lay against his bare arm.

  Grabbing her wrist, he pretended he was going to pull her down into bed with him. A bluff, not like when he was a younger man. Didn’t fool her.

  “I’m fully dressed, Fred. You wanna do that kinda stuff, you shoulda woke me last night.”

  “You mean morning,” he said. “Five o’clock’s when I got back.”

  “Hmm. Shouldn’ta woke me after all.”

  He ran his tongue around the insides of his cheeks. Terrible taste. Coffee and bologna and seawater. Yuk! She was watching him with her fists on her hips as he rolled over, grabbed his cane and struggled to sit on the edge of the mattress. His feet made contact with the floor. Henry’s bedsprings squealed with his effort.

  “You all the way awake, Fred?”

  “Sorta. Had breakfast?”

  “Nope. I read until late and just woke up about an hour ago myself. I figure tonight’s my turn to squat out there behind branches in that spooky blind and spy with binoculars, I better get all the sleep I can this morning.”

  “Lemme get dressed,” Carver said, “and we’ll drive into Fishback for some breakfast.”

  “We could eat here,” Beth said. “I can fix us some bacon and eggs while you’re getting yourself together.”

  He stood up and waited for dizziness to pass, a lithe, muscle-ridged man leaning nude on a cane. “Let’s eat in town,” he said. “I got my reasons.”

  “Such as you wanna be seen. Wanna let those dickheads across the way know you weren’t scared away.”

  “I guess it’s something like that.’”

  “That exactly. Go splash some water on yourself and get into some clothes so we can eat. I’m hungry.” She sounded angry, too. Ah, well.

  Angry or not, as he limped toward the bathroom, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Want me to get your gun outa the suitcase?”

  He said, “It wouldn’t be a bad idea, in case Fern tries to overcharge us.”

  On the drive into town, Carver told Beth about what had happened last night.

  “First they were going to make it look like you mighta died accidentally,” she said thoughtfully. “Then they decided to shoot you and probably hide your body. Wanted your ass real bad. Something to think about, isn’t it?”

  He said, “I’ve thought about it.”

  “You get the idea they knew it was you they were after?”

  “They can’t be sure who it was,” Carver said, “I think.”

  “Wanted you real bad,” Beth repeated softly.

  She didn’t speak the rest of the way into town. He figured that was probably for the best.

  Fern was indeed on duty this morning. Order pad in hand, she trudged across the tile floor of the Key Lime Pie and smiled down at Carver and Beth. There were a dozen other customers in the restaurant, all of them in booths where they could stare out the window at the cosmopolitan bustle of Fishback. The ceiling fans were ticking away at a fairly brisk speed and it was cool in there, a slight breeze from above. Smoke or steam was drifting from the kitchen, over the serving counter, but the body of air from the fans held it at bay and let only the scent of frying bacon waft out into the restaurant.

  Carver glanced at the grease-spotted menu and said, “What’s good, Fern?”

  “Not your chances of a long and prosperous life.”

  He looked up at her. “What’s that mean?”

  “Means Key Montaigne’s a small place, an’ word gets around.”

  “Which word?”

  “That you’re meddlin’ where you shouldn’t be, that you been warned.”

  “And ignored the warning?”

  “Well, you’re here, ain’t you?”

  Sometimes Carver had his doubts about that, but he didn’t want to get metaphysical with Fern.

  “What was that crack about long life?” Beth asked.

  Fern stood solidly with pencil poised and eyes averted as she said, “This island’s kinda deceptive in some ways. Beautiful to look at, with all the green an’ the colorful flowers, the tourists walkin’ around town or goin’ out to sea in charter boats. Like paradise under a blue sky. But there’s some awful rough people here. Awful rough. An’ as a Christian woman I feel compelled to let you two know that. Now I done let you know, so that’s that.”

  “Are these rough people into drugs?” Beth asked.

  “I honestly ain’t sure what’s goin’ on, but maybe it’s drugs. An’ you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Okay,” Carver said.

  “Two coffees, was it?”

  “Right. With cream.”

  When Fern returned with the coffee, Beth and Carver both ordered the scrambled egg special.

  It arrived at the table within a few minutes with toast, strawberry preserves, and Canadian bacon. Fern commanded them to “Enjoy” and plodded back behind the counter.

  Carver decided the Key Lime’s breakfast was its best meal. Whoever was in the kitchen was an expert fry cook.

  When they’d finished eating, they each had a second cup of coffee. Then Beth went into the rest room while Carver paid the check and limped outside to smoke a Swisher Sweet cigar. He was leaning back against the front right fender of the Olds, squinting into the sun and touching flame to tobacco, when a shadow drifted across the ground in front of him.

  Immediately
he flicked the match away and turned, keeping a firm grip on his cane, aware of the bulk and deadliness of the Colt automatic in its holster beneath his shirt. Davy wouldn’t get the chance to move in close with the cargo hook again.

  But it wasn’t Davy standing five feet away and smiling at him.

  It was Walter Rainer.

  20

  RAINER WAS WEARING what looked like the same white sport jacket today, only it was more wrinkled. He had on a money-green shirt, open wide at the collar so his thick gold chain showed against the glistening expanse of his chest. Up close his face appeared puffier, yet there was an added sharpness to the features set in that doughy expanse of flesh, an almost startling shrewdness and vitality in his tiny blue eyes. He was a fat man suffering in the heat, reeking of sweat and deodorant.

  He said, “Thought we ought to talk, Mr. Carver.” Beyond him, on the other side of Main, the long gray Lincoln was parked. A tall Latino dressed in jeans and a black muscle shirt that revealed a wiry and powerful physique was standing near the car with his arms crossed, looking cool and controlled. Hector Villanova, no doubt. Carver recognized him from last night in the boat. About thirty and lean and tough-looking; if people could become panthers, Hector was halfway there. He caught Carver’s eye, smiled and nodded. He could be friendly and slash you up with a boat prop.

  “I see Hector’s keeping an eye out for your safety,” Carver said. He drew deeply on the cigar and exhaled a white stream of smoke that the breeze spirited away.

  “Ah, that’s right, you more or less know Hector,” Rainer said. He had a reedy voice that didn’t match his huge body and would soon get annoying. “Know him from a distance, that is.”

  Did he mean last night? No, he’d be playing dumb about that. Carver recalled the glint of sunlight off a lens yesterday. That was okay; Rainer still probably didn’t know where the blind was, or when or how often he was being observed. Carver hoped. “Were you going to ask me how Henry Tiller is?” he asked.