John Lutz - Kiss

“Killed them how?” Carver asked.

“I honestly don’t know. I’d be told when they were going to expire, so I’d be present to handle the details. The corpse would always be without a mark on it to suggest unnatural death. I think only Birdie knows how she killed them. Raffy didn’t care how it was done, as long as it was clean enough that I could make out the death certificate without raising questions and prompting some of the family members or the authorities to request an autopsy. That was no problem; remember, the victims were expected to die while at Sunhaven.”

“Poison?”

“I don’t think so. Most poisons leave some trace. Distinctive odors, or symptomatic signals in the deceased, that are evident even without an autopsy. I’m afraid only postmortem internal examination would reveal how Birdie did her work, and maybe even then it wouldn’t be obvious. There are imaginative ways to do murder that only the most careful and detailed autopsy would reveal. Raffy might very well know those ways, and he might have given Birdie her choice of which method to use. All I know is, I was never told how the residents actually died. And as long as I could state a cause of death consistent with the condition of the corpse and the deceased’s medical history, it didn’t matter to me.”

“You said Raffy was fond of Birdie in Miami.”

“No, Mr. Carver, I said she was one of his favorites. That isn’t good for her, it’s bad. If Raffy has Birdie, there isn’t any way she can be helped. She poses a danger to him. The way you and I do. He caught up with me in Del Moray and almost killed me. I got away only because I managed to reach my car before he got to me. He’s a heavy abuser of drugs himself and he’s high on something now. Methamphetamine and God knows what else. He’s insane, like an enraged tiger. You can’t reason with him.”

“We get in my car and go to the police,” Carver suggested.

“Not the police. Not for me. I need to get clear of the law and of Raffy and start over. I can do that.”

“Sure. Live in the jungle and treat lepers.”

Dr. Pauly cocked his head sharply to the side and stared at Carver. “It sounds farfetched but it’s a possibility.”

“You aren’t talking good sense. Are you high on something, Dr. Pauly?”

“No games, please,” Dr. Pauly said. “Not enough time for them. I came here to warn you, and I have. When I leave, phone the police, but don’t try to come after me.” He motioned with the gun. “Right now, get down off the porch and walk over toward your car.”

“You going to steal it?”

“No, I’ve got my own car parked down near the highway.” Another curt wave of the gun barrel. Somewhere this guy had become very familiar with guns. “I said right now, Mr. Carver. I just want to be assured you can’t follow me when I leave.”

Carver thumped down off the porch and crossed the sandy earth to where the Olds was parked. Dr. Pauly knew what he was doing with the gun, all right; he stayed about five feet from Carver all the way. Not so close that Carver could make a grab at the gun, but close enough so there’d be no doubt about accuracy if the trigger were squeezed. The frogs behind the cottage were croaking up a wild cacophony of protest; they were outraged by what was happening.

Keeping the gun leveled at Carver with one hand, Dr. Pauly stooped low and used the other to feel for the Olds’s hood latch. The latch gave with a squeak and the hood sprang up a few inches in a crocodile smile.

The doctor raised it the rest of the way, reached into the engine compartment, and deftly withdrew the coil wire. All like a neat operation. Dr. Pauly made Mr. Goodwrench look like a klutz.

He hurled the short, rubber-insulated wire into the night. Now the Olds wouldn’t start. Carver had no wheels. Legs were next.

Dr. Pauly said, “Sit down on the ground and toss your cane aside. Aside, not at me!”

Carver did as he was told. Dust or sand worked up the pants cuff of his stiff leg, extended out in front of him, and found its gritty way under the elastic of his sock. The baked ground was hard and uncomfortable beneath his buttocks. He was sweating heavily and felt helpless without the cane.

Dr. Pauly slammed down the Olds’s hood. The sudden collision of steel on steel hushed the frogs. No sound now but the surf. Sighing. Whispering.

The doctor walked over and picked up Carver’s cane, then propped it against the left front tire and stamped on it until it snapped. He threw the two pieces in the direction of the cottage, into darkness. Carver heard one of them clatter off the porch or the front wall. The noise was lost in the night.

He didn’t have another spare cane; he was surprised by how totally vulnerable he felt. He remembered the early days of his physical therapy. Fought down the old panic. Jesus! This was how it was to be crippled! Really crippled!

“You won’t be able to drive, or to come after me on foot now,” Dr. Pauly said. He stared down at Carver with a measure of pity and chewed nervously on the inside of his cheek. His face gleamed white as bone in the moonlight. “Listen, all I want’s a fair head start.”

“Fair?” Carver said. “What the hell are you talking about, fair?”

Dr. Pauly said, “Well, as fair as possible. There aren’t any choices in some lives. None at all. I’m sorry. Good luck.”

He tucked the gun in his waistband, beneath his shirt, then turned and jogged away in the direction of the highway. He held a steady, moderate pace, like a health buff running to take off a few pounds.

Carver watched the wavering signal of his white shirt until it was absorbed by the night.

Then he crawled toward the cottage.

The cottage’s front door had been forced open. The lock appeared intact, but the interior mechanism had been sprung and the bolt was sheared, as if someone had rammed his shoulder hard into the door. Carver had assumed Dr. Pauly was sitting on the front porch because he hadn’t been able to get in the cottage, but maybe that was wrong. Or maybe someone other than Dr. Pauly had been inside.

Carver supported himself by leaning on the doorjamb. He ran his fingertips over rough plaster, feeling for the wall switch. He found smooth plastic, worked the switch, and the lamp by the sofa winked on.

A glance around told him things were out of place. Whoever had broken the lock had gone through the cottage, either looking for something in particular or merely making an idle search.

Carver stood as straight as he could, balancing with just his fingertips touching the doorjamb. Then he lurched across the room to the chair where he customarily sat after his morning swims. He clutched the back of the chair, swayed this way and that, but managed to stay standing. Using furniture and the walls for handholds, he made his way to where the umbrella he’d used as a makeshift cane was leaning in the corner, near the pieces of the walnut cane Raffy had snapped in half in Del Moray.

When he’d gripped it by its curved plastic handle he felt immeasurably more secure, but he couldn’t put his entire weight on the umbrella or it would bend. He moved gingerly taking short, uneven steps, being very careful where he placed its slender metal tip.

There hadn’t been much attempt to conceal the fact that the cottage had been searched. Carver made his way behind the folding screen that partitioned off the sleeping area. He saw that the mattress had been lifted so someone could check to see if there was anything concealed between it and the bedsprings. The pillow had been tossed to the side against the wall. None of the dresser drawers had been shut all the way after they’d been rummaged through. It looked like a teenager’s room.