John Lutz - Kiss

With a sudden foreboding he limped to the dresser and yanked the top drawer open all the way. Rooted through its contents.

The Colt. 38 automatic was gone from beneath his socks.

Carver closed his eyes and pictured Dr. Pauly holding the gun leveled at him waist-high. An automatic. In the darkness he hadn’t recognized it, but it must have been the Colt. One automatic handgun looked much like another. Dr. Pauly had been in the cottage and taken the gun from the drawer before Carver arrived. Not surprising. His life had been in danger, and it figured that a private investigator would keep weapons in the house. His search had paid off.

The doctor wasn’t to be trusted, but he had given sound advice. If Raffy was hyped on drugs and on a homicidal rampage, he’d be just the person to avoid.

Carver tried to remember where he’d last put his flashlight. Wished he were more of a place-for-everything kind of guy. The air conditioner had overloaded the cottage’s wiring last month, and he’d used the flashlight to locate the blown fuse and screw in a replacement. He thought it was in the cabinet beneath the sink.

He wielded the umbrella with vigor and purpose and hobbled toward the kitchen area. He’d use the flashlight to try to find the coil wire Dr. Pauly had hurled into the darkness. Then he could get the Olds started and drive to safety.

His first stop would be Sanderson’s Drugstore on Ocean Drive, where he remembered the rack of aluminum and wooden canes and crutches between the prescription counter and the display of condoms and Ace bandages. He needed mobility more than he cared to admit.

He sat on the floor and used both hands to pull everything out of the cabinet under the sink. Bug spray, dishwashing detergent, spot remover, scrub brush, steel-wool pads.

Everything but a flashlight.

The phone rang. Made Carver drop the spray can of glass cleaner he was holding. The yellow plastic lid popped off, bounced, and wobbled back into the cabinet.

Dragging the unopened umbrella behind him, he crawled to the phone and pulled it down on the floor. Held it in his lap and lifted the receiver. Gave a cautious hello.

A faint voice said, “He’s on his way, Carver.”

Carver’s heart danced against his ribs. “Who’s on his way? Who is this?”

“It’s Dr. Pauly. Raffy’s on his way to your place. Right now. He thought he killed me… maybe he did. I had to warn you. God, the blood! It’ll take him about ten minutes to get there. Understand? Ten minutes!”

“Where are you?” Carver asked levelly.

“It’s not like somebody else’s blood,” Dr. Pauly said weakly. Almost a horrified moan. “Not at all. My own blood. So much of it! It won’t stop. No matter what. Won’t…”

“Where are you?”

“Ten minutes. Ticking away. Save yourself!”

“Listen! Dr. Pauly!”

There was a clatter, then a steady buzzing.

The connection was broken.

Carver sat on the floor gripping the droning phone in both hands and staring down at it, as if it held the fascination toys hold for infants.

Ten minutes!

He knew it would take the police at least fifteen minutes to reach the isolated cottage. And he hadn’t called them yet!

He dialed 911.

“I’m a private detective,” he told the operator. “I’ve just been told someone’s on his way to my home to try to kill me.” He gave the emergency operator his name and address, even directions to the cottage.

“You say you’re a detective?”

“Yes!”

“With what department?”

“Private! I’m a licensed private investigator!”

“Will you give me your full name and your phone number, sir?” She didn’t seem excited. Other people’s desperation was routine. Death threats were all in a night’s work.

“He’ll be here in ten minutes!” Carver said.

“I need your name and phone number, sir. Then I’ll call you back and get more information concerning the emergency. It won’t take long.”

Christ! She thought this might be a hoax. Didn’t she know what it was to be terrified?

Ten minutes! And he was bogged down in bureaucracy land! Fear stuck like a jagged lump of metal in his throat-he could taste it.

Carver pressed down the cradle button and punched out the number of the sheriff’s office.

Better luck there. He told a switchboard operator what the problem was and she assured him a car was on the way.

“On the way” might not be good enough. Carver thought about the fire station on the coast highway. He knew the fire department could reach the cottage in about fifteen minutes, maybe in slightly less time if the highway wasn’t congested. It could take them longer if there was traffic.

He called in and reported that the cottage was on fire.

Then he sat sweating and staring at the phone, wondering how to defend himself against Raffy Ortiz. If he simply tried to crawl into the night and hide, Raffy would easily track him, perhaps with a flashlight, and kill him. If he called someone near enough to arrive before Raffy, he might only be providing Raffy with another victim. Besides, this was a comparatively desolate area of the coast, and there might not be anyone near enough to beat Raffy to the cottage. An enraged tiger on drugs, Dr. Pauly had said. Dr. Pauly, who was himself probably dead or dying because of Raffy.

Carver glanced around the cottage from his seated position on the floor. A different, lower perspective that lent a disturbing strangeness to familiar surroundings.

He stood up slowly and carefully with the umbrella and lurched into the kitchen.

From the clutter in the sink drawer he lifted a carving knife, then he hurried to the front door. Cicadas were trilling and the moon’s reflection lay like a sad smile on the sea. He used the knife to cut the wire mesh from the screen door, running its blade at an angle along the wooden edges of the frame.

Half a minute later he switched off the light and hobbled outside.

The white Cadillac arrived with a roar and a haze of dust and exhaust that drifted across the low moon like an ominous cloud.

Carver watched through the cottage window as Raffy climbed out of the car, stretched his back and thick arms as if he’d been cramped too long, and grinned as his gaze fixed on the open front door. He was wearing shorts, his sleeveless black T-shirt, and white or gray jogging shoes without socks. Might have been a beachcomber looking for shells instead of a killer searching for victims.

The Caddie’s engine was idling. Raffy reached in and switched it off, then slammed the car door. The sound was an explosion in the quiet night. Carver wished again he had the handgun Dr. Pauly had taken. Though the gun hadn’t helped the doctor fend off Raffy. Maybe Raffy was invulnerable to bullets. Three nuts.

He yelled, “Carver, old buddy! Yeah, I know you’re in there! Had a talk with Dr. Pauly about you just a little while ago. Time to have some of my kinda fun with you, fucking gimp!” He started toward the cottage, a moving myth of destruction that left in its wake very real death. Behind him the black ocean rolled like a dark mystery.

Using the umbrella for support, Carver limped out the back door into the hot velvet night. He left the door hanging open.

“Carver!” Raffy was inside the cottage now. “Hey, Carver! Gonna hide from me, you think? Won’t do you no good, compadre.”

Carver could hear him moving around, slamming furniture against the walls, working up to where he wanted to be: higher than high and faster than the speed of reason. The sea pounded on the beach and the cicadas screamed. A towering palm tree silhouetted against the dim sky shook its fronds briskly in the breeze, like a giant, long-haired creature trying to clear its mind. Carver pushed his fear aside and held it there; he knew he had to control his own mind if he wanted to live.