John Lutz - Spark

“Ever heard of an Adam Beed?” Carver asked, standing there sweating in the sun and wishing he had a bandana.

Val stared at Carver’s bruised arms. “He the guy did the heavy work on you?”

Carver nodded, watching a cloud of gnats swarming around Val, who didn’t seem to notice them.

“Never heard of Beed, but I’ll let you know if I do.”

“How about Dr. Wynn, over at the medical center?” Carver asked.

Val shrugged, finally waved a hand at the cloud of gnats. “Oh, I know of him, all right. In charge of the whole shebang. Seems a good doctor, too. Does a fine job running the medical center. Ask me, he’s a straight enough sort. And I tell you, Carver, anything you wanna know about folks at the medical center, you just ask, ’cause I did volunteer work over there till about six months ago, when I quit so I could devote more time to the Posse. I know most all of ’em.”

“Including Nurse Monica Gorham?”

Val’s leprechaun features arced up in a smile. “Hard to leave her out. She’s some pumpkin, that one. Head nurse there, and really runs the other nurses. She knows her job medically and administratively. Rumor has it she’s involved with one of the doctors, but could be only rumor. Tales go around now and then about her being mixed up in some kind of kinky sex. Even stories about her mistreating some of the patients. But crazy gossip’s bound to spring up around a woman looks like Nurse Gorham.”

“Ever have any trouble with her?”

“No, we got along okay. But I saw some nurses get their tails chewed royally, and not for much reason. Nurse Gorham says jump, they’re already off the ground before they ask how high. Pretty as she is, ain’t no doubt she’s got a streak of cruelty in her, if you catch my meaning.” He sputtered, then spat out a gnat. Made a face and wiped a hand across his mouth. He glanced at the Evans house. “How’s Hattie doing?”

“Good enough. She’s still determined to find out everything about Jerome’s death.”

“Can’t blame her. She’s under one hell of a strain.”

“Maybe she should move,” Carver said. “Get away from this place and its memories.”

Val looked alarmed for a moment, then grinned and shook his head. “She won’t move. Can’t, really. I happened to learn one day from Jerome that their house was bought on the reverse mortgage arrangement.”

“Meaning what?”

“Lotta Solartown residents sell their former homes, pay cash for the Solartown houses, and in effect become lenders to Solartown, Incorporated. Solartown then makes monthly payments to them for the rest of their lives. If for some reason a retiree wants to move, monthly payments stop, and full ownership of the house reverts to Solartown. We retire here because the system allows us to get more of a place for the money, while we allow Solartown to play the odds. Insurance guys figured it all out so Solartown does okay, but it’s gotta be a win-win situation for the buyer.”

“How so?” Carver asked. He was suspicious of win-win situations. Politicians and confidence artists used the term frequently.

Val said, “So long as the retiree lives in the house, it’s a good deal and provides the security of a monthly income. If the retiree dies before the full price of the house is paid out, it’s a bad deal, but so what, the owner’s dead and it don’t matter. There are no really bad deals for the dead, Carver. So, it’s win-win for us, and Solartown can’t lose in the long run because of the actuarial odds. Works out for most residents, but now and then Solartown reacquires a piece of valuable property that’s just been paid for in full within the last few years. So I can tell you they do just fine by the arrangement. Win-win. That make sense?”

“For now it does,” Carver said, sensing a scam. Sensing a motive. “Where’s the Solartown developer’s office?”

“In Orlando, on Orange Avenue. I went there once to sign some papers.”

Carver thanked Val and turned to move away.

“Hey there, Carver. You wanna ride patrol with me tonight? You can get an idea of what the Posse does around here.”

“I’ll take you up on that some other time,” Carver said.

“Any night’s okay. And remember to call on me if you want any sorta help with what you’re doing for Hattie.”

“I might take you up on that, too,” Carver told him.

“She’s a highly exceptional woman and don’t deserve all this crap,” Val said.

Carver agreed, waving good-bye with his free hand as he limped across the yard toward the street. Sweat was rolling down his back. He could feel dampness around the waistband of his pants. Behind him, Val spat out another gnat.

As Carver lowered himself into the Olds, he heard again the regular chonk! chonk! of the machete striking home.

Carver slept until after nine the next morning, late for him. He reached over and felt smooth, cool linen and wished Beth were in the bed with him instead of in a room at the other end of the motel. When he started to sit up, a train smashed into him.

He let himself drop back down onto the mattress, staring straight up at the ceiling. His injured muscles had stiffened, and his bruises were even more painful than they’d been yesterday. He knew it wouldn’t be easy to get the old machine moving this morning, but it had to be done. The curse of duty.

This time when he worked himself into a sitting position he thought about Adam Beed. Barely pausing, he groped for and found his cane and levered himself up to stand near the bed.

Ignoring the pain, the sour taste in his mouth, the fact that he was moving like a longtime Solartown resident, he hobbled into the bathroom. He reassured himself with the knowledge that Beed had skillfully not broken anything; he’d wanted Carver fit enough to travel.

For a moment Carver studied himself in the mirror above the washbasin. The bruises marking his arms, chest, and shoulders were deep purple now, sometimes tinged with the ugly red color of ruptured small blood vessels close to the surface of the skin. Beed was good at his work, all right.

After brushing his teeth to get the nasty taste from his mouth, he ran a glass of cold water. He downed a couple of Percodan tablets, then regarded the fool in the mirror and smiled tolerantly. The fool smiled back.

Carver leaned his cane on the washbasin and used the frosted glass doors and a towel rack for support as he twisted the faucet handle and climbed into the shower. He kept his hand on the chrome handle jutting from the gray ceramic tile beneath the shower head and eased the water temperature to as hot as he could endure. Then he stood for a long time beneath the stinging needles of water as billows of steam rose around him to turn the tiny shower stall and bathroom into a sauna.

Forty-five minutes later he was dressed, feeling less pain and stiffness, not ready to rumba, but moving reasonably well. After calling the motel office to have the lock on his door repaired, he got out of the cool room and had a waffle, Canadian bacon, and coffee at the Seagrill, glancing around for Beth while he ate, but not seeing her. Sleeping late, he figured. Or maybe she’d gone down to the artificial beach and lake for a morning swim. He pictured her in her skimpy yellow two-piece swimming suit, looking as if she belonged on a beach in Rio instead of in staunchly conservative central Florida. She’d raise some eyebrows down at the white sand beach. Probably more than eyebrows.

After a second cup of coffee, he paid the cashier, limped outside, and stood for a few minutes in the building heat, letting the blazing sun warm his back and arms through his dark pullover shirt. He fired up a Swisher Sweet cigar. The smoke irritated the back of his throat, so he snubbed out the cigar on one of the rustic posts supporting a chain marking the limit of parking space. He flicked the dead cigar into dense green foliage at the edge of the gravel lot, then climbed into the Olds and drove for Orlando.