John Lutz - Hot

“What kind of activity?”

“Can’t tell from here. All I ever saw were lights, people moving around. And that big boat over there puts to sea now and then at odd hours.”

“Any of it mean anything to you?” Carver asked.

She laughed. “I thought you were the detective.”

“That’s why I asked. I’m a snoop.”

“No, it means little to me. But on the other hand, I haven’t given it much thought. My mind’s on my work.”

“Sharks,” Carver said.

“And my other duties. I’m a scientist, not a busybody.”

“You think Henry Tiller’s a busybody?”

She slid her hand into a pocket but wasn’t reaching for anything. Left it there. “No, Henry gets a little befuddled at times, but he’s not someone I’d take lightly.”

“But you’re not concerned about his suspicions.”

Her square chin jutted forward aggressively, though her voice remained pleasant. “I told you, I’m interested only in my work. That might sound cold, but it’s what’s important to me at this point in my life. It’s why I moved here.”

“You could never be cold,” Carver assured her. “I’d like to talk with Dr. Sam.”

“Can’t do that for a while,” she said. “He’s on his way to Mexico on the Fair Wind, to buy for the research center.”

“The Fair Wind his boat?”

“The center’s, actually. It used to be a fishing boat, but Dr. Sam converted it to a diving platform for research at sea.”

“You’re not one of those people who go down in metal cages and stir up the sharks, are you?”

“You guessed it,” she said. “Of course, we also use the Fair Wind to collect aquarium specimens. Tourism’s what keeps this place in the black.”

“Well, I’ll talk with Dr. Sam another time.”

“Millicent might be home, if you wanna talk to her.”

“I think I’ll do that,” Carver said. He took a step toward the exit, then stopped and leaned with both hands on the crook of his cane. “I appreciate the tour. I learned something.”

“About sea life?”

He smiled. “I’m single-minded about my work, too.”

“I could sense that in you,” she told him. “That’s why I liked you right off. But then, I like sharks.”

She watched him as he clomped up the steel steps with his cane and shouldered through the door to the upper level.

The Bings’ house was constructed of the same beige brick and cinder block as the research center, and probably built at the same time. It had a green door and shutters, and bougainvillea with lush red blossoms climbing a trellis in front of the picture window. Bees droned and darted in among the blossoms. There were three small date palms in the front yard, and a larger palm tree that leaned over the side of the house and touched the roof. The sea wind rattled their fronds. The drapes were closed behind the trellis, and no one answered Carver’s ring.

He stood patiently in the sun, listening to the big tree’s palm fronds scrape the roof tiles, watching a brown and lavender butterfly flit about and sample the bougainvillea, unmolested by the bees. A rivulet of sweat ran from his armpit down the inside of his right arm, almost making it to his wrist before evaporating.

The brass plaque on the door was engraved dr. samuel and millicent bing. Carver was at the right house, but Millicent simply wasn’t home. He didn’t mind too much. He could catch up with Dr. Sam or his wife within the next few days. It probably wasn’t important to talk to them anyway. They weren’t on Effie’s list.

He limped back to the Olds and lowered himself behind the steering wheel. Even in the short time he’d been out of the car, the sun-heated leather upholstery had become almost too hot to sit on. He started the big V-8 engine that was now as prehistoric as sharks, shoved the hot metal gearshift lever to R, and backed out of the driveway onto Shoreline. As he drove away, he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw a black van with darkly tinted windows parked on the shoulder near the Bings’ driveway.

A short distance down the road, he looked again in the mirror.

The van was following him.

The game seemed to be intimidation. The black van accelerated to within a few feet of the Olds’s rear bumper. Even the windshield was tinted so dark the driver was visible only as a vague and ominous form. Darth Vader on wheels.

Carver goosed the Olds, and the van stayed on its bumper as if being towed. To his left was a shallow slope to the sea. Flashing past on his right were driveways, fence posts, shrubbery, terrain he’d rather not test in a straight line at high speed.

The Olds was roaring along with speed in reserve, but the way the van had stayed with it suggested it had plenty of power, too. Probably a modified engine. It was questionable that the Olds could simply outrun the van, even if the island were large enough to allow it.

Carver tapped the brake pedal and gradually slowed to thirty, tensing his body and waiting for impact as the van tried to force him off the road.

But the van’s driver was skillful and had other ideas. It slackened its speed in perfect synchronization with Carver’s and continued to fill the rearview mirror. The sun glinted dully off its blunt black nose. The shape of the driver was as still and remote as an obscure reflection in the dark glass.

Carver braked the Olds hard, twisted the sweat-slippery steering wheel and made a skidding right turn onto a narrow gravel road that led through dense foliage. The van followed, but fell back to about a hundred yards behind Carver. Maybe the sudden maneuver had spooked the driver. Nice to know he might be human. Though the terrain was flat, the road snaked and became even narrower.

It ended at a faded, red and white diagonally striped barrier that was almost overgrown with bougainvillea.

Carver stopped the Olds a few feet from the barrier, sat with the motor rumbling and stared into the rearview mirror. Heat from the exhaust system was building beneath the car; he could feel it rising through the metal floor and going up his pants legs. The sole of his left moccasin was growing warm against the rubber floor mat.

The van had also stopped, about a hundred yards back. It, too, simply sat with its motor idling.

The two vehicles stayed that way in the bright sun for almost a full minute. Perspiration was trickling down Carver’s face, stinging the corners of his eyes. His jaws ached and he realized he was clenching his teeth. The van stayed in his rearview mirror as if painted there. Its headlights reminded him of malevolent, unblinking eyes.

Time dragged. The haze of dust raised by the braking vehicles slowly settled in the sunlight, like particles after an explosion.

“Hell with this!” Carver said aloud, and jammed the transmission into Reverse.

He twisted his torso and slung his arm over the seat back, feeling his sweat-plastered shirt peel away from the upholstery. His palms were moist, but he got as firm a grip as possible on the slick steering wheel and tromped the accelerator. The Olds snarled and shot backward, raising more dust that partially obscured his vision and rolled in through the windows so he could feel its grit between his teeth. The car swayed and bucked as he aimed it with difficulty at such high speed, but despite the delicate reverse steering, he was able to stay dead on course. The driver of the black van was about to get a face full of vintage Detroit.

Dust billowed from the van’s back wheels. For an instant Carver thought it was going to speed forward to meet him. Then he realized it was moving in reverse, too.

The Olds got to within ten feet of it before they reached the coast highway. The van didn’t pause as it roared backward onto the paved road; its driver’s guess that there’d be no cross traffic was right. With a screech of tires, the van leaned hard to the right and skidded in a sharp turn so its blunt nose was pointed north on Shoreline. Carver stood on the Olds’s brake pedal, yanking the steering wheel to the left.