John Lutz - Hot

“Could be.”

The two feisty birds were at it again outside, starting to get on Carver’s nerves now. “Still doesn’t explain your face,” he said.

“Patience was never your long suit, Fred.” She pressed her thigh tighter against his. “After a little while I went back to the blind with the night glasses and took up the regular surveillance.”

“Wait a minute,” Carver said, being impatient again. “You never mentioned Davy. Was he around yesterday?”

“I didn’t see him and I wondered about that, with you in Miami. You know, after what happened last time.”

She didn’t have to remind Carver of last time.

“I didn’t notice him in Miami,” he said, “but it’s a lot larger than Fishback.”

“About midnight, though,” Beth went on, ignoring Carver’s sarcasm, “his black van drove up to the house and turned toward the garage. No lights coming from the area of the garage, and the van had its lights off. I almost didn’t see it even with the night glasses.”

“I don’t suppose you could tell if Davy was driving?”

“Nope. Damned thing mighta been driven by remote control, for all I know. Looks like some kinda cartoon vehicle anyway.”

“Not a funny cartoon, though.”

“Except maybe for the Davy part, which is his problem and doesn’t make him less dangerous.”

Carver knew he shouldn’t be surprised that she understood men like Davy. He nodded, but he doubted if she saw him. She was still staring at a point where the ceiling met the wall. He wondered if the Miss Behavin’ had been waiting for Davy’s arrival before embarking. “Those goddamn birds!” he said.

“They’re only being what they are,” Beth told him, and just then the birds ceased their nattering.

“So what happened after the van arrived?” Carter asked.

“Nothing,” Beth said. “Then about one in the morning something happened where I was. Some guy dressed in black and wearing a stocking over his head jumped outa the bushes at me.”

Carver propped himself up on one elbow and stared over at her. She still didn’t look in his direction.

“He had some kinda weighted leather sap,” she said, “and he took me by surprise, so when he swung at me the first time, I didn’t quite get outa the way and he barely caught me on the cheek. Then he shoved me up against a tree, grabbed me and tried to get me on the ground, took another poke at me, but this time with his fist. Wearing a ring, I guess.” The cut on her forehead.

“He say anything while this was going on?”

“No, only grunted like a hog each time he swung or expended effort on me.”

She was quiet for a while, her dark features fixed and impassive. Carver knew she was proficient in martial arts, but he wasn’t sure how good she was. He felt himself getting angry, mostly at Rainer and whomever he’d sent after Beth, but partly at himself for exposing her to being assaulted.

“Then what?” he asked.

“Then his ass was mine. The surprise wore off. He swung again and I chopped his arm. I’m pretty sure I busted his wrist. I can tell. I heard bone crack.”

“You’ve heard that before?”

“Yes.”

“The man who went at you, how was he built?”

“It was too dark and it all happened too fast to tell for sure. I remember the smooth material of his shirt, muscle underneath, and the feel of his stocking mask against the side of my neck when he tried wrestling me to the ground. It mighta been Davy. Coulda been Hector, for that matter. Not Rainer, though.”

“No, it wouldn’t have been Rainer. That’s the kinda work he hires done.”

Carver felt his rage spread hotly, almost as if he were being immersed in scalding water. Unbearable. He swiveled around on the bed, found his cane where it was lying on the floor, and stood up. The bedsprings squealed. The birds started in again outside, loud even over the hum of the air conditioner. What the hell kind of bird made a nerve-grating sound like that?

Beth still wasn’t looking at him. “Where you going, Fred? Out to shoot those birds?”

“No. To talk to Walter Rainer.”

“I was afraid of that. Is it a smart thing to do?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t know the answer. It didn’t matter anyway.

It was time to forge ahead without worrying about smart or dumb.

Carver nosed the Olds up to the chain-link gates blocking access to the Rainer driveway. The gates were eight feet high, as was the fence that disappeared into the foliage on either side of the drive. Heavy vines bearing lush red and purple blossoms covered most of the fence that was visible beyond the gates. A sweetly sickening fragrance drifted to Carver through the open car windows, like the scent of corruption.

Trying not to breathe too deeply, he climbed from the Olds and limped to a call box mounted on a red wooden post near the gates. He opened the box, picked up a gray receiver, and after about half a minute a man’s voice said, “Yes?”

“Fred Carver to see Walter Rainer,” Carver said.

“You got an appointment?” There might have been amusement in the tone.

“No. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he was expecting me. Tell him I’m here.”

There was a long stretch of silence. Carver stood in the hot sun, looking at the drive curving out of sight beyond a grouping of date palms, listening to the drone of bees working at the blossoms. The driveway was paved with chatahoochie, small, smooth black and brown stones set in concrete and glazed over. It was used often in wealthy areas of Florida.

Finally a voice in the receiver said, “Mr. Rainer’ll see you. The gate’ll open automatically. Drive up to the house, then walk around back to the pool.”

Even before Carver had gotten back to the car, there was a soft humming and the double gates swung smoothly open. After driving through, he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw them easing shut. They reminded him of the jaws of a trap, viewed from the unfortunate side.

There was a tall portico in front of the house. The entrance was also tall, a massive carved oak door behind fancy black ironwork. The desired effect apparently was to make visitors feel small and insignificant even before they rang the doorbell. Carver drove beyond the portico and parked near the end of the semicircular driveway’s loop.

There seemed to be no one around, no one waiting to escort him to the great man. That was okay; he didn’t need hospitality or the hypocrisy that he was welcome. The breeze was blowing steadily in from the sea here, and beyond the corner of the large house he could see emerald-green water shimmering in the sun. A flagstone walk led around the corner. He set his cane on one of the slanted stones and started walking. He heard a splash, probably someone diving, and knew he was moving in the right direction.

The pool was even larger than Olympic-size; it was to other pools what Walter Rainer was to other people. Rainer sat in an oversized padded lounge chair alongside a pale blue metal table with a dark blue fringed umbrella sprouting from it. He was wearing gigantic blue swimming trunks with a red flower design, white rubber thongs on his bloated feet. Though his mammoth flabby body was coated with sweat and suntan lotion, his hair was dry; he hadn’t been in the water. And he was pale as the slugs in the research center tanks; probably he got very little sun. In front of him on the table was a heavy crystal glass with a hobnail bottom. When Carver got closer he noticed grains of salt on the glass’s rim.

In the stark shade of the umbrella, Rainer smiled at him. “Sit down, Mr. Carver.” He motioned with a flabby arm. “Can I have Hector bring you a margarita? He mixes the best in the Keys.”

“No, thanks.” Carver ducked beneath umbrella fringe and lowered himself into a padded chair like Rainer’s, only normal size. “I didn’t see Hector around. Or Davy.”