John Lutz - Hot

“Resolute ain’t psychotic, baby.”

He was even more irritated by the way she’d fallen into the slip-and-slide lilt and slang of her youth; she did that sometimes for effect. He said, “I love it when you call me insane.”

“Yeah? Well, that can be a turn-on for some.”

The scent of Pine Sol was drifting in from the bathroom. “If you think I’m an obsessive nutcase, how come you stay with me?

“Huh? It’s why I love you. Even though it’s what makes you do things that’re downright dumb and dangerous. It’s like living with a sky diver.”

He shook his head, then limped toward the phone.

“What you doing now, Fred?”

“I’m gonna make a call to Miami.”

“Have to do with our friend Davy?”

“Sure does.”

She smiled wickedly. “Geronimo!”

Carver instructed Beth not to stake out the Rainer estate that night. He’d rented a Ford Taurus from Hertz, dark blue and inconspicuous and powerful, and that evening sat parked where he could see anyone entering or leaving the Rainer driveway.

His hopes had been high, but after the gray Lincoln pulled into the drive, Hector at the wheel and Walter Rainer almost reclining in the backseat, no other vehicle came or went.

Carver returned to the cottage, but parked the Ford on the far side of the structure where it wouldn’t be noticed.

After waking around nine-thirty, he ate a hurried breakfast of toast and jelly, not minding that he’d burned the toast. Leaving Beth still asleep, he took his coffee and the day binoculars out to a shady spot, settled into an aluminum lounger and watched the Rainer estate. The sun had climbed high and brightened the sea and was lancing warm beams through the palm fronds. Shade or not, Carver didn’t want to stay where he was for very long.

After about half an hour he saw Davy amble down to the Miss Behavin’, hop on board, and fifteen minutes later return to the house. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. Even from this distance the tattoos on his muscular arms were plainly visible. Carver never could figure why anyone would have themselves tattooed; the permanency of it would bother him. Maybe permanency bothered him, period.

He sipped coffee and from time to time raised the binoculars to his eyes, though he’d fixed on the spot where the van would have to pass if it left the garage, and he could surely spot it with the naked eye.

A few minutes past noon, when the heat had almost driven him inside, the van did back from the garage. Carver watched it slowly maneuver in the driveway like a huge black roach among lush foliage, then start forward. When it was out of sight, he tossed away the rest of his coffee in a sun-illumined amber arc and watched it splatter on the sandy soil. Then he limped to the Ford and drove down to Shoreline, parked and waited. If Davy was driving north, he’d have to pass Carver, and soon.

Carver tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Switched the air conditioner to a higher setting. Double-checked the fuel gauge to make sure the Ford had plenty of gas in its tank. Waiting again. He spent so much time waiting.

Davy’s black van didn’t pass. He was probably driving south into Fishback, maybe on an errand for Rainer. Or maybe to knock back a few beers at the Key Lime Pie bar, get lucky and find somebody who wanted a fight. But even Davy couldn’t do battle every day and odd hour. Guys like that were like generals and TV weathermen; it was hard to imagine what they did with their leisure time.

When he was sure Davy would have passed him heading north, Carver drove back to the cottage. He hated this kind of thing, the intermittent watching that might lead to nothing. He’d done too much of it in his life, spent too much time trying to get inside other people’s minds, only to be thrown by the complexity of the human condition. It could be he was wrong about Davy, and the black van might never again travel farther north than Marathon Key.

Beth wandered out to where he was sitting in the lounge chair, waiting for Davy’s return to the Rainer estate. She laid a hand gently on his shoulder, and he realized his back muscles were tight. He made a conscious effort to relax them, leaning forward in the chair and working his shoulders back and forth.

“Getting hot enough to bake beans out here,” Beth said.

“Been hot.”

“You’re sweating. I can feel the dampness through your shirt. You wanna give me the binoculars and go inside for a while in the air-conditioning, I’ll sit in for you.”

“I’m okay. If I went in there and cooled off, I’d really feel it when I came back out.”

She clucked her tongue. “You’re one hardheaded individual, lover. Might be you’ll sit here forever and nothing’ll happen over at the Rainer place.”

“Then it’ll take forever,” Carver said.

“You’re starting to tighten up again.” She kneaded his back with her long fingers, knowing how. Knowing him. Had she done this for Roberto Gomez? Carver hunched his shoulders, then let them sag. “Go on in and get some sleep, Fred. My eyesight’s good as yours. Won’t hurt a thing if I keep watch out here for a while.”

He knew she was right and he was playing hardcore.

“You don’t trust me?” she asked.

“I trust you.” He stood up, stretched, grinned at her, then limped through harsh sunlight into the cottage.

He took a shower and lay down for a while. Even slept. Davy would probably spend quite some time in Fishback, and there’d be nothing to see on the Rainer grounds. Carver figured it was time-out in whatever dangerous game they were playing. When it got dark, he’d use the Hertz and move in closer.

At ten-thirty that night, while Carver was parked in the shelter of a cluster of palm trees off Shoreline, the chain-link gates across Rainer’s driveway eased open and the black van nosed out onto the road.

It was only after the gates had closed and the van was a hundred yards down the highway that Davy-if Davy was the driver-switched on its lights. Carver smiled, started the Ford, and eased onto Shoreline at a safe distance behind the van, traveling north.

When they crossed the bridge to Duck Key, his heart began hammering. This was what he’d been waiting for, Davy embarking on one of his many runs north for whatever mysterious reason. Carver figured the destination was Miami. He hoped so, anyway. He had set things up for Miami. The only problem was, he needed Davy to light somewhere in Miami for a while, give him a little time. As late as it was, maybe Davy would stop at a motel in or close to the city and conduct his business tomorrow. He must sleep like other people, or maybe with his eyes open, like a fish. If he didn’t stop at a motel, maybe Davy would pull in somewhere in Miami for a snack or a cup of coffee to keep him alert, and he could get to a phone.

The van stopped at the Texaco station on Marathon Key, and Carver parked well up the road and watched Davy pump gas. Then, as Effie’s friend Bobby had described, he drove to the far end of the lot, walked inside the brightly lighted station/ convenience store and settled with the cashier for the gas.

Davy popped a piece of candy or gum into his mouth as he walked back to the van, dropping the wrapper on the ground. When he drove from the station and pulled the van back onto Route 1, Carver followed.

The highway was almost deserted, and the van made good time. Carver rode well behind it in the Ford, able to keep its tail-lights in view easily on the straight ribbon of road. Now and then he’d drive with his headlights off, so if Davy was checking the rearview mirror he’d assume the car behind him had turned off the highway. A new set of headlights five minutes later wouldn’t alarm him.