John Lutz - Hot

Rainer was nodding slightly as Carver spoke, agreeing with him. “That kind of appetite burns in the blood,” he said. “Dr. Sam was weak, couldn’t help himself. Millicent’s also weak. That’s why she isn’t here.”

“And why she might eventually talk if you don’t find her and kill her.”

“I honestly don’t see that as necessary,” Rainer said. “There’s always a way to persuade people, and if they aren’t persuadable, there are other methods. For instance, just before you arrived I got a call from Hector telling me your friend Beth Jackson was arrested by Chief Wicke for spying on my private grounds. Apparently she was supposed to phone you here when I and mine left for this meeting. Instead she’s now in the custody of Chief Wicke.”

“You phoned Wicke to come get her?”

“Hector did, after Davy and I left unseen and were well on our way. We didn’t want her to become impatient and interrupt proceedings here. But do tell me what else you think you know, Mr. Carver.”

Carver glanced at Davy, who hadn’t moved or changed expression. The faint shadow of the circling shark played over his stolid features. “The Evermans are part of the operation that abducts the children and sends them south in Davy’s van for you to transfer to Mexico,” Carver said. “The boy who drowned was high on cocaine so he could be controlled, but somehow he got free, tried to swim to safety, and drowned. The Evermans were sent from Miami to Key Montaigne to pose as the boy’s parents and claim the body before further police investigation revealed his true identity and that of his real family.”

Rainer gently touched his protruding stomach again, making the gesture somehow sensual and obscene. He sighed. “You’ve done surprisingly well, despite our considerable efforts to discourage you.”

“Henry Tiller was doing okay himself, which was why you had him murdered.”

“Yes, we had to send Davy to handle that chore.”

“Chore, huh? Like weeding the garden.”

“Or taking out the garbage. But doing violence and making it seem accidental isn’t exactly Davy’s style, so old Henry lived long enough to draw you into the situation. And you certainly proved to be as stubborn as your reputation promised.” Rainer’s gold ring glinted as he waved a fleshy hand limply but quickly, as if flicking something nasty from his fingertips. “No matter, I’m a man who takes precautions religiously. Davy’s in his element now, not behind the wheel of a rental car. He’s at his best preventing someone of known obsessive and dangerous personality from harming his employer or himself, even if it means that someone’s unfortunate but lawful death.” Not looking away from Carver, he nodded to Davy and said. “This is finally goodbye, Mr. Carver. It’s been stimulating if irritating.”

Davy reached beneath his riot-of-flowers shirt and pulled out his sharpened cargo hook. His expression was businesslike as he advanced on Carver. He’d handled Carver easily in Miami, and now it was time to get serious and finish the job. The routine chore.

Carver calmly drew the Colt from its holster, but the cargo hook arced forward with startling speed and slashed his hand. The gun dropped to the floor, landing at an angle and bouncing away from Carver. The back of his hand throbbed and dripped blood from a four-inch gash.

Davy stepped back, grinning now. His eyes had changed. Since Carver had been disarmed, business and pleasure could be combined. Carver had little doubt that if he stooped to retrieve the gun, Davy would be on him for the kill. They both knew Carver wasn’t going to do that. Doomed men tend to cling to time. Davy was obviously relishing the leisurely sport of finishing off a cripple.

But this time Carver wasn’t caught by surprise. He stood almost still as Davy approached him, shifting his weight subtly so Davy wouldn’t notice. His good leg was set so firmly that inside his thin-soled moccasins his toes were curled down tight against the concrete floor. He waited.

As Davy crouched to close in with the hook, Carver lashed out and up with the cane. It missed Davy’s wrist by inches, but Carver pulled it close to his body and, as Davy sprang, he shot the tip of the cane forward into Davy’s sternum, using it as a jabbing weapon to drive the breath from his attacker. “Ooomph!” He felt the sour rush of Davy’s exhalation on his face, and the point of the cargo hook snagged for a moment on his shirtsleeve, then tore free. Now Carver slashed down with the cane, and the deadly steel hook flew from Davy’s injured hand and bounced clanging beneath one of the display trays. As Davy instinctively lowered his free hand to grip his damaged fingers, Carver flicked the cane up in his face, jabbing at an eye. Jabbing again.

Davy snarled and leaped back. Stood rocking on the balls of his feet. Glaring and battling his temper.

“Davy,” Rainer said softly, cautioning. Almost a whisper. “Davy!”

But Davy lost his composure and charged.

What Carver was waiting for. He flicked the cane out again, like a nifty boxer using a stiff left jab. Davy stopped and tried to brush the cane away from his face or grab it. Carver drove it into his groin. Davy’s hands dropped again. Carver slammed the cane across the side of his head, feeling and hearing the solid connection of walnut with bone. Nailed him again on the backswing, opening up a cheekbone. He was a fraction quicker than Davy, and now both men realized it and knew it made all the difference. Christ, this was fun! Terrifying but fun.

Davy retreated. Streaming blood was making a grotesque mask of his face. His glance shot to where the cargo hook had slid beneath the display tray.

Carver smiled and motioned with the cane for him to attack again. Silently mouthed the word “Please,” urging him to come forward.

But Davy moved fast in the opposite direction, going for the steel hook.

Before he could reach it, Carver was down and struggling for the Colt. His hand was about to close on the gun before Davy could grasp the hook, so Davy reversed direction and scrambled up the steel stairs. He knew when the war was over. In a flurry of noise and desperate energy, he burst through the door and was gone before Carver could raise the Colt above shoulder level and fire.

Carver planted the cane and hauled himself to his feet, holding the gun aimed at Rainer, listening to his own rasping fight for air. His labored breathing was making the gun barrel waver.

Unruffled and unmoving, Rainer said, “You use that cane very well as a weapon. Interesting to watch, but indecisive.”

“Decisive enough so you and I are driving into Fishback to see Chief Wicke.”

“No, no,” Rainer corrected, wagging a ringed finger with impatient amusement. “Didn’t I mention I was a man who took precautions, Mr. Carver? Allow me to set you straight on a few facts, the first of which is that as soon as Dr. Sam committed suicide-and it was suicide, brought about by middle-class remorse and self-hatred-I ordered destroyed every scintilla of evidence that the child-smuggling operation ever existed. Dr. Sam indeed had the kind of sickness that compelled him to sexually abuse young boys, but Millicent was certainly enough of an accomplice that she’ll decide to remain silent when I convince her of the consequences of a loose tongue. Especially if we speak with Davy present.” He stood taller, turning slightly as if aiming his jutting stomach at Carver like the prow of a proud vessel. “You see, I’m not merely a part of the smuggling operation, I’m in charge of it, so I have enough control to protect myself. And naturally I’ve exercised that control. There’s no way for you to advance any legal proof of what you know. No way at all.” The fleshy pads of his cheeks bulged in a smile. His eyes glittered. “In short, Mr. Carver, a closure has been reached, but not of the sort you envisioned. What transpired here tonight simply doesn’t matter.”