John Lutz - Flame

“Yes, it does.”

“Well, business should take a back seat at a time like this.”

“Mr. Mackey is who you might want to talk to.”

“Later’s fine,” Carver said, backing away. “Tell you the truth, I’d better consult with the board, anyway, before we move on this. Let them know what happened.”

“It was in all the papers,” the woman said. “All over the news media.” An uncertain light entered her bulbous blue eyes. Everyone in big-business circles, especially in the South, should know of Wesley’s demise. Suddenly Carver didn’t seem quite genuine.

“And I apologize for not being aware of it,” he said hastily. “I’ve been traveling. In Europe. I’m afraid the tragedy never made the news there.”

“No,” she said, “it wouldn’t.” She used a tiny gold pen dangling from a chain around her neck to jot something on a note pad. “I’ll mention to Mr. Mackey you were here, Mr. Emerson.”

“Fine,” Carver said. “You might tell him I’ll be in touch. Probably next week.”

“Of course.”

He stopped halfway to the door. Said, “I don’t want to pester you at a time like this, but could you tell me if there’s going to be a service for Mr. Wesley? Longbranch will want to send flowers.”

“That’s quite all right, Mr. Emerson. The remains are being sent back from Florida. Mr. Wesley will be cremated, but there’ll be a service tomorrow morning at the Norrison Funeral Home in Atlanta, then an interment where only the family will be present.”

Carver, thinking Wesley had already been cremated in his company car, sighed and shook his head. “Well, my condolences to all of Wesley Slaughter and Rendering.”

“Thank you.”

He gave the woman a good-bye nod and limped across the deep red carpet and out the door. Back into the heat and thick stench. The oppressive smell seemed even stronger. Blood and death and lies. He wondered if he’d ever get it out of his clothes. Out of his pores.

He lowered himself into the Ford and drove away. Boyd Emerson of Longbranch Feeder Pigs.

Wondering what the hell was a feeder pig?

Carver had a salad for lunch in the hotel restaurant. Iced tea and a roll to go with it. There were bacon bits in the salad. He nudged them aside with his fork.

After he paid the relentlessly cheerful cashier, he limped out to the gift shop and bought an Atlanta Constitution. Settled into one of a dozen identical, comfortable wing chairs in the lobby, and wrestled with the newspaper until it was turned to the obituaries.

Ah! There was a death notice on Frank Allan Wesley, and he was important enough to rate half a column. The praise was lavish: Wesley had been a businessman and civic leader in Atlanta since 1970, when he’d moved the main operation of Wesley Slaughter and Rendering from New Orleans to Atlanta. He’d given generously to charity, organized political fund-raisers, was a member of various lodges. Had been a major booster and financial supporter of the Atlanta Falcons football team. He was survived by a daughter, Michelle, now married and living in New Jersey, and a wife, Giselle, in Atlanta. A private memorial service, the paper said, and gave no time or location. Private was the operative word. It was fortunate that Boyd Emerson had paid his visit to Wesley Slaughter and Rendering.

Carver went up to his room, stopping on the way at an alcove where there were soda machines and an ice dispenser. He paid a clinking, clunking machine too much for a can of Diet Pepsi, got some of it back by reaching into the ice dispenser and getting a free ice cube to munch on as he limped down the hall. You had to make your own justice in this world.

His room was cooler than when he’d left it. Almost cold. But it felt good and he left the thermostat alone. The maid had been in and done a nifty job, left the drapes open wide enough to provide bright but subtle light, but not so wide as to inflict him with a view of the highway overpass construction going on outside. Most of downtown Atlanta seemed to be a construction site; the New South still being born.

He sat down on the bed and used the window light to search in the phone directory for Frank Wesley. Was mildly surprised to find a Frank A. Wesley listed. Things were seldom this easy, and people like Frank Wesley often had unlisted phone numbers. The address was 218 Cabin Lane.

Time for real detective work, Carver told himself. He reached over to the dresser and snatched the Atlanta street map he’d bought down in the lobby. Spread it out on the bed and found Cabin Lane in G-7, north of the downtown area and in a wealthy community known as Buckhead.

He scooted sideways on the mattress until he could reach the phone on the nightstand. Pressed 9 for an outside line, then punched out Wesley’s phone number. Listened to the ringing at the other end of the connection.

It would be useful to know if the 218 Cabin Lane Wesley was the Wesley who’d been killed in Florida. Save Carver some driving if he wasn’t.

But there was no answer at the Cabin Lane number.

So maybe things shouldn’t be too easy; whence would come character? Carver hung up the phone, sighed, and scooped up the street map and folded it into a bulky rectangle. He crammed it into a pocket and limped from the room.

Half an hour later he was driving north on Peachtree Road. He turned on West Paces Ferry Road, then did some winding around on woods-flanked streets lined with palatial homes that were surrounded by acres of ground. He made a right turn on Cabin Lane, where the lots were so large the houses could only be glimpsed here and there through the trees.

Number 218 was a heavily wooded lot with a wide concrete driveway blocked by heavy black iron gates mounted to flanking stone columns. Beyond the columns, chain-link fence stretched into the dappled shade of the trees and disappeared.

Carver braked the Ford and nosed in to the gates, then peered through the windshield at the heavy chain and shiny brass padlock securing them. Chain and lock looked brand-new, and there were no nicks and scratches on the gates near where the chain was draped. On one of the stone columns was a gray metal intercom box with a fancy black handle that matched the curlicued design of the gates. Class, Carver supposed.

He got out of the Ford and limped over to the box. Opened it and pressed the button beneath a speaker and mike.

Waited a few minutes and pressed it again.

No reply from the house.

As he limped back to the car, he eyed the chain-link fence more carefully and saw that it was topped by a tangle of razor-sharp concertina wire. An improvement on barbed wire, if such a thing needed improvement. Barbed wire was primarily used for keeping livestock in. Concertina wire was for keeping humans out, and unlike barbed wire, its finely honed, widely spread gap-toothed surface would slice to the bone like a razor blade as long as the slightest pressure was applied. It didn’t poke holes in trespassers; it shredded them. Even with two good legs, Carver wouldn’t have tried to scale the fence.

He lowered himself back into the car and drove a few blocks down the road, studying the estates on either side. Finally he turned the car around and parked it almost out of sight in a copse of trees a few feet off the road. It was virtually invisible here to anyone driving past.

After making sure no cars were approaching, he crossed the road and limped up a blacktop driveway. Lettering on a rural mailbox said the family living here was named Vermeer. The only visible part of the house was a vast red-tiled roof with several dormers. There was a metal rooster weather vane on the peak of one of the dormers. It couldn’t seem to make up its mind which way the wind was blowing. Pointed at Carver for a second, as if he might be responsible for shifting currents, then turned away.