John Lutz - Lightning

“That wasn’t in the newspaper, Carver.”

“Is one of your FBI antagonists a tall blond guy, well groomed, with a crew cut and black horn-rimmed glasses?”

“I haven’t seen one fitting that description.”

“Any of your men look like that?”

“Not unless he’s working undercover at a CPA convention.”

“You want my cooperation, you’ve got to give me something,” Carver said.

“Okay, Norton’s an obvious nut case, one of those true-believer dingbats out to save the world from itself. His method is explosives. There, you have something.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

McGregor looked sly, He grinned and probed the space between his teeth with the tip of his tongue. “Oh? What is it you want from me in return for your cooperation, which you better give me anyway or I’ll see you under the jail and the key’ll be in the pocket of some pants I never wear and have forgot all about?”

“I want you to provide some protection for Beth at the hospital.”

“Huh? You know I couldn’t do that even if I wanted. Anyway, who’d want to hurt her now? Norton’s in jail. And she’s only a witness anyway, and not a damaging one. You think that clinic was blown up in an attempt on her life?”

“No. But I think somebody might want to scare me off the case through her, which means there’s something to be scared away from. And if I spend my time protecting Beth instead of investigating, there might be facts you and I never learn.” Actually Carver wasn’t sure Beth was in any danger, but she suspected she was. Possibly her instincts were affected by her grief and injuries, yet they were usually accurate. Then there was the WASP with the horn-rimmed glasses; maybe there was nothing to him as a threat, but only maybe. Beth would feel better, and Carver would, if she had protection until she was well enough to be released from hospital care.

“There you go, overestimating your own importance, dick-head,” McGregor snarled.

“You know better. I’m private and can do what you can’t, maybe follow a hunch that leads to the right place. If you didn’t think that was true and you didn’t think I was good at my work, you wouldn’t be here talking to me.”

“If you’re talking about breaking the law, using any means to gain an end, hell, I do that already.”

“But you’ve got superior officers watching you, and subordinates who hate your guts and’ll toss you to the wolves if they see the chance.”

“Well, that’s a fact . . .” McGregor rubbed his long chin with a long forefinger, then brushed back the lock of straight blond hair that was hanging over his forehead. “You know I’ve got a manpower shortage.”

“Always. That’s why you want me out there like another cop working for you. You need people who know which rocks to turn over, what to look for when they flip, and how to deal with whatever crawls out.”

“Stop trying to bullshit me. It can’t be done unless you’re more corrupt and devious than I am, and you’re not. You’re too naive and weighted down with scruples that are gonna take you to the bottom and drown you someday. Dumb fucking gimp.”

Carver knew McGregor was weakening. “I told you the deal, that’s all. There’s no bullshit involved.”

“You’re lucky,” McGregor said. “Timing and luck, that’s what’s kept you alive and outside the walls. It so happens I got a policewoman’s not worth spit. I can assign her to the hospital to watch over Beth. One useless cunt to guard another so your time’s freed up, that’s not a bad trade.”

“And politically correct of you,” Carver said.

“Well, we have to watch that stuff these days,” McGregor said earnestly, apparently missing Carver’s irony.

Carver would see to it that he missed more than that.

Carver went for his usual therapeutic swim in the sea the next morning, stroking far out from shore. He rolled over and floated on his back, feeling the heat of the morning sun soak into him as he rode the swells, still gentle this far from shore before they met the resistance of land and began their rise. He liked to gaze in at his cottage perched on the crescent of beach that lent it some privacy, at his life. It gave him the perspective of distance, providing a core of peace if not understanding. It was the need to understand that kept him alive in a business where knowing too much could prove fatal.

On the public beach to the left of where his cottage sat, beyond the curve of sandy shore, a few sunbathers and swimmers were already appearing, spreading out towels or venturing down into the cool surf. A woman carrying a child on her hip was walking gingerly parallel to the surf, now and then allowing the white foam to reach and engulf her bare feet and ankles, while behind her a man was carefully setting up some sort of portable lounger. A young man and woman walked past the man with the lounger, their steps kicking up rooster tails of sand at their heels, each of them gripping a handle of a large white plastic cooler with a blue lid. A woman’s happy shouts and high laughter drifted out to Carver from shore. He turned his head in the water and saw a young woman with long blond hair running and splashing in the surf, while a man with his pants legs rolled to the knees stood with his arms crossed and observed her as if he were going to grade her.

Carver watched them for a moment, then rolled over onto his stomach and began to swim for shore, feeling the coolness of his wet back warming quickly in the sun. He glanced toward the beach where his white towel lay folded and his cane jutted like a beacon from the sand, then changed the angle of his direction slightly and lengthened his strokes. He cut through the water swiftly, swiveling his head to breathe regularly and deeply as he kicked gracefully from the hip. By now he was so at home in the ocean that he almost felt he was experiencing evolution in reverse. He told himself that, rather than suppose his occasional thoughts of succumbing to the pull of distance and swimming straight out toward the misty horizon line of sea and sky were suicidal musings.

After returning to the cottage, showering, and getting dressed, he prepared a breakfast of Cheerios, toast, and coffee. He ate seated at the breakfast bar while he watched CNN on the TV that was angled so that it could be seen from the kitchen area.

It wasn’t long before the Women’s Light Clinic bombing was covered. Bobbi Batista, an anchorwoman with luminous blue eyes, was seated between a woman in a severe pinstriped business suit who was an abortion rights activist, and a man wearing army camouflage fatigues who was referred to as Major. Both guests were talking at once, gesticulating animatedly and arguing about the difference between murder and political terrorism. None of this was comprehensible. Carver used the remote to mute the TV as Bobbi went to a string of commercials about hidden germs in the mouth, a phone company’s offer of long-distance discounts for far-flung family members, and the ergonomics of a Japanese car. Carver took a last bite of toast and washed it down with coffee.

When the news came back on, a correspondent was interviewing a man standing in front of a colorful stained glass window. The man was about fifty, stockily built beneath a tailored gray suit that had a lot of silk in the material. He had wavy gray hair parted as neatly as if he’d used a ruler and combed sharply to the side, and strong features frozen into a perpetual smile that was more a chance arrangement of muscle and bone structure than an expression of good humor. He would be smiling even as he slept. The caption at the bottom of the screen identified him as the Reverend Martin Freel of Operation Alive.