John Lutz - Lightning

Carver offered Wicker something to drink, but Wicker declined, saying he had to leave soon. His glance slid toward the door, toward Delores Bravo. Carver walked around the counter and got a Budweiser out of the refrigerator, pulled the tab, then leaned on the counter and waited.

“We’ve found parts from the Coast Medical Services bomb,” Wicker said. “Bits of material from the container, some wire splices and plastic connectors. It looks like the same kind of bomb that went off at the Women’s Light Clinic. The bomber’s signature’s the same.”

Carver knew that “signature” was bomb squad talk for the distinctive method each bomber employed to construct his or her deadly packages. He set his beer can on the counter and stared at it, then at Wicker. “You’re saying Norton couldn’t have been the Women’s Light Clinic bomber? That the real bomber’s still at large?”

“No, I’m saying someone-maybe Norton-made both bombs. The explosives were sticks of dynamite set off with blasting caps, a battery, and a timer, all contained inside a large hollowed-out Bible.”

“Your lab can tell all that?”

“You’d be surprised how much is left of an exploded bomb,” Wicker said, “if you know where and how to look. Sometimes we can even lift the bomb maker’s fingerprints.” He made a helpless gesture with both hands. “Not this time, though, at the site of either clinic.”

“You going to keep holding Norton?”

“Sure. He could have been the Women’s Light bomber and made both bombs. The Coast Medical clinic explosion might have been the work of another Operation Alive fanatic, taking up where Norton left off.”

“Or trying to make Norton look innocent.”

“We’re taking that possibility into account, too,”

“What about Norton’s wife, Carrie? Might she be the second bomber?” Carver found it hard to imagine even as he made the suggestion. Frail and shy Carrie Norton, who would look twelve until she was forty.

“Not her. She’s been under surveillance since the bureau entered the case.”

Carver came out from behind the bar, leaned on his cane, and said, “I’ve got some information for you, too.” He told Wicker about Adelle Grimm’s motel meeting with the Reverend Martin Freel.

“Unlikely lovers,” Wicker said.

The sound of women’s laughter drifted into the cottage on the ocean breeze. Beth and Delores. Carver and Wicker looked in the direction of the melodious laughter. Beautiful, Carver thought; he loved hearing the laughter of women. He’d mentioned that once to Desoto, who had agreed with him. Then Carver recalled the shrill giggler in the Deep Water Lounge. Some women’s laughter was beautiful.

“The fact is,” Wicker said, “Freel’s got a solid alibi for the days before and after the time of the Women’s Light bombing. He was with half a dozen people in Orlando at the time of the detonation. And we’ve investigated him thoroughly and found no indication of an affair with Adelle Grimm.”

“They would have been careful,” Carver said.

Wicker rubbed his cheek, thinking about it. “She must know Freel might have been behind her husband’s death, Carver. Are you saying . . .”

“Maybe they were both behind Dr. Grimm’s death. Or maybe Freel acted on his own and Adelle didn’t know about it ahead of time. Maybe she doesn’t believe now that he had anything to do with the bombing. Freel could easily convince her that Norton acted alone.”

“There’s still Freel’s alibi,” Wicker said. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly restless. He wanted to leave, to get back to Delores. “I think you’d better tell McGregor about this, Carver, stay on the legal side of the line.”

“I will, but tomorrow’s good enough.”

Wicker grinned. “Okay, but do it first thing in the morning. I’ll wait until tomorrow afternoon to notify him. Give him a chance to act smug.”

“Smugness is one of the few things about him that isn’t an act.”

Carver reconsidered waiting until tomorrow to phone McGregor. Maybe he should call him tonight, possibly waking him up. Hadn’t he insisted on information as soon as possible?

He went with Wicker out to the blue FBI sedan. It looked like the one Anderson had parked in to watch the cottage. Its engine was off and was ticking in the heat; or maybe that was Wicker.

Carver said hello to Delores Bravo, who flashed a white smile and looked much better than she had in the hospital. Her long dark hair was combed back, flowing over her shoulders, and her brown eyes gave back the moonlight.

Beth came around from the passenger side, where she’d been talking with Delores through the window. Wicker gave his guilty little smile again as he got in the car and started the engine.

Beth moved closer and stood next to Carver, and they watched the blue official car drive away. Al took a few steps in the direction it had gone, as if considering chasing it, then trotted back and sat on his haunches next to Beth.

“Surprise, surprise,” Carver said as the taillights disappeared in the darkness around a curve in the road to the coast highway.

Beth looked over at him. “You mean you didn’t see that coming?”

“Sure, but not to such a feverish degree until the investigation was ended. Wicker’s a pro. An open and obvious affair with a crime victim isn’t very professional.”

Beth laughed and shook her head. “Come off it, Fred. Poor love-struck guy didn’t have any choice. It happened to him, maybe in an unguarded instant. One day everything’s normal, next thing he knows, he has no appetite and his sleep is disturbed.”

She was right, Carver knew. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Maybe not even by Adelle Grimm and Martin Freel.

Beth leaned over and kissed his perspiring cheek. “Sometimes love even disturbs your sleep, Fred.”

They walked back toward the cottage.

“Before it does tonight,” he told her, “I’m going to finish this can of beer. Then I’m going to phone McGregor and disturb his sleep.”

“Then?” she asked.

“Then I’m going to disturb your sleep. Or at least delay it.”

She veered toward him and let her bare arm brush his. “Sounds like a good night’s work.”

As they opened the cottage door, Al barked loudly. “I think he’s still hungry,” Beth said.

“No,” Carver said, “I recognize that bark. He’s trying to tell us he wants to spend the night on the porch.”

And he nudged Al outside with his cane and shut the door.

There was a message on Carver’s office answering machine the next morning from Norton’s attorney, Jefferson Brama. In a smooth but booming voice, Brama informed Carver that he was in Del Moray and would like to see him later that day. He left a phone number for the Surfside, an ocean-view hotel on Cortez Way, a finger of land jutting out to sea, then crooking south at the first knuckle to run parallel to shore. It featured the best beach in the area and was a magnet for tourists with too much time and money. When the attraction waned and they departed, they still had too much time.

Carver called the number, asked for Brama’s extension, and as soon as the phone on the other end of the connection was answered, he hung up. Brama was in his room, which was what Carver wanted to know. The Surfside was only fifteen minutes away.

He gripped his cane and stood up, slipped his gray sport coat on over his black polo shirt, then left the office and crossed the already-baking parking lot to where the Olds sat in partial shade. He’d take the initiative by determining the time and place of his meeting with Brama, and by making an incursion into Brama’s territory.

Something about what he knew of the man, and the voice on the answering machine, made him think his best strategy was offense.