John Lutz - Burn

A part of him couldn’t help feeling relieved.

His heart was racing faster than the car’s backed-off engine, and his hands were trembling as he returned to the scene of the accident.

Carver sat in Desoto’s office and wished he had a cold beer. The run-in with Achilles Jones had been more than attempted assault and a fender-bender traffic accident: Jones was a suspected killer on the run.

Desoto surveyed the fan-fold computer paper on his desk, his chin propped in his hand, his dark eyes moving in short, rapid glides as he read. A guitar was playing softly on the radio behind him, deep, somber chords, and a woman was singing softly in Spanish; life was such a bittersweet, tragic affair.

He looked up at Carver and dropped the hand that had been cupping his chin down to the desk. His beige suit coat was draped on a wooden hanger slung over a brass hook on the wall. He moved his arm slightly and rested his French-cuffed white shirtsleeve on the papers he’d been reading. “Jones is such a common name,” he said, “that it poses difficulties.”

Carver agreed. He thought of Clive Jones at Burrow. The name was not as stupid an alias as it at first seemed.

“The Harley’s license plate was stolen in Jacksonville,” Desoto said. “The bike itself-a ninety-four Harley-Davidson Electra Glide Ultra-was traced by its identification number. They’re huge motorcycles that cost as much as some cars and weigh almost eight hundred pounds. That’s why after Jones’s went over on its side, even he didn’t try to right it. It was stolen three weeks ago from a man named Art Figenbaum in Rome, Georgia.”

Carver was disappointed but not surprised. The Achilles Joneses of the world were marauders who lived off the land. Stolen motorcycle, stolen plates. “You mean this monster’s faded away again as if he never existed? Like Big Foot?”

Desoto’s lips curved in a brief smile. “Not exactly, amigo. We believe Jones exists. And the fingerprints from the wrecked Harley match the print on the trunk of Spotto’s rental car. Your eyeball account connects Jones directly to the stolen bike, which connects him to the rental car and Spotto. Enough for a murder warrant, and once we fingerprint Jones and make the match for sure, he’s good for the fall. Big Foot doesn’t have the cops after him, right?”

“Right,” Carver said. “Does this mean you’re not going to dust my office?”

“No, we still want to lift a matching print there if we can. Best to lock this up tight.” Desoto raised his arm and adjusted the white cuff. Gold glinted. “Jones might not be bright in the conventional sense, but simply by remaining anonymous despite his remarkable appearance, he’s demonstrated a certain cunning. He’s probably heard of fingerprints.”

Carver understood Desoto’s meaning.

“You’re the witness that ties him into all this until he’s caught and printed,” Desoto said. “You’re the witness that can make it all stick to him in court.”

“I’m the witness he wants dead,” Carver said.

“That’s how it is, I’m afraid. And if Jones isn’t smart enough to know it, the person he’s working for probably is.”

“Marla Cloy or Joel Brant,” Carver said.

“Maybe. No way to know for sure precisely what his involvement with either of them is-or if there is an involvement- until we get him in the net.”

“That won’t be easy,” Carver said. “He’s injured, but not badly enough to slow him down much.”

“Sometimes injuries from accidents aren’t apparent at first, but they can still be serious. Even fatal. We can only hope, hey? He’s dangerous to people. He’s exactly what you called him, a monster. Inside and out.”

“True. But I don’t want him dead. I’d like for him to say who hired him to stop my investigation.”

Desoto looked at Carver, then arched an eyebrow and shook his head. “And you’re dangerous to yourself, my friend. It was foolish of you to chase a man like that after he tried to kill you.”

“He knows something I need to know,” Carver said.

“What you need,” Desoto said, “is to stay alive. Does your car still run?”

“As well as ever, now that I’ve bent the fender back out with a tire tool so the tire doesn’t scrape it.”

“Then I take it you’re driving directly back to Del Moray when you leave here.”

“That’s my plan.”

“Remember Jones is on the loose, and if he’s intelligent enough to be capable of anger, where you’re concerned he’ll be incensed. And an incensed Achilles Jones is a sleep-disturbing notion. I’m assuming you’re not walking around armed, or you’d have shot him.”

Carver mentally kicked himself for again neglecting to carry the Colt. It remained at the cottage, tucked beneath his underwear in his dresser drawer.

He knew the practical use of guns and knew how to use one, had used one more than once and without regret because the only alternative was his own death. But he remembered the shock and pain of being shot in the leg, and he didn’t want to carry a gun, to have its bulk pressing constantly against him. Consciously and unconsciously, he fought against arming himself unless it was necessary.

Today had convinced him it was necessary. He wouldn’t forget again.

“Remember to be careful, hey?” Desoto said.

“I always am,” Carver said, “and look what still happens to me.”

Desoto laughed in his rich baritone, in contrast to the rapid and tragic guitar strumming seeping from the little Sony on his windowsill.

“My saving grace is that I’m lucky,” Carver said.

“No, no. Your saving grace, my friend, is that you’re still alive.”

No motorcycle, no black van with tinted windows appeared in Carver’s rearview mirror as he drove the sun-baked highway back to Del Moray.

Two police technicians from Orlando were waiting in a four-door unmarked Pontiac when he parked outside his office. He greeted them, then let them inside and busied himself with things that didn’t really need doing while they went about their task of lifting fingerprints. The taller of the two worked silently, while the short one hummed constantly beneath his breath. They had some kind of aerosol cold fog and a special light that supplemented fingerprint powder. They were diligent professionals. Carver didn’t think they’d make a match here, but he didn’t have the heart to tell them.

When they were gone, he phoned Beth to see how she was and to let her know what had happened in Orlando.

“Jones will be out to kill you for sure now,” she said. “Fingerprints and an eyewitness make a case.”

“I’m not so sure he’s smart enough to figure that out. If you could see his eyes … I think he’s more the sort who either follows orders or simply reacts.”

“He’ll react by trying to kill you again,” Beth said flatly.

“You’re a comfort.”

“I’m a realist.”

“I love talking to you on the phone. So reassuring. Do you believe in telephone sex?”

“Sure. It’s the reason for all those little walkie-talkies.”

“Hmm. How are the two of you feeling today?”

Silence. Thicker and thicker.

Then, “Don’t give me that stuff, Fred. You know I haven’t made up my mind.”

“Okay, it was only idle conversation.”

“That kind of conversation doesn’t make things any easier.”

She was obviously moody today. Hormonal, maybe. Pregnant women got that way. Hormones ruled. He’d better not mention that possibility, though. She’d jump on him again, accuse him of male misunderstanding and insensitivity.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that sometimes I feel left out of this entire pregnancy process. But I’m the father, remember?”