John Lutz - Bloodfire

Carver said, “We’ll try to see they don’t get there.”

“Naturally,” Morgan said. “Even so, I figure I better know more about you and the lady, Mr. Carver. So I’ll be honest with you; I’m gonna go back to my office and get on the phone and the fax machine. Do some checking up on you two. I regret to say I don’t think you been completely honest with me. If I don’t like what I hear, I’m gonna get more insistent that you leave.”

Beth stood up straighter. “And if we refuse to leave?”

“Don’t get all tight in the jaw,” Morgan told her. “I’m trying not to act like Marshal Dillon on ‘Gunsmoke’ reruns, ’cause I know this is real life. But if you refuse to leave, I might have to look into the matter of an automatic weapon being brandished about.”

Beth said, “I’m sure there are lots of automatic weapons in the area.”

The chief said, “Yeah, that’s sorta my point. I don’t want this thing to escalate.”

Carver said, “Sounds like you’re twisting our arms, Chief.”

“Guess I am, because I know the Brainards better’n you do. You could be walking around with Stinger missiles and it wouldn’t help against them, ’cause they either got guided missiles of their own, or they’ll shoot you in the back from ambush casual, as if you was jackrabbits in season.”

Beth said, “We’re not rabbits.”

“So I understand.” He gave his hat a few twirls between nimble fingers. “All I’m asking is you reconsider staying here and courting trouble. I believe that’s reasonable.”

“It is,” Carver agreed, ignoring the look Beth aimed at him.

“So talk to the lady,” Morgan urged. “Some women got too much fire in their blood, and I’m afraid she’s one of ’em.”

Carver said, “Don’t worry, we’ll talk.”

Morgan shook his head. “Hard not to worry, way the last couple days have gone.” A helicopter-size mosquito that had entered with him circled down on the back of the hand holding the hat. Morgan slapped at it with his other hand but missed. “Well, I done all I can. Police number’s there in the front of the phone book if the Brainards come back.” He lowered the hat to his side and ambled to the door. “No offense, but I hope I don’t hear from you. Hope I don’t see either of you again.”

Beth smiled and said, “No offense taken, Chief.”

Morgan gave her a reciprocal smile and a final, appraising stare. Nodding good-bye to Carver, he opened the door. He plunked his hat square on his head as he walked out, swinging his arms wide.

As soon as the door closed, Carver said, “We’re leaving.”

Beth shook her head. “I don’t see it that way.”

“Not because of the Brainard brothers,” he told her, “because of Chief Morgan. He’ll do what he said, go to his office and start checking on me. He’ll probably consult the Del Moray police.”

“So what? We-”

She bit off her words, suddenly aware of what Carver was thinking.

“If the police, or even the DEA, find out where we are, it’s possible Roberto’ll soon know. There are certain lines of communication between the law and big-time drug dealers. You told me yourself how the law was riddled with bent bureaucrats.”

Beth said, “Yeah, Roberto can find out from the cops where Chief Morgan’s information request came from. And fast. He has informers in places that’d surprise you.”

“He can’t shock me,” Carver said. “I’ve met his wife.”

“ Former wife,” Beth corrected. “That’s how I try to think of myself, anyway, even if it’s not quite true yet.”

Carver leaned on his cane and touched her shoulder. Felt the physical energy of passion flow into him. “I think of you that way, too.”

“How long you figure it’d take Roberto to get here, once he finds out the police chief of Dark Glades requested information about us?”

“He might be here by this time tomorrow,” Carver said. “To play it safe, we need to leave before nightfall.”

“So let’s pack,” Beth said. “Get away from here soon as we can.” She was plainly apprehensive now, taking Roberto Gomez much more seriously than she did the simple brute threat of the Brainards.

Carver thought getting away that soon was a good idea. He got his suitcase and slung it onto the bed. Beth disappeared into her room to get busy. As he emptied the dresser drawers, he could hear her moving around on the other side of the wall. The big mosquito that had assaulted Chief Morgan made a pass at him. He swatted at it, knocking it to the floor, stepped on it. Simple. Maybe things were starting to break the right way, the planets swinging into line, luck changing and odds brightening. Could be.

Within a half hour they had their clothes stuffed in their suitcases. Carver told Beth to stay inside while he walked over to the office to return the keys and tell Watts they were leaving earlier than planned. He left her standing between the two suitcases near the door.

But instead of going to the motel office, he stood in the stifling heat and then limped back into the room, remembering the large sheath knife on B.J. Brainard’s belt.

Beth asked him what was wrong, sounding worried, and he motioned for her to look out the window at the car while he used the phone to call for a tow truck from Dark Glades.

All four of the Olds’s tires were flat. They’d been slashed dozens of times with a wide-bladed knife that someone had wielded with the enthusiasm of Jack the Ripper.

Carver and Beth would have to leave Dark Glades tonight or tomorrow, or whenever new tires were available for the Olds.

Beth turned away from the window. “The Brainless brothers!” she said venomously.

Carver said, “They’re not very innovative, but you almost have to admire their persistence.”

“ You admire them,” Beth said. She strode angrily back to her room.

Too much fire.

Within an hour a dusty red tow truck with MURRAY’S GARAGE lettered on its door, and a thick chain clanging musically against its stubby steel boom, rumbled into the Casa Grande parking lot. It was old and its left front fender was missing.

Carver and Beth watched out the window as it positioned itself behind the Olds. The truck jerked back and forth, its tires tossing gravel. The racket of its motor caused an explosion of birds to fan up and out darkly from the edge of the swamp.

The tow truck’s door opened and a short, husky man in grease-stained gray coveralls leaped from the cab. He stood for a moment swaying, his chest puffed out and his hands floating at his sides, like a cocky astronaut who’d just emerged from a spaceship into different gravity. Then he examined the stub of a cigar jutting from his mouth to make sure he hadn’t bitten into it during the impact of his drop to the ground.

Carver limped outside and said hello to him. Saw that he was about fifty and had a chubby, ruddy face that was so grease-stained it made him resemble an Indian warrior painted and ready to fight. A miniature Crazy Horse, lost in time.

The little guy even smelled like oil. Gnats swarmed around him, but he didn’t seem to notice. The name tag sewn crookedly onto his coveralls said his name was Jack Murray.

He said, “You the guy what called? A Mr. Carver?”

Carver said he was.

“Jack Murray,” said the stocky little man. He propped his dirty fists on his hips and studied the flat tires on the passenger side of the Olds, strutted around and peered at the other flat tires. When he returned to stand facing Carver again, he said, “My, my, it ’pears somebody don’t like you.”

Carver said, “I’ve got an idea who.”

“Well, they done a good job. For certain ruined them tires. Shame, too, as there was plenty of rubber left on ’em.”