John Lutz - Scorcher

The walk leading from the street to the front porch was tilted and cracked. Carver found it easiest to make his way to the door by keeping to the side of the ruined concrete and setting the tip of his cane against sun-hardened earth. His stark shadow angled into puzzle pieces, parting and rejoining, as it passed over the jagged sections of walk.

He made it to the porch and stood still for a moment in the shade. Somebody was home. An old blue box fan vibrated and growled in one of the front windows, causing a few high, scraggly weeds to bend and sway in the sunlight in silent protest. There was a wasps’ nest tucked neatly in a corner of the porch ceiling, and one of the warlike insects was droning around Carver as if warning him not to try anything funny. Carver leaned on a supporting post and used the tip of his cane to press an almost invisible, painted-over button.

A buzzer rasped to urgent life inside the house, as if there were a huge version of the pesky wasp in there, communicating with the lookout on the porch. The inane thought made Carver uneasy.

After about half a minute, the door opened and a strong smell of frying bacon drifted outside. Carver squinted through the dark screen door into the house.

A man moved closer to the screen and changed from hazy outline to individual. He was almost exactly the size and build of Adam Kave, but his nose was larger, his gray eyebrows much bushier. He had the square, powerful Kave jaw, and that and the eyebrows lent his face a cragginess that looked good on a man well into his late sixties. There was about him the same energy that seemed to emanate from brother Adam, but tinged with the desperation of near-poverty. Like the last-chance, wild hope that flares just before total resignation.

“Emmett Kave,” Carver said.

Emmett looked at him down the length of his body, up again to the face. “You say my name like we know each other.” The voice was deep, but not as deep as Adam’s, and it had none of the gravelly quality. “We met?”

“No. My name’s Carver. I’ve met your brother. The family resemblance is unmistakable.”

“Hm. Up to a point, I s’pose.”

“The Kaves have hired me to try to find their son Paul.”

“Police are trying to do that.”

“They’d like me to find him before the police do.”

“Yeah,” Emmett said after a pause, “I can understand why. What are you, a private detective?”

“That’s what I am.” Carver got his I.D. from his back pocket and held it up to the screen.

“Don’t mean shit to me,” Emmett said. “Got nothing to compare it with for genuineness.” He aimed a thick finger like the barrel of a weapon at Carver, as if about to warn him off his property. But instead he used the finger to unhook the screen-door latch and then melted back into shadow, like a man retreating into a protective, gloomy cave. “C’mon in, Carver.”

Carver limped into a small living room that was neater than he would have guessed from the outside of the house. The furniture was dark and old and threadbare, but it seemed clean and was symmetrically arranged. A potted plant cowered in a dim corner as if awaiting execution. The floor was waxed hardwood, covered in the middle by a very worn, obviously imitation Oriental rug with uneven fringe around the edges. Through a far door Carver could see into the kitchen: green linoleum, chrome table leg, rounded corner of old-fashioned refrigerator. The bacon smell seemed stronger when he just looked in that direction. The senses being mischievous.

“Fixing myself a BLT,” Emmett said. “Want one?”

“No, thanks.” The box fan didn’t help much; it was hot inside the house. Too hot for Carver even to think about eating. “You go ahead, though. Don’t let me make you burn the bacon.”

Emmett commanded Carver to have a seat on the sofa, then he strode into the kitchen out of sight. He had the same purposeful walk as his brother, only it was slower. Maybe because he was conditioned to existing in smaller spaces. Neither brother moved like men in their sixties; there was plenty of spring in their legs.

Carver heard the clatter of silverware in the kitchen. Something dropped to the floor, bounced, and rolled. He glimpsed the refrigerator door opening and closing. “Get you a beer?” Emmett called.

Carver was tempted but called back, “Not now, thanks.”

“Why not?” Emmett asked, coming back into the living room carrying a can of beer of a brand Carver had never heard of, and a thick BLT-on-toast on a paper towel. The can was yellow and had what looked like an American Indian emblazoned on it. Mayonnaise-smeared lettuce draped from a corner of the sandwich; one of the crisp bacon slices crumbled, and a tiny charred piece dropped onto the Oriental rug. Emmett either didn’t notice it or ignored it. Maybe the maid was on her way. “You private cops can drink on duty.”

“But we don’t if we don’t want a beer,” Carver said.

Emmett grinned and sat down in the chair opposite Carver. It had dark wood arms and its upholstery matched the sofa’s: a maroon flower design embossed on beige, made browner by the years. He chomped into his BLT. The splintering toast and bacon made a crackling sound, softer as Emmett chewed. He looked at Carver’s cane, swallowed, and said, “How’d you get your leg messed up?”

“Shot.”

“As a cop or in combat?”

“When I was with the Orlando police.”

“Oh. Thought you mighta been a vet,” Emmett said. He took another big bite of sandwich and talked around it as he chewed. “You got the look of a man who’s seen combat.”

“Only for a little while in Vietnam,” Carver said. He’d been in Nam for seven weeks and two days, until a superficial wound had brought him home and led to a transfer and then discharge, but he suddenly saw again the victims of napalm attack. He refused to ride the vision into the more recent past.

“Hmph!” Emmett said, as if he might not count Vietnam when he totaled up meaningful wars. “You figure the cops find Paul they’ll kill him before he gets a chance to give up?”

“No. But it’s a possibility. Emotions are high. And from what I’ve heard about Paul, he might not try to give up, might not be thinking straight.”

“Hah! Boy thinks straighter than they give him credit for.”

“How long’s it been since you’ve seen him?”

“He hasn’t come around here since he’s been on the run, if that’s what you mean.”

“I was getting around to that,” Carver said, “but what I meant to ask was how long it’s been since you’ve talked with Paul.” There was an edge to his voice. Don’t anticipate my questions, old fella.

“I know. I ain’t thick.” Another bite of sandwich. The bacon smell got stronger. The box fan whirred steadily, stirring the hot air in the corners of the room. Emmett seemed to be thinking. He swallowed hard, as if it hurt his throat, then took a long slug of beer and set the can back down. “About six months. I like the boy; we get along. He’d drive over here and we’d sit and talk every once in a while.”

“Oh? What about?”

“Lotsa things, but most often about how that jackass of a father was treating him.”

“He has animosity toward his father?”

“Just hates him, is all. I tried to tell him Adam acted the way he did out of greed and ignorance, not because he didn’t love Paul. But I tell you, Carver, I don’t think Adam Kave gives a gnat’s ass about anything but himself and that god-awful wiener business he runs. Neither of them kids of his had much guidance growing up.”

“You see Nadine now and then, too?”

“Naw. Not that one. Too busy for an old crank like me. Tennis and goin’ out with the boys is her games, what I hear. Kinda wild sometimes, but not a bad girl, you know what I mean.”