John Lutz - Scorcher

“I’m asking,” Carver said. “I’ve got to.”

“Or think you do. But all right; what there is to know about the investigation, amigo , will be passed on to you. So long as you must continue with your insanity.”

Carver shifted his weight to his stiff leg for a moment, balancing with the cane. “I appreciate it.”

“Something, though,” Desoto said. “It’s you all by yourself out on a thin limb; I can’t help you if it breaks. Nobody can. I’m warning you to back away and let the law do its work. In fact, I’m telling you.”

“I’m not listening.”

“If I could, I’d put you in jail in protective custody. Protect you from yourself.” Desoto did suddenly look angry. “The law’s gonna come down outa nowhere on you one of these days, you and your ‘man’s-gotta-do-what-he’s-gotta-do’ delusion. Don’t you know the families of most murder victims feel exactly the way you do?”

“I guess that’s so,” Carver said.

“Ah, go to Edwina. And have more than a few beers. While you’re being appreciative, appreciate her.”

“I do,” Carver said, limping toward the door. “You’d be surprised how much. Sometimes it surprises me.”

By the time Carver reached Del Moray, Edwina wasn’t home. Real-estate agents kept hours almost as irregular as detectives, though generally they weren’t involved with killers.

Carver called Quill Realty and the syrup-voiced evening receptionist promised to put him in touch with Edwina. He thanked her and sat down. He absently rubbed his stiff knee; it ached a little today for some reason.

Within minutes the phone rang. Edwina.

She was showing beachfront property at the only time her prospective buyers could keep an appointment, but she told Carver she’d be with him in about an hour. She’d sagely advise the buyers to examine the property by daylight. Looking out for their best interests, even though she actually represented the seller. Full of saleswoman shmaltz, was Edwina.

She was home in forty-five minutes.

Within another ten minutes they went to bed and made love. Carver was gentle with her yet intense, clinging to her at times as if she were life in the midst of death. Shelter from fear. His salvation. It was all self-delusion, he knew, but he didn’t want to release it, or release himself into her. Not yet. Not yyyet!

Edwina sensed the unusual intensity in him and caught it. Matched it. The padded blue headboard began slamming against the wall, repeating and then dictating rhythm like a muffled metronome; heartbeat and hypnotism.

When he finally climaxed, Carver heard a trailing low moan. From his lips or Edwina’s? He couldn’t be sure.

She muttered something he didn’t understand, her breath a warm, light touch on his face. Whatever she’d said, he was sure it didn’t require an answer.

He rolled to the side, aware of the hot, stale scent of their coupling, the sweat rolling down his bare ribs. The sheet was damp beneath him and wrinkled in hard ridges. In the corner of his vision he saw Edwina run her fingertips up over her thighs and stomach, as if checking to see if he’d hurt her. Maybe he had.

“All right?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

Brief conversation as old as time.

He lay on his back and listened to the rush of the waves and felt his metabolism gradually work its way back to normal. After a while, he told her everything.

Like an ancient sin eater she absorbed his pain and fear. He wondered, though, if now he’d burdened her more than he should have.

What he didn’t want to share with her was the danger he was in. So he showered and dressed, then told her he was driving to his cottage.

Edwina objected, but not for long. She could read Carver’s determination, and sense when not to push. She didn’t like love having its limitations. He didn’t blame her, but he couldn’t do much about the situation. Life seldom fell into place like a late-night movie. That was why people watched late-night movies.

“Lock your door,” he cautioned her.

She shrugged. “You’ll leave anyway.”

He left her sitting on the veranda, staring out over the moonlit ocean and sipping a tall Tom Collins, her thoughts as inaccessible to him as distant clouds.

The phone was jangling when Carver walked into the stuffy heat of the cottage. He had no way of knowing how long it had been ringing and suspected he wouldn’t reach it before the caller hung up. But he clomped with his cane across the hard floor, groped for the phone in the dimness, and lifted the receiver.

“This Carver?” a voice asked. A familiar voice but he couldn’t quite place it.

“It’s Carver.”

“Emmett Kave here. Paul called me. He’s here! Well, he ain’t here exactly. But he’s in Orlando.”

Carver waited, suddenly aware of the internal sounds and movements of his body, his hammering heart, the coursing of hunter’s blood through his veins. His teeth ached; he was clenching his jaw. It reminded him of how he’d felt the first time he’d fired live rounds through a handgun. The real thing! “Where in Orlando?”

“What you gonna do if I tell you how to get to him?” Emmett asked.

“Talk to him,” Carver said. “Try to get him to go with me and a lawyer to surrender to the police.”

“And if he don’t want to?”

“I’ll try to talk him into going back to his family, let them decide what’s best.”

Emmett’s laugh was like a hard object grating over a washboard. “Not much chance he’ll listen to that kinda bullshit, Carver. He’s scared, but he ain’t that scared.”

“I want to help him,” Carver said. His voice was level, but he felt like driving to Emmett’s house in Kissimmee and shaking the old man until dentures and information flew.

“He said something bad happened in Orlando, Carver. Was it that woman on the news got herself burned to death?”

“Yes. Paul did it,” Carver said. “He’s gotta be stopped, Emmett. For him and for anybody else he might kill. He’s mixed up and almost beyond help. Jesus, you must understand that!”

“Guess I do,” Emmett said in a tired voice. “Guess I got no alternative. He’s at the Mermaid Motel on the Orange Blossom Trail, just outside town. Room one hundred. You promise me he won’t get hurt, Carver?”

“You know better, Emmett. I’ll promise you I’ll do what I can.”

“That’ll have to be good enough. Not much choice in this crazy world. Not much at all.” Emmett hung up, leaving an echo of betrayal.

Carver limped to his dresser and slid the top drawer all the way out and laid it on the bed. The dresser’s wood back had been removed, leaving room for the old Colt. 38 automatic that was in its holster tacked to the back of the drawer.

He removed the gun, checked its action, and stuck it inside his belt. It felt cool and heavy and important. Then he replaced the drawer and put on a loose-fitting dark shirt with squared tails that he left untucked. The gun wasn’t noticeable beneath the shirt.

He went outside and got in the Olds. The big car was still gurgling and ticking in the night heat after the drive from Del Moray. Telling Carver it was ready to go again.

Carver started the engine and switched on the headlights. As he jockeyed the Olds onto the road to the highway, he heard sand and gravel patter against the insides of the fenders. The obsolete dinosaur of a motor roared like thunder from an ancient past, something civilization and Japanese imports could never tame.

He bent forward over the steering wheel, like a jockey urging a horse to greater speed down the stretch. He could hardly wait to reach Orlando and the Mermaid Motel.