John Lutz - Scorcher

Without thinking, Carver swung the gun to aim at the man. The cicadas had stopped their ratchety screaming, figuring something was going down and they wanted no part of it. The night was silent except for the distant rush of passing traffic on the far side of the motel.

“Whoa, Christ!” the man said. He hurled the cigar into the black sky, where it arced like a meteor as he ducked back into his room. For a little fat guy he could really hustle.

Carver was up and limping as fast as possible into the shadows. He plowed through thick shrubbery. His cane skipped on an uneven slick surface and he almost fell, saved a tumble by grabbing a branch, feeling thorns slice into his palm as he held himself erect. Thin branches or vines clutched at his ankles, slowing him down. Nightmare running. The cane snagged and he almost dropped it from his slippery grasp. Behind him he heard male voices yelling. Words he couldn’t understand. Then a woman’s voice: “. . Man with a gun!”

He remembered the automatic and realized he’d unconsciously tucked it back in his belt when he fled. It was a cool, hard lump against his stomach.

Then he was free of the shrubbery, still in darkness so thick he could feel it on him like black oil, and hobbling fast toward his car. He could see headlights on the Orange Blossom Trail; the road curved ahead. He had to be close to where the Olds was parked. His speed surprised him; fear was a powerful motivator. This was the kind of terror Paul Kave must feel every minute.

Carver was sucking air in hard, rasping breaths. More voices behind him. He couldn’t tell how close-wasn’t sure whether he was being pursued. Guy with the cigar wouldn’t be chasing him; he’d scared hell out of that one, maybe cured him of smoking altogether. Saved the bastard’s life!

The cane started to slide beneath his weight. A grating sound. Gravel. He was on the parking lot, only twenty feet from the car!

He clambered into the Olds and started the engine, glad he’d thought to leave the key in the ignition switch. Quiet, he cautioned himself. Quiet! You’re just someone in the area, passing through. Pulled off the road to look at a map or empty the ashtray. On your way to Disney World. Innocent as all hell.

Careful not to spin the tires and send gravel flying, he let the Olds roll toward the highway. He braked, waited for a tanker truck to howl past, then eased onto the pavement and accelerated. Leaned back in the seat.

Jesus, the wind felt grand!

Not too fast! He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. His toe tapped the brake pedal. He drove past the Mermaid Motel at the speed limit exactly. There was no sign of activity there, but he knew there would soon be plenty. He also didn’t doubt that Paul Kave was right now getting clear of the motel as quickly as possible, and would be lost again to the police and to Carver.

Half a mile down the highway, a patrol car approached him going in the other direction, siren yodeling wildly and roofbar lights flashing red and blue glare. The driver swerved to avoid a station wagon slow in pulling to the side. In a hurry, all right. Too late, pal, Carver thought as the cruiser zipped past. He watched the light show recede in his rearview mirror.

The pulsing lump in his throat receded and his breathing evened out. He was away clean. The cigar smoker had barely glanced at him and probably hadn’t noticed the cane, scared as he was. Probably busy fouling his underwear and saw nothing but the gun swinging his way. And Carver had hobbled into the black night before anyone else had a chance to see him.

Near the expressway he parked the Olds on the shoulder and sat for a while, feeling the low drumbeat of the idling engine through his buttocks and thighs. He was sweating hard and his hands were shaking. Something in his stomach wanted out. He wasn’t sure he could drive.

What he was experiencing was more than simply delayed reaction to stress. He’d felt that before and knew it well enough to recognize it. This was something else, at a deeper level.

If he hadn’t been interrupted, he would have squeezed the trigger and sent bullets smashing through glass, and then the flesh and bone of Paul Kave. Killed the scared kid with the phantom mustache. No doubt at all.

The thing about it, Carver wasn’t sure how he would have felt afterward. And for the first time since his son’s death, afterward mattered.

Her phone rang twelve times before she answered, even though it was right beside her bed. He wasn’t surprised. She slept deeply.

She cleared her throat. “ ’Lo.”

“Edwina, this is Carver.”

“Four inna morning. Whassa matter?”

“I’m not sure. I’m sorry; I wanted to hear your voice.”

“S’okay. You know it is.”

“I almost shot Paul Kave last night.”

She paused one, two, three beats. “Why didn’t you?” As awake now as she could be at 4:00 A.M.

“I was seen and had to get away.”

“Will anyone be able to identify you?”

“I don’t think so.”

She was quiet for a while, then she said, “You still want to kill him?” He reached far back into the mysteries of his mind before he answered.

“Yes.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You okay now?”

“Okay.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Go to sleep then, baby. Go to sleep.”

“Edwina?”

“You rather talk awhile? It’s fine, if that’s what you want.”

“No, I guess not. No.”

“Go to sleep, baby.”

“All right.”

She waited for him to hang up first. He was finally able to sleep, but not without dreams or fear.

It was nine that morning when Carver knocked on Emmett Kave’s door. The sun was already glaring hot and harsh, angling in beneath the sagging gutters to cast brilliant rectangular patterns on the concrete porch. The porch floor had been painted gray long ago, but nothing of the color remained except for a stubborn peppering that had penetrated the concrete too deeply to be dislodged by weather. A large palmetto bug, brown and glistening and ugly, dragged itself across a sharp corner of sunlight and then disappeared beneath the wall near the edge of the porch, seeking darkness.

Carver had a headache; he wanted out of the sun, like the bug.

Emmett opened the inner door and peered through the patched screen at him. The old man was wearing a green, limp terrycloth robe that had gone through the wash too many times. When he swung the screen door open, Carver saw that the robe hung to his knobby knees, and his thin, hairless ankles disappeared into old leather slippers with dark stains on the toes, as if oil had dripped on them long ago. He said, “Don’t you look like something the cat crapped out this morning.”

“I didn’t get much sleep,” Carver said.

“Here to tell me about last night?” Emmett asked, shuffling backward so Carver could enter. The slippers made soft sighing sounds on the floor.

As the door slapped shut behind Carver, he noticed that the house smelled like frying bacon again. He wondered if it always smelled like bacon. Possibly that was all Emmett Kave ate. Maybe the preservatives kept him alive.

Emmett slouched down on the dark old sofa and motioned for Carver to take a chair. Carver declined. He didn’t feel like sitting. He leaned on his cane and looked around. Sunlight was trying hard to break in but hadn’t made it yet; the house was warm and gloomy. He wished Emmett would switch on the blue box fan that was wedged in the front window.

“Coffee?” Emmett asked.

“Nothing,” Carver said. “I missed Paul last night at the Mermaid Motel.” He was immediately aware of the irony of his words. Another few seconds and he wouldn’t have missed Paul; he’d have shot him dead-center through the heart.