Bloodfire (16 page)

He picked up the tiny, lilac-scented bar of motel soap and lathered his arms and chest, pretending not to hear.

B
ETH’S SHOWER WAS STILL
running as Carver toweled dry and limped from the bathroom. The short-napped gray carpet was rough under his bare soles. It was cool in the room and felt good. He sat on the edge of the bed and dressed himself, then scooted around until he could reach the old-fashioned black phone on one of the nightstands. Dialed 9 for an outside line.

McGregor wasn’t on duty at Del Moray police headquarters. Carver hung up. Dialed 9 again, then McGregor’s home number. Got an answering machine.

When the high-pitched tone sounded to signal him to begin his message, he said simply, “This is Carver.”

Click.
McGregor was home and had been screening his calls. “Got something for me?” his voice said.

“It’s possible.”

“This line sounds funny. Where you calling from?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“If it didn’t matter I wouldn’t have asked, fuckface. You better not cut up cute with me or—”

“Did I hear you say
you
had something for
me
?” Carver interrupted. He was tired of McGregor’s threats; he already knew he was dealing with something sick and vicious with a badge.

McGregor sighed loudly; it was a lonesome sound on the already hissing connection. “All right, I’ll play your game. You want me to say please with sugar on it? Grow the fuck up, Carver!”

A series of sharp raps sounded from the closed connecting door. Beth was working on the painted-over sliding bolt lock on her side, maybe using a shoe for a hammer.

McGregor said, “You at a carpenters’ convention?”

“Just a minute.”

McGregor objected to Carver leaving the phone, but Carver didn’t listen to what he said. A barrage of tinny obscenity trailed faintly from the receiver as he laid it on the nightstand.

Carver got up with the help of his cane. Limped over and pounded on the door a few times with the heel of his hand. Kind of hurt, but he loosened the door where it had been painted to the frame. He heard Beth curse, more sharp rapping coming from near the bolt lock, then a metallic scraping sound. Carver twisted the doorknob. Felt it come alive in his hand as it rotated from the other side. He yanked backward and the door made an odd popping sound and swung open.

Beth was standing with a high-heeled shoe in her right hand. He’d identified the rapping sound correctly; she’d been using the shoe as a hammer on the bolt lock. She looked as if she wanted to use it the same way on Carver. She was wearing faded designer jeans and a blue short-sleeved blouse. White Reeboks. Still had on her gold loop earrings. She said, “This sure as hell isn’t the Dark Glades Hilton, Carver.”

He said, “Yes it is.”

She strode into his room like a queen claiming property rights, immediately noticing the phone off the hook. “I interrupting?”

“No, better if you hear.”

Beth stood with her long arms folded as Carver returned to the phone and lifted the receiver; he wondered if she realized how it emphasized her breasts. “Still there?”

“I’m still here,” McGregor said. “Your main squeeze got a problem?”

“Not anymore.” If McGregor thought Beth’s voice belonged to Edwina, fine.

“So what’s this conversation about, asshole?”

Carver glanced at Beth. “Roberto Gomez. I know for sure he tried to kill his wife and killed her sister instead.”

“He pull the trigger?”

“No, but it was his man on the roof, acting under Roberto’s orders.”

“Why would he want to kill his wife? Even guys like Gomez don’t often do that when they been jilted. They stop to think about it, realize cunt’s replaceable.”

“Doesn’t matter why. I’m telling you he can be nailed for it.”

McGregor was quiet for a while. Then he said, “Who was the shooter, that guy Hirsh?”

“Not Hirsh. It was one of a number of soldiers Gomez has out looking for his wife.”

“Gomez has killed before, Carver. He’s smart enough to arrange for cover. Has an alibi in this case, in fact. He told it to the Orlando police.”

“It’s a phony.”

“Hell, yes, it is. But that don’t matter if it can’t be disproved.”

“Point is,” Carver said, “he’s gonna keep looking for her. He’s getting desperate, and desperate means careless. You stay on his ass, you’ll be able to nail him for murder or something else. He’s not himself these days. His judgment’s clouded.”

“Yeah, he hired you.”

Carver looked at Beth. He was going to give McGregor the plum now. “There’s also rumor of a drug shipment supposed to be smuggled into the country via Del Moray.”

“Really now?” McGregor’s voice took on a different frequency. “When?”

“I’m not sure. Soon, though.” Carver glanced at Beth. She rolled her eyes as if she was scared. He realized she wasn’t kidding.

“That it?” McGregor asked.

“All I’ve got for now.”

“What do you expect in return for this, Carver?”

Carver said, “Nail the son of a bitch.” Hung up.

Beth stared at him for a while, then said, “Well.” Not a question.

Carver said, “The man I talked to is named McGregor. He won’t say where he got the information on the drug drop. He can’t.”

“He a cop?”

“Yeah, but not in the way most people think of cops. He’s the one you saw leave my office the day we met at the marina.”

“Nobody’s gonna arrest Roberto and make it stick, Carver. You’re only jerking yourself off if you think so.”

“McGregor might. He doesn’t use orthodox methods. He’ll plant evidence on him if he has to.”

“That’s been tried. The crooked cop’s youngest child was murdered and the evidence disappeared. Cop wouldn’t testify against Roberto and the charge was dropped. Roberto’ll get down lower than anybody you put on his trail.”

“Nobody can get lower than McGregor. He’s at the bottom of the ocean, feeding on what sinks.”

“He’ll be there with weights on as part of the food chain unless he’s careful.” She sat down on the bed. Her denim jeans made a swishing sound as she crossed her legs. She smelled fresh, like the lilac-scented soap in the Casa Grande showers. “That our plan, to hide out here until your friend McGregor puts a collar on Roberto?”

“More or less.”

“Piss-poor one.”

“We can improvise as we go.”

Beth made herself smile. “Better’n where we were yesterday,” she said.

“That’s the idea,” Carver told her, “a day at a time, until the situation changes.” He leaned on his cane and looked down at her, into her dark eyes. “How do you feel about Roberto going up for life? Maybe being executed?”

Her face was a mask, but her eyes seemed to absorb all the light in the room. “The longer I lived with Roberto, the harder it got for me to deny what he was. Or what I was. I knew what was buying the kind of life I was leading. But I didn’t know how to escape; you don’t walk out and send around your divorce lawyer with a man like Roberto. He regarded me as
his.
Still does. Then I got pregnant and I knew I had to at least
try
to get out. Not just for me, but for my child’s future.”

“Roberto’s child, too.”

“That’s what scares the shit outa me, Carver.”

He poked at the carpet with his cane. It was almost threadbare, and the cane’s tip didn’t leave an indentation. “Nothing left between you and Roberto?”

“Nothing good. Hasn’t been for months. Christ, Carver, he just killed my sister and it was supposed to be me!” She swallowed so hard he could hear saliva crack in her long throat. She looked the way she had as they were leaving Melanie Beame’s house, as if any second she might break and begin sobbing.

But she knew she didn’t have the luxury of tears; all her energy was needed for survival, and not just her own.

She exhaled heavily, puffing out her cheeks, and stood up from the bed. He envied the ease with which she gained her feet, the liquid way she moved. “I wanna call Melanie. Check up on Adam.”

Carver said, “Fine.”

She went back into her room, hips swaying, and left the connecting door standing open. After a moment he heard her talking on the phone. He didn’t know what she was saying and didn’t want to eavesdrop.

When she came back her eyes were moist, but that was the only hint of emotional storm. She had hold of herself, this one. She’d reached down and found what she needed, what she hadn’t known for sure was there. Not having a choice did that to people. Carver knew.

She said, “Let’s go revel in the local cuisine.”

He thought that was a good idea. And he hoped wherever they ate served liquor. He’d set a beast to catch a beast, and he needed a drink.

W
HEN THEY WENT OUTSIDE
to get in the Olds, Carver noticed the big Harley-Davidson cycle was gone. The rusty old pickup truck had been joined by a late-model Chevy with a scrape along the left side from headlight to taillight. Not many Cadillacs or BMWs in Dark Glades; mostly ancient or battered domestic iron. The economic expansion touted by politicians hadn’t reached into the swamp.

Carver saw the big Harley outside Whiffy’s Restaurant and parked next to it. In the lowering dusk, heat was radiating in waves from the motorcycle’s recently raced engine. The restaurant’s broken neon sign was on and buzzing now, though it wasn’t yet dark. A couple of moths were fluttering around it as if fooled by the noise and feeble light.

Whiffy’s was surprisingly large inside. Up front was a wide area of square gray Formica tables and the kind of molded plastic chairs—some red, some blue—found in waiting rooms. To the left, beyond the chairs, was a long serving counter with high stools. Opposite the counter were wooden booths with straight, high backs. On the back wall was a mounted blue marlin above a lineup of video machines that were zinging and boinging in soft electronic cacophony.

Two men sat on stools near the front of the counter, eating cornbread and beans and drinking beer. Another, older man was slumped at the far end, hunched over a cup of coffee. A tall, skinny man in Levi’s and a sleeveless red T-shirt was coiled in front of one of the video games, scrawny arms tensed and hands darting to punch the buttons that would bring the desired results on a screen where something resembling a hockey game was portrayed in dots and flashes.

Carver and Beth sat down at a table near the front. There were a few crumbs on the gray Formica. A few flies. A black-and-chrome napkin holder, glass salt and pepper shakers, a half-full Heinz Ketchup bottle. Four large paddle fans with clusters of light fixtures slung beneath them were slowly rotating near the ceiling. Carver could feel the faint breeze. An air conditioner was humming somewhere, keeping the place fairly cool but not doing so much to keep the humidity out; that was probably impossible, so close to the swamp.

The rubber tip of Carver’s cane didn’t grip the slick linoleum, so he hooked its crook over the back of the chair next to him. The linoleum was gray with a kind of lighter gray cloud pattern on it, buckled in places. It creaked and made a sticky suction sound beneath the shoes of the short, dumpy young blond girl who’d been standing behind the counter and was now waddling toward them carrying two glasses of water. A couple of menus were tucked between her fleshy right arm and her ample chest. She was wearing cut-off jeans, and a white T-shirt that was lettered
WHIFFY’S
in black across the chest, above what looked like an ironed-on bat and baseball half hidden by the sag of her breasts.

She had a round, kind face, a nice smile except for bad teeth. She placed the glasses and menus on the table. “Hi, I’m Marlene. Getcha somethin’ to drink?”
Bwip-bwip-zoing!
went the video game, much louder.

Carver said, “Budweiser if you got it.”

“We got it. This ain’t
that
far off the beaten path.”

“Just water for me,” Beth said.

Marlene went back behind the counter to get the beer while Carver and Beth studied the handwritten menus. One of the men at the near end of the counter turned and stared openly at Carver, then at Beth. He was fat and wore bib overalls and no shirt. Thick-soled brown leather boots. His sandy-colored hair was chopped so short he looked almost bald. There was a roll of flesh at the back of his sunburned neck. His eyes were sunk deep in pads of flesh and glared out at the world like the tiny, primitive eyes of pigs irritated on a hot day.

The man on the stool next to him was wearing jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt, like the guy at the video machine, only his shirt was white. He was tall, lean, and long-muscled. Tendons in his forearms rippled as he forked in a mouthful of beans. He didn’t look in Carver’s direction, just kept eating, chewing with his mouth open.

Marlene returned and Carver ordered the chicken-fried steak special. Beth asked for a hamburger and home fries.

When Marlene had gone, Beth said, “That fat creep at the counter keeps staring at me.”

Carver poured beer in his glass, watched it foam, then looked to the side. “Not now, he’s not. He’s concentrating on his cornbread.”

“Well, he doesn’t look like he could concentrate on more’n one thing at a time. Wait’ll he swallows, he’ll look back over here.”

“Probably’d like to ask you for a date.”

“Fuck you, Carver.”

“Such spirit.”

She sipped her ice water daintily, little finger extended. Mouth didn’t match manners. “Listen, Carver, what do you think this McGregor character can really do to catch Roberto?”

“Whatever needs doing. He’ll see that the Del Moray marina and any likely landing sites along the coast’ll be watched like a clock at quitting time. He’ll take part in it himself, sleep in his car if he has to. The man’s fucked up. Wants to be mayor.”

Beth smiled. “You notice everybody wants to be what they’re not?”

Carver sampled his beer. Good and cold. “You’re no exception.”

“Yeah, I know. What about you?”

He set the glass down in its puddle of condensation on the smooth table. The video game
bwipped
and
zoinged
some more. “During the last couple years, I got divorced, got shot, lost a son, and got involved with a woman too much like me. What with my leg, the way my life took a turn, I approach things a day at a time.”