Bloodfire (21 page)

“The law’s a guy named Morgan and a two-man police force. It’s a small town.”

“Maybe the DEA has got something on the Brainard brothers. But if I check with them, they’ll know something’s up in Dark Glades. They haven’t stopped thinking about you and Mrs. Gomez, my friend.”

“What about
Mister
Gomez?”

“I understand Roberto’s disappeared. But that’s not unusual; he’s dropped from sight plenty of times. But this time would it have to do with a drug drop in or near Del Moray?”

“Might.”

“Then McGregor’s not wasting his time?”

“Not entirely. Unless he goes about things the wrong way.”

“The weasely bastard has a way of doing things the wrong way and still coming out on top.”

“So far, anyway. Maybe he’ll nail Gomez. And if he doesn’t, Strait’s got a chance.”

A long silence buzzed and crackled on the line. “You’re the one put McGregor onto the drug drop, aren’t you? So he’s got a shot to nail Gomez before he can catch up with your client.”

“I’m a taxpayer,” Carver said. “Why shouldn’t McGregor work for me?”

“If he gets Gomez for keeps, he might work for you as mayor.”

“A risk, but McGregor running for mayor is better than Gomez running free.”

“Agreed, but it’s a close call.”

“Does Gomez have any drug dealings in the swampland?”

“Anywhere in Florida, he’s maybe got his hand in. Drug types are thick with each other until money causes a falling-out and bullets start to zip. You want me to check with the DEA on these Brainard brothers?”

Carver thought about it, then said, “No, I think I better take on only one monster at a time.”

“Same monster,
amigo,
just a different head.”

“Greek mythology?”

“American reality.”

Carver gave Desoto the Casa Grande’s phone number, but told him he probably wouldn’t be in Dark Glades much longer.

Beth stared at him questioningly as he said this.

As Carver hung up the phone, they both turned toward the rubber-on-gravel growl of an approaching vehicle.

The Brainards’ Blazer coming back?

Carver limped to the window and looked outside.

Chief Morgan was climbing out of his dusty white patrol car, hitching up his pants.

Carver wasn’t surprised. Watts had seen the guns.

A
S
C
HIEF
M
ORGAN APPROACHED,
Carver limped to the door and opened it. Sun glinted off the patrol car’s windshield. Warm outside air rolled in around Carver. The fetid stench of the swamp enveloped him, and for an instant he sensed in a primitive part of his brain the remorseless saga of survival being played out in the green arena of the Everglades.

The chief politely removed his Smokey hat again as he slid past Carver into the room; he had about him an odd courtliness that didn’t suit his occupation. He nodded to Beth, holding his hat flat against his genitalia, as if she might try to kick him there. Today he had on high black leather boots, and they creaked like rocking-chair runners with each step.

He smiled at Carver and said, “More trouble with the Brainard brothers, huh?”

“They were here,” Carver said, “made some threats.”

“With weapons, way I understand.”

“That’s right.”

Morgan cocked his head to the side and looked at Beth. Amusement might have flickered in his guileless blue eyes. “Brainards leave because they were outgunned?”

Beth said, “You’d have to ask them why.”

“Wouldn’t be much point,” the chief said. “Like there don’t seem much point in asking you two. I’ll talk to ’em, though. They’ll most likely say they was never here, that you’re lying about this morning. No way to prove otherwise, I’m afraid. It’d be senseless to ask a witness to step forward and speak against the Brainard brothers unless they were sure to be put away for a lotta years. Brainards know that, too. They count on it.” He looked wearily at Carver. “In light of what happened here, I thought I better come over and see if I could convince you this time to leave Dark Glades. I mean, I don’t wanna be the one has to clean you off the ground, and my perception is events are heading that way.”

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.

W
ITHIN 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.”

“Can you tow the car in and get some replacement tires on it soon as possible?”

“Sure, but soon as possible’s sometime this afternoon.”

“That’ll be fine.” Had to be.

Beth walked out of the room and stood behind Carver. Murray looked at her, then back at Carver. “Hey, you two’re the ones I heard about did a number on the Brainard brothers at Whiffy’s.”

Beth said, not without pride, “That’s us.”

“Well, Christ, ain’t no wonder you got your tires slashed. Fuck them Brainards, they always fuck back.”

Beth said, “Get the tires fixed and we’ll be outa here and they can fuck themselves.”

Murray grinned at her with bold admiration. A couple of missing front teeth lent him a devilish look. “I’d advise it. Advise you to flag down the next Greyhound bus if one came through here. Sell me this old car cheap an’ forget it, count yourselves lucky to get outa here without bein’ worked on like them poor tires.” He shook his head. “Michelins, too.”

Beth tucked her fingertips in the back pockets of her Levi’s and smiled at Murray. The way she was standing caused her elbows to brace backward and made her heavy breasts jut out aggressively. Carver wondered if she was working on poor Murray. She said, “Will the Brainless brothers object to you repairing the car so we can leave here?”

“Heh! Heh! The Brainless brothers, huh?” Clearly, Murray liked Beth. “They might object, but who gives a flyin’ leap? Them two are the kinda worthless swamp turkeys don’t work for a livin’ an’ make fun of folks that do. They don’t like me turnin’ an honest dollar, piss on ’em.” He puffed out his chest again, like a proud pigeon, and strutted toward the truck to work the winch. “Only question’s whether I got four tires this size.”

Carver said, “Any size that fits the rims will do.”

Murray started the electric winch and played out chain. They he got down on all fours to fit the tow hooks to the car’s frame. He said, “Wait a friggin’ minute,” and scampered to his feet.

Carver limped toward him. “What’s the matter?”

Murray bent at the waist as if reaching to touch his toes. Amazingly limber. He rubbed at a white dusting on the gravel, then ran this thumb and forefinger together in a circling motion and frowned. After touching his finger to the tip of his tongue, like a chef testing a souffle, he said, “Well, goddam!”

Carver watched as Murray loosened the Olds’s gas cap. He stood staring into the fill pipe. Motioned Carver over with a wave of his grimy hand.