Bloodfire

19

Carver drove into Fort Lauderdale and ran a few red lights. Cut suddenly up a one-way street, one eye on the road, the other on the rearview mirror. He spent fifteen minutes doing that kind of thing, being unpredictable as if he’d gone mad from the summer heat, until he was sure the Olds wasn’t being followed.

Melanie Beame answered the door of the tiny frame house on Wayfare Lane. She glanced behind her as if waiting for some kind of signal before letting Carver limp inside.

Beth Gomez was standing in the middle of the living room. She was wearing Levi’s and a yellow blouse, looking beautiful and fresh-scrubbed, her hair pulled back and tied with a yellow ribbon. If McGregor ever saw her in person, he’d know why Roberto Gomez had coveted her above other women.

She’d followed Carver’s instructions and packed immediately and lightly. At her feet, as if worshipping her, lay a gray tweed Gucci suitcase.

She said, “This is Melanie, Carver.”

Carver almost blurted out that they’d met, then he remembered the only time he’d seen Melanie Beame was through binoculars while spying on her in this very room. The bookcase cluttered with stereo equipment, the brown easy chair, the table and lamp, all looked familiar yet somehow different now that he was among them. As if objects in a painting had acquired dimension because he, Carver, had become a figure in the scene.

Melanie Beame looked the same, though. A too-thin redhead with a cadaverous yet undeniably pretty face. Carver couldn’t help thinking she appeared as if she were still being ravaged by drugs. He told her he was pleased to meet her, then turned to Beth and asked if she was ready to leave.

“Not yet,” she said. She walked to a fancy maple cradle in a corner and bent over it gracefully. The look on her face was something.

The son of Beth and Roberto Gomez must have been sleeping. She whispered to him softly, cooing motherese that Carver probably wouldn’t have understood even if he’d been close enough to hear. He looked over at Melanie Beame, who was staring at Beth with red-rimmed blue eyes that glistened with tears. Carver hoped she wouldn’t start crying. That might set Beth off. Not to mention young Adam.

Beth straightened up and turned to face Carver. Wiped her eyes daintily with a long and tapered forefinger. “You sure we can’t take him?”

Carver said, “He’ll be safer here. And you know how difficult it’d be to care for him and avoid Roberto at the same time.”

“He’s right, Beth,” Melanie said, moving closer to Beth and speaking softly so as not to wake Adam.

She had on peculiarly scented perfume, Carver thought. Then he realized it was talcum powder he smelled. It had been years since he’d been around infants. His own. He didn’t like to think of those years. His own son was dead; he hadn’t seen his daughter since last fall.

Melanie said, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him as if he were my own.”

Beth curled her fingers into fists, probably digging her long red nails into her palms. “Oh, I know that, Melanie. But, Christ, this is hard!”

“But it’s the right thing to do, Beth. Adam’ll be fine; you just take care of yourself. Let Carver, here, take care of you. Know what I mean?”

Beth gnawed her lower lip. Nodded.

Carver limped over to the cradle and looked down at the dark, tiny infant huddled in a corner among scrunched-up blankets. Adam Gomez had a bald head except for a swatch of black hair over his left ear. He was curled on his side; Carver wondered if there was a similar patch of hair over the concealed right ear. He commented again that Adam was a good-looking kid, and meant it. The baby seemed to have all its parts and nothing jumped out as ugly, anyway.

Beth had moved over and was standing near Melanie, her hands still balled into tight brown fists. She took a few steps toward the cradle, then stopped as if she’d come to the edge of a drop. Her shoulders lifted and expanded as she drew in breath.

After a few seconds she exhaled in a low sigh, spun around, and with an obvious effort of will snatched up her suitcase and walked to the door without looking back at her child.

Melanie caught her at the door and the two women embraced. Melanie was crying now, but Beth seemed to have control of herself. She knew better than anyone that this was life or death for her, and one world or another for Adam.

Melanie said, “Goddammit, Carver, you better take good care of this lady.”

Carver said, “Things’ll work out.” Though he wasn’t so sure.

“You have my phone number,” Melanie reminded Beth. “You need to put your mind at ease about Adam, call me anytime.”

Beth swallowed hard, tried to speak but merely croaked. She bowed her head and moved out onto the porch.

She walked slowly across the street so that Carver could keep up. He took her suitcase from her, unlocked the Olds’s cavernous trunk, and hoisted it inside. Got his own travel-scarred leather suitcase from the backseat and laid it next to the tweed Gucci. It looked like a worn-out bum who’d sneaked into bed with a countess. There was an airline luggage tag attached to the handle of Beth’s suitcase, with her name and address scrawled on it.

Carver tugged at the tag until the elastic loop attaching it to the suitcase handle snapped. The damn thing whipped around and stung the back of his hand. He crumpled the stiff paper tag and tossed it out of sight in the shadows of the trunk, then slammed the trunk closed.

He opened the passenger-side door for Beth. She seemed to expect it. Sliding her shapely rear backward into the Olds, she pressed her knees tightly together and swung her long legs up and sideways.

Wondering if women practiced getting into cars that way, Carver closed the door. He limped around the Olds and lowered himself in behind the steering wheel, then bent forward and twisted the key in the ignition. The powerful engine ground, caught, and roared. It had barely caught its mechanical breath when he shoved the transmission lever into Drive. The tires eeeped! on hot pavement. He figured the sooner they got away from Wayfare Lane, the better jump they’d have on the future.

Beth couldn’t help it; she glanced back at the house as the car pulled away.

Carver peeked, too, in the mirror.

Melanie was standing on the porch and waving as if she’d never see her friend again.

And maybe she wouldn’t.