Flame

Chapter 22

They drove inland fast, due west directly away from the sea. Carver stayed well back in the Olds, watching the distant white form of the big Lincoln shimmer in the heat like an illusion.

But it was real enough. The big car, the people in it, the problems they’d brought with them.

Within an hour they were in central Florida’s orange-grove country. Fields of citrus trees, their lush green dotted with oranges or grapefruits that somehow didn’t seem to belong, as if a child had dabbed repeatedly and randomly at a landscape scene with a soft crayon. The land stretched level on both sides of the highway. The trees were in neat rows whose receding parallels made their march to the horizon seem even longer than it was. Here and there awkward iron pipework loomed among the trees like a child’s erector set, irrigation equipment jetting rainbowed sprays of water into brilliant sunlight, lending a waxlike gloss to the leaves.

A semi roared around the Olds, and for a short while its boxy trailer blocked Carver’s view of the Lincoln. Then the truck drifted into the passing lane again, and he was surprised to see that the Lincoln was only about half a mile ahead, brakelights flaring, turning onto a side road. The speeding truck snaked around it and belched dark smoke, making time toward its destination.

The road the Lincoln had turned onto was unpaved as well as unmarked. Carver jockeyed the Olds past it and parked on the gravel shoulder, trying to decide what to do.

There was no telling how far the road ran through the fields of citrus trees. Narrow as it was, turning a car around on it would be difficult; he’d be taking a chance tailing the Lincoln along it in the mammoth Olds. Might find himself with no way to go except forward toward something unpleasant.

He drove down the highway to a spot where he could turn the Olds around, then parked out of sight on the other side of the road.

He got out and stood alongside the car, peering westward. The Lincoln must be traveling fast; dust from its passage hung in a low haze over the bright tops of the orange trees. Heat rolled out from under the Olds and over Carver’s feet and ankles. Damned uncomfortable.

He set the tip of his cane, crossed the highway at an angle, and began walking up the dirt road.

Carver stayed to one side and limped along one of the Lincoln’s tire tracks, where the powdery earth was packed flat and firm. There was no sound but the soft drag of his feet and cane in the dust, and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze that played over the orange trees. He figured he could duck into the thick rows of trees if he heard a car coming. Make himself reasonably invisible.

The trees were all about the same size, not large enough to provide shade on the road. Now and then the breeze kicked up, and the insistent rustling of the leaves, all around him, was like urgent whispering. The sun was a hot weight on his shoulders, burdening him and slowing him down.

He’d gone only a few hundred feet when, through the trees, he saw the dust-coated white trunk and chrome rear bumper of the Lincoln.

It was parked in front of a small and decrepit white clapboard farmhouse. Not much more than a cabin, with slanted wood front steps and a wide screened-in porch.

Carver crouched motionless in the cover of the orange trees and watched. There was movement behind the rusty screen. The indecipherable murmur of voices.

Then Ogden, Butcher, and Courtney Romano came out of the house. The screen door was on a spring, and Courtney let it slam behind her. The slap of wood on wood reverberated over the fields like a rifle shot.

Butcher was carrying two small red-and-white TWA flight bags. Courtney had a black garment bag slung over her shoulder. The three of them stepped down off the porch and walked out of sight around to the back of the house. Courtney was walking with a kind of rolling, cautious strut, the way women do in high heels on soft ground. The heels of the two men were kicking up powdery clouds of dust.

Carver moved closer to the house, then off to the side so he could see behind the low clapboard structure.

There was a large rectangular clearing behind the house, green and level. A small, new-looking, single-engine airplane sat at the edge of the clearing. It was a high-winged plane, white with a red propeller. Had red stripes down the sides of the fuselage. Carver thought it was a Cessna but he wasn’t sure. As with boats, types of aircraft had proliferated.

Butcher swung open a door and loaded in the flight bags. Took Courtney’s garment bag and carefully laid it inside. Ogden and Courtney climbed up into the plane. Butcher raised a beefy arm in a casual wave.

There was a grinding sound and the engine coughed and turned over; the red propeller danced and then became a shimmering blur in the sun. Butcher dashed around the plane and yanked chocks from in front of the wheels.

The engine snarled louder and a hurricane of dust rose and drifted toward Carver. Through the haze he saw the plane’s flaps and vertical stabilizer wriggle back and forth in a test of the controls. Then the plane, perfect for short takeoffs and landings, bounced over the field and out of sight behind the house.

A huge form was moving through the dust haze. Butcher. Head down, swinging his arms. Like prehistoric man lost in time. Which maybe he was.

Carver braced with his cane and shuffled back into the trees. Bumped his head on an orange or grapefruit.

But Butcher was in a hurry and didn’t notice him. Climbed into the Lincoln and was pulling away even as the plane’s motor changed pitch and roared in takeoff.

Butcher and the Lincoln were gone, leaving only tire tracks and settling dust. Carver didn’t think Butcher would notice his footprints inside the car’s previous tire tracks, or the Olds concealed on the other side of the highway.

He glanced up through the branches and caught a glimpse of the plane. It was climbing steeply, heading north.

After a few minutes the drone of its engine faded and died. Carver was alone in the heat and silence.

He straightened up and limped toward the house.

The closer he got, the more it struck him that there was an air of desolation about the clapboard structure. Paint was faded and peeling. A section of gutter over the porch sagged wearily. Up close, the front-porch screen appeared even rustier and there were gaping holes in it.

Moving quietly, he made his way to the shade side of the house and peered in through a dusty window.

Nothing.

Not even furniture visible through the dimness. Carver limped around to the front of the house, up the slanted wooden steps, and through the screen door onto the porch. The porch floor wood was rotted. A dusky palmetto bug at least an inch long crawled sluggishly into a shadowy gap near the front wall. At first Carver thought the door to the cabin was open, then he saw that there was no door. It was leaning against the opposite wall and draped with cobwebs. He went inside, his cane making hollow thumps on the plank floor. Wiped his forehead. Stood in muted light and stifling heat and listened to the steady drone of flies. What was drawing them were several crumpled white McDonald’s bags in a corner. An open foam container that held traces of a hamburger. Lettuce, something gooey-maybe cheese. A few curved strands of onion stuck to the Styrofoam. There were footprints in the dust on the floor. Two sets of men’s. One of a woman’s high heels. Against a wall was an old oak table, a couple of wooden chairs. A chair lay on its side like something dead near the table. Sunlight lanced through a hole in the roof and spread a bright puddle of light near the upended chair. Dust motes swam where the sun penetrated.

Obviously the cabin itself was unimportant, and the citrus trees primarily cover for a landing site.

As he limped back outside into brighter air and lesser heat, Carver asked himself what he’d expected to find. Bales of marijuana? Kilos of cocaine? The Southern Christian Businessmen’s League would run a narcotics operation that was too efficient and sophisticated to play so loosely with its product.

He used his tongue to work grit from his teeth and then spat. Moved down the narrow, dusty road toward the highway. Limping in the same tire track he’d used to guide him to the parked Lincoln and the desolate house.

Laboring with his cane, he remembered the hulking, primal form of Butcher loping effortlessly through the haze, and he shivered in the heat.