Flame

Chapter 28

Just before sundown of the second day, they came. Carver saw the rising cloud of dust over the shimmering tops of the orange trees, then heard the faint but unmistakable revving of a car engine.

He turned away from the window, limped to the table, and scooped everything that was his into the leather suitcase that was unlatched and ready. Laid the chair on the floor where it had been when he’d first entered the cabin, then lugged the suitcase toward the back door, his cane banging out a hasty thumping on the plank floor.

Outside, he moved with his deceptively speedy hobble across open ground and into the cover of the trees. Crouched low and supported himself with his grip halfway up the firmly planted cane, his stiff leg jutting out awkwardly in front of him. He watched through the leaves.

The car’s engine grew louder, then he could hear the rhythmic bumping of its suspension as it jounced along the narrow rutted road. A black Cadillac stretch limo with darkly tinted windows pulled into view. It was waxed to mirror finish except where the dust had powdered it behind the wheel wells. It came to a stop about a hundred feet in front and slightly to the side of the cabin. Sat there with its motor idling. The sleek limo reminded Carver of a monstrous and mutated black roach, filled him with vague dread.

Carver’s portable radio had said the temperature topped a hundred degrees that afternoon. It was probably still over ninety, and cloudless. The lowering sun slanted in bright shafts beneath the branches, causing him to sweat so his shirt was plastered to him. He was sure he was well out of sight of the car unless someone inside happened to stare directly at him, but he tried to stay as motionless as possible. Some kind of flying insect he’d never seen before, long slender body, translucent green wings, droned around him curiously, occasionally darting in for a better view. He wondered if it stung; it looked like the sort of little bastard that would.

The limo’s driver-side door opened soundlessly and a tall, thin man in a blue suit got out and stretched his arms. Peered up at the sky. He had dark hair growing in a sharp widow’s peak above a narrow, hawk-nosed face. Even beneath the well-tailored suit, it was obvious he was very round-shouldered. His shirt was white, his tie was red, and his black shoes were shined. Carver had never seen him before.

After a few minutes the man cupped a hand over his eyes like an Indian scout and turned in a slow circle. His glance slid past Carver, who stayed motionless and held his breath, hoping his leg muscles wouldn’t cramp and make him shift position, or that the flying insect wouldn’t decide to swoop in and go for blood.

Then, shaking his head as if he suddenly realized he was miserably hot, the man lowered himself back in behind the steering wheel of the air-conditioned limo and slammed the door. Exhaust fumes rising from the car’s tailpipe wavered and danced like a chimera in the hot air.

Carver glanced at his Seiko watch. Saw that ten minutes had elapsed since the arrival of the limo. Saw a rivulet of perspiration trickle down his forearm and puddle against the black leather watchband. Leather bands didn’t last long in the Florida heat and humidity; like so many other things-and like people-they tended to come unglued.

Another ten minutes passed, and the sun was kissing the horizon, when he heard the drone of an aircraft engine. He gazed up through the tree limbs at patches of dimming sky. Saw nothing.

Then he caught movement and focused on a small twin-engined plane closing distance from the northwest and losing altitude fast. The guy in the limo must have finally heard it, too, because he climbed out again and stood leaning with both hands on the car’s roof, head tilted back and eyes fixed on the approaching plane.

Carver recognized the plane as a Beechcraft. It could carry maybe four passengers and luggage. This one was blue and white. As it circled the field behind the house, he pulled a pen and a folded envelope from his shirt pocket and wrote down its registration number. Then he tried to get a look at the limo’s license plate, but the big car was parked at the wrong angle.

He returned his attention to the plane. Its motors roared as it came in even lower, swooping down swiftly until it was out of sight beyond the house.

After a minute or so, he heard the engines snarl and then even out and drone steadily. Grow gradually louder. The plane had landed and was taxiing over the field. Carver caught a glimpse of it through the trees, then it rolled beyond his vision.

He took advantage of the limo driver’s attention to the plane and moved off to the side until he had a view of a spinning propeller and a graceful thrust of blue-and-white wing.

The aircraft stopped and the engines fell almost silent, but the props kept ticking over.

The limo driver walked toward the plane. He’d taken only a few steps when a door in the plane opened and a hefty man in a gray suit climbed down to the ground. The wind from the idling propeller snatched at his long gray hair and whipped it around. He jogged away from the plane and smoothed the hair back flat against his head. In his left hand was a dark attache case. Slung by a strap over his right shoulder was a leather carry-on garment bag, folded and buckled. He was in his sixties and had a broad face with a pug nose. Bushy gray eyebrows. Narrow slash of a mouth. Carver had never seen this one, either.

The limo driver ran up to the man and they shook hands. Then the driver took the garment bag and attache case, which appeared to be heavy, and the two men trudged toward the limo. Behind them the propellers whirled faster and the Beechcraft’s engines growled.

There was a burst of noise as one prop spun especially fast, kicking up clouds of dust, and the plane did a nifty tight turn and taxied out into the field. Turned again and picked up speed into the wind. The roar of the engines took on urgency. The plane was airborne and flying low into the closing darkness by the time the two men reached the black limo.

Carver backed away into the trees, then straightened up and limped toward where the Ford was parked.

He watched the dust rising against the purple sky. And when he figured the limo had about reached the highway, he started the Ford and drove it out from beneath its canopy of branches. Gunned it along in the limo’s cloud of dust. Reached the intersecting road and highway and tried to make out which direction the limo had turned. That was no problem. The big car had trailed its roostertail of dust a few hundred feet along the highway, until the wind had flushed it all from the wheel wells. Dust still drifted low over the pavement.

As soon as he caught sight of the limo up ahead, Carver let the Ford’s speed decrease to the limit.

He stayed well back of the limo, letting cars get between them sometimes. The driver kept to a steady, legal speed and obeyed all the traffic laws. Following him was easy.

The limo picked up the Bee Line Expressway and glided east, then got on southbound Interstate 95 and headed toward Melbourne. Past Melbourne and south through darkness now, until the driver jogged east over to A1A near Jupiter. Then south again. At a slower speed, the limo skirted the ocean and rolled royally through wealthy Palm Beach, Boca Raton, Deerfield Beach. An automotive queen cruising her domain.

In Hillsboro Beach, just north of Fort Lauderdale, the long car slowed and then turned off the narrow highway into a driveway locked by tall chain-link gates. The foliage beyond the gates was so thick it was impossible to see where the driveway led. The property on this stretch of coast was among the most expensive in Florida, and privacy was part of what the owners had bought.

Carver passed the driveway and parked on the other side of the road. Adjusted the Ford’s outside mirror and watched in it as the limo’s driver got out and walked stiffly toward the gates. The driver leaned forward and said something into what must have been an intercom, then returned to the limo.

Within a few seconds the gates swung open automatically. The limo oozed through them and they shut smoothly behind it. Carver twisted in the seat and watched the limo’s red taillights flicker and disappear in the night.

Great. All this way just to get locked out. Some slick detective.

You’re doing okay, he reassured himself. Doing okay. Nothing’s been easy since the divorce, then the shooting. Why should this be? Self-pity, huh?

Carver reached under the Ford’s front seat and found the Colt automatic. He pulled it out and tucked it in his belt beneath his shirt.

Knowing what he had to do, he was afraid. But he climbed out of the Ford and crossed to the other side of the road, feeling like the chicken in the joke. Limped toward the tall gates.

He was ten feet away when a dark shape exploded out of the night and hit the gates so hard they rattled against their hinges. Carver leaped back and almost dropped his cane.

The Doberman pinscher barking and snarling at him on the other side of the gates was the largest he’d ever seen. It was immediately joined by three more Dobes almost as big. Fierce and yearning eyes, glittering white fangs. Made Carver feel like a nugget of Alpo.

Afraid the din would soon alert someone at the other end of the long driveway, he backed away and hobbled quickly into the shadows of some palm trees.

As he made his way down the road, keeping to darkness, the noise of the dogs subsided. Only one dog continued barking. Steadily, insistently, as if trying to relay information. Finally a man’s voice shouted something and the dog was quiet.

Carver slumped behind the Ford’s steering wheel, catching his breath and wondering what to do next. Obviously the security behind the gates was more than he could cope with; his presence would be detected within minutes after he set foot on the property. And within minutes after that, the dogs would be at his throat or a security guard would be holding a gun on him. Carver thought a security guard might look good at that point, considering the size and temperament of the Dobermans.

After about ten minutes, he drove the Ford another few hundred feet up the road and parked it in the shadows. Slid the gun back beneath the seat. Got out and again crossed the highway. This time he limped along until he found a driveway that was blocked only by a chain.

He made his way around the chain and started up the driveway, which was bordered by some sort of tall shrubbery with dark and aromatic flowers. Tried to place the scent. Lilacs? Like the perfume of someone he’d once known.

When he saw the lights of a huge house in front of him, he veered off the driveway and cut through trees and more dense shrubbery. This shrubbery bore no blossoms, but it had sharp thorns that scratched his bare arms and occasionally came dangerously close to an eye.

Past the house, the ground fell away and the rhythmic sighing of the surf, until now only part of the background noise, became louder. Carver stumbled several times when his cane sank too far into the sandy earth as he forged through tall sea grass toward the beach.

On his right he saw some wooden steps leading down to the beach, illuminated by dim lights recessed in a thick railing. He was tempted to use the steps, but he opted instead for the cover of darkness. There was only a tilted sliver of moon, and he was sure he could make it down the sandy slope to the smooth beach without being seen.

He sat down and scooted on his rear end down the steep slope, digging in the cane now and then, using it as a brake. The technique worked well, and he reached the level sand and the ghostly rushing surf in good shape. Not counting bruised buttocks.

Quickly he stripped to his jockey shorts. Glanced around to get his bearings, then limped toward the water. Speared his cane into the sand and then tied his shirt to its crook like a flag. Felt for a moment like an explorer staking a claim.

He sat down in the soaked, firm sand, just beyond where he’d planted the cane, and waited for a large enough breaker to roar in. Wished one would hurry. He didn’t want to be seen sitting here in his underwear on some rich bastard’s private property. Aside from everything else, it would be damned embarrassing. Probably only designer-label trunks were worn on this beach.

Finally there was an express-train roar. A looming dark shape rising monstrously from the sea. The oncoming swell curled in on itself in the faint moonlight and broke into boiling whitecaps as it neared the shore. Crashed onto the beach and spread. Surrounded Carver, first with grasping fingers of white foam, then with cold water. Worked beneath him and gave him buoyancy. Lifted him gently and made it possible for him to do an awkward backward scoot seaward until the wave’s receding force got well under him and carried him out into deeper water with its powerful backwash.

He pushed against the water with both cupped hands as he struggled out farther into the ocean, feeling shifting sand and sharp pebbles beneath his bare feet. Drawing a deep breath, he ducked under another incoming wave, smaller than the one that had carried him out. Let the ponderous force of it break over him, then came back up and continued pushing himself away from shore until the bottom fell away and he was floating free. And even through his fear and hyper-alertness, he experienced the elation of having complete control of his body again. In deep water, he was as physically competent as any man and much stronger than most.

He swam out several hundred feet, beyond the breakers, then treaded water and looked back at the beach. He could see the faintly illuminated flight of steps. Farther up the rise, a vast house with several lighted windows. Down the beach a slight distance was a dock, and a large cabin cruiser bobbed at it in rhythm with the waves.

Carver stroked north parallel to the shore, toward the guarded property where the black limo and its passenger had disappeared. The dark water was cool and felt good. He moved through it as if he’d been born in it; since the leg injury and the countless therapeutic swims, it had become his element.

As he swam in his smooth Australian crawl, he watched the beach. The elegant estates and docked pleasure boats. At one house a party was in progress. Music drifted out over the water like signals from another world. There were bright lights. Carver could make out people dancing in a pavilion. He remembered the Latin music in Desoto’s office. He hadn’t danced in years, and now he wouldn’t again. He kept stroking.

When he saw the wire fence extending into the sea, he was sure he’d reached his destination. Something would have to keep the dogs from roaming the beach and bringing back pieces of sunbathers.

He floated on his back for a while until his breathing evened out, rising and falling, gazing up at the crescent of moon. Then he swam to a point between the sections of wire fence and surveyed the area.

What looked like barbed wire curled along the top of the fence. The beach was flat and empty. Beyond it was an impressive house, only one story but with low wings that stretched on opposite sides of a larger main structure. Most of the windows were illuminated.

Carver stroked in closer. Palm fronds shook themselves in the warm breeze, sometimes waving between him and a lighted window and giving the impression that someone was moving around inside the house. There was a narrow pier built out from the beach. A large pleasure craft was docked there. Its graceful hull had to be fifty feet long. Light glowed behind three portholes and, faintly, higher up on the bridge.

Carver swam closer to the boat and could make out a name lettered near its bow: Bold Entrepreneur. That figured, on a boat that had to cost at least half a million.

As he stroked in nearer to the beach, he caught sight of a racing dark figure on the sand. Another trailing it. Like swift animated shadow. The dogs. Romping and kicking up sand. Damned things were even on the alert for someone coming in from the sea. One of them barked twice, but Carver was sure it wasn’t because of him. Too playful. And he was still several hundred feet from the beach.

He swam farther out, then angled in so the graceful shape of the boat was between him and the direction the dogs had taken.

Breaststroking easily and almost silently, he moved up very close to the boat. Could have touched its hull. He was sure someone was on board, and he was hoping he’d hear something useful. But the only sound other than the sea lapping at the hull was music wafting out through one of the open portholes. Bach maybe? Beethoven? Elton John? Carver might not know the difference.

He swam alongside the hull until he could gaze around the stern at the house. The boat rose and fell gently, shoved a wave at him and he tasted saltwater. He breathed in instinctively, gagged and almost coughed. He had to be careful; if he choked, someone on board might hear him.

The house and grounds were quiet. Now and then Carver glimpsed one of the dogs trotting through its rounds. Once he thought he saw someone in uniform, probably a security guard, swagger along the beach wearing a nightstick and holstered gun like a cop.

Maybe it was a cop, Carver thought. Bent cop, moonlighting with drug kingpins. This must be where the strategy confab of the SCBL drug smugglers was going to take place. The private plane, and then the limo, had delivered one of those attending. Did Jefferson know about this location? Was Courtney Romano able to contact him and tell him? Did she know?

Carver decided to swim back to where he’d entered the water. He’d crawl back on land, get dressed, and then drive to a phone so he could get in touch with Jefferson and let him know what was happening and where.

Careful again to keep the boat between him and the beach and house, he stroked seaward. Glancing back now and then to make sure there was no one on deck who might notice him.

When he was far enough out on the dark sea, he swam south, angling gradually toward shore. Passed the dancers again. Watched until he spotted the illuminated steps leading up to the lighted house.

He swam toward a point just north of the steps, and ten minutes later he hauled himself onto the beach less than a hundred feet from his cane. Quite the navigator.

After retrieving the cane, he limped to where he’d left his clothes. Brushed water out of his thick fringe of hair and quickly got dressed.

He found that scaling the slope back up to level ground was easier than going down. He could plant the cane like a mountain climber’s piton and use it to lever himself along. Still, by the time he’d gained the top his breathing was deep and ragged. The ocean swim had been less of a strain.

He made his way back to the road, then limped along its shoulder, sure that he wasn’t attracting undue attention. The sea breeze had almost dried his clothes and hair; what remained might have been perspiration.

He saw the dark shape of the Ford and hurried toward it.

As he settled in behind the steering wheel, he let out a loud sigh and smoothed back his damp fringe of hair again. Attack dogs, armed guards, fences with barbed wire. Like a luxury command post in a state of war. Hell of a thing to contend with. He was glad the night was over. That he was back in the cocoonlike safety of the car and could get away from here.

As he leaned forward to fit the key in the ignition, a motion in the rearview mirror caught his attention. He glanced at the mirror and his gaze froze on it. A pair of eyes was staring back at him.

Eyes he recognized.

Eyes that paralyzed him with surprise and fright.

Before he could move he felt a cold blade on the side of his neck. Vincent Butcher in the backseat, leaned close to him and smiled in an oddly amused and tender way. Carver could still see him in the mirror. Smelled his fetid breath. Their gazes were still locked. Horror became hypnotic.

Butcher said, “Where you been, sweetmeat, nosin’ around?”

Gravel crunched outside the car. Footsteps.

The passenger-side door opened and Walter Ogden slid in and sat down. He was dressed impeccably in a window-pane-checked gray suit with a blue handkerchief in the pocket. Handkerchief matched his tie. He smiled at Carver. “Well, you seem to have dropped from sight,” he said in an amiable tone, “Time you filled us in on where you been and why.”

Carver said, “You didn’t get my postcard?”

Butcher probed with the knife point. Might have drawn blood. “There’s your funny bone actin’ up again,” he said. “Cut it out, huh, Carver? Or maybe I will.”

Ogden, with less flair for melodrama, simply said, “Talk.”

Seemed to mean it.