Scorcher

Chapter 12

Carver was surprised when he saw Emmett Kave’s house on Jupiter Avenue in Kissimmee. Obviously it was Adam who had all the family money, and he didn’t share it with Emmett. As he parked at the curb in the dappled shade of an insect-riddled sugar oak, Carver remembered Adam saying he wished Emmett weren’t his brother. There had been a great deal of force behind the words despite their offhand delivery.

As he straightened up out of the Olds, his view unobstructed by the tree’s lower limbs, Carver took a closer look at the house. It was narrow and long and in serious disrepair. The frame siding had been white but was now a mottled gray, showing large areas of bare, rotted wood. The sloping roof wasn’t shingled but was covered with green sheet-roofing that was patched near the peak with tar that glistened black and soft in the fierce sun. One of the wooden shutters was dangling crazily from a front window, and the gutter above the small porch sagged as if the sad weight of years bore down on it.

Behind the house and off to the side, at the end of a dirt-and-gravel driveway, sat a garage in equally bad condition. It had wooden doors that needed paint, and the roof was sway-backed. Not sagging in the manner of the porch roof, but as if it had been struck a sharp and powerful karate chop with the edge of a giant hand. Carver noticed a nearby tree and guessed that a falling limb had snapped the roof’s center beam.

He looked around at the street of similar houses. This was a rough section of Kissimmee, but only a few houses were as run-down as Emmett Kave’s. All of them were set on stone foundations and seemed to have basements, which were relatively rare even here in central Florida, far from the ocean. The homes must have been constructed by the same builder within a short time of each other, and years ago probably made a modest but pleasant neighborhood. Economics and urban evolution had changed all that.

Emmett’s yard, which was mostly sandy earth, was by far the barest one on this side of Jupiter Avenue. A goat couldn’t have found a blade of grass inside the rusty wire fence that bordered most of the property. Emmett wouldn’t hurt himself cutting the lawn.

The walk leading from the street to the front porch was tilted and cracked. Carver found it easiest to make his way to the door by keeping to the side of the ruined concrete and setting the tip of his cane against sun-hardened earth. His stark shadow angled into puzzle pieces, parting and rejoining, as it passed over the jagged sections of walk.

He made it to the porch and stood still for a moment in the shade. Somebody was home. An old blue box fan vibrated and growled in one of the front windows, causing a few high, scraggly weeds to bend and sway in the sunlight in silent protest. There was a wasps’ nest tucked neatly in a corner of the porch ceiling, and one of the warlike insects was droning around Carver as if warning him not to try anything funny. Carver leaned on a supporting post and used the tip of his cane to press an almost invisible, painted-over button.

A buzzer rasped to urgent life inside the house, as if there were a huge version of the pesky wasp in there, communicating with the lookout on the porch. The inane thought made Carver uneasy.

After about half a minute, the door opened and a strong smell of frying bacon drifted outside. Carver squinted through the dark screen door into the house.

A man moved closer to the screen and changed from hazy outline to individual. He was almost exactly the size and build of Adam Kave, but his nose was larger, his gray eyebrows much bushier. He had the square, powerful Kave jaw, and that and the eyebrows lent his face a cragginess that looked good on a man well into his late sixties. There was about him the same energy that seemed to emanate from brother Adam, but tinged with the desperation of near-poverty. Like the last-chance, wild hope that flares just before total resignation.

“Emmett Kave,” Carver said.

Emmett looked at him down the length of his body, up again to the face. “You say my name like we know each other.” The voice was deep, but not as deep as Adam’s, and it had none of the gravelly quality. “We met?”

“No. My name’s Carver. I’ve met your brother. The family resemblance is unmistakable.”

“Hm. Up to a point, I s’pose.”

“The Kaves have hired me to try to find their son Paul.”

“Police are trying to do that.”

“They’d like me to find him before the police do.”

“Yeah,” Emmett said after a pause, “I can understand why. What are you, a private detective?”

“That’s what I am.” Carver got his I.D. from his back pocket and held it up to the screen.

“Don’t mean shit to me,” Emmett said. “Got nothing to compare it with for genuineness.” He aimed a thick finger like the barrel of a weapon at Carver, as if about to warn him off his property. But instead he used the finger to unhook the screen-door latch and then melted back into shadow, like a man retreating into a protective, gloomy cave. “C’mon in, Carver.”

Carver limped into a small living room that was neater than he would have guessed from the outside of the house. The furniture was dark and old and threadbare, but it seemed clean and was symmetrically arranged. A potted plant cowered in a dim corner as if awaiting execution. The floor was waxed hardwood, covered in the middle by a very worn, obviously imitation Oriental rug with uneven fringe around the edges. Through a far door Carver could see into the kitchen: green linoleum, chrome table leg, rounded corner of old-fashioned refrigerator. The bacon smell seemed stronger when he just looked in that direction. The senses being mischievous.

“Fixing myself a BLT,” Emmett said. “Want one?”

“No, thanks.” The box fan didn’t help much; it was hot inside the house. Too hot for Carver even to think about eating. “You go ahead, though. Don’t let me make you burn the bacon.”

Emmett commanded Carver to have a seat on the sofa, then he strode into the kitchen out of sight. He had the same purposeful walk as his brother, only it was slower. Maybe because he was conditioned to existing in smaller spaces. Neither brother moved like men in their sixties; there was plenty of spring in their legs.

Carver heard the clatter of silverware in the kitchen. Something dropped to the floor, bounced, and rolled. He glimpsed the refrigerator door opening and closing. “Get you a beer?” Emmett called.

Carver was tempted but called back, “Not now, thanks.”

“Why not?” Emmett asked, coming back into the living room carrying a can of beer of a brand Carver had never heard of, and a thick BLT-on-toast on a paper towel. The can was yellow and had what looked like an American Indian emblazoned on it. Mayonnaise-smeared lettuce draped from a corner of the sandwich; one of the crisp bacon slices crumbled, and a tiny charred piece dropped onto the Oriental rug. Emmett either didn’t notice it or ignored it. Maybe the maid was on her way. “You private cops can drink on duty.”

“But we don’t if we don’t want a beer,” Carver said.

Emmett grinned and sat down in the chair opposite Carver. It had dark wood arms and its upholstery matched the sofa’s: a maroon flower design embossed on beige, made browner by the years. He chomped into his BLT. The splintering toast and bacon made a crackling sound, softer as Emmett chewed. He looked at Carver’s cane, swallowed, and said, “How’d you get your leg messed up?”

“Shot.”

“As a cop or in combat?”

“When I was with the Orlando police.”

“Oh. Thought you mighta been a vet,” Emmett said. He took another big bite of sandwich and talked around it as he chewed. “You got the look of a man who’s seen combat.”

“Only for a little while in Vietnam,” Carver said. He’d been in Nam for seven weeks and two days, until a superficial wound had brought him home and led to a transfer and then discharge, but he suddenly saw again the victims of napalm attack. He refused to ride the vision into the more recent past.

“Hmph!” Emmett said, as if he might not count Vietnam when he totaled up meaningful wars. “You figure the cops find Paul they’ll kill him before he gets a chance to give up?”

“No. But it’s a possibility. Emotions are high. And from what I’ve heard about Paul, he might not try to give up, might not be thinking straight.”

“Hah! Boy thinks straighter than they give him credit for.”

“How long’s it been since you’ve seen him?”

“He hasn’t come around here since he’s been on the run, if that’s what you mean.”

“I was getting around to that,” Carver said, “but what I meant to ask was how long it’s been since you’ve talked with Paul.” There was an edge to his voice. Don’t anticipate my questions, old fella.

“I know. I ain’t thick.” Another bite of sandwich. The bacon smell got stronger. The box fan whirred steadily, stirring the hot air in the corners of the room. Emmett seemed to be thinking. He swallowed hard, as if it hurt his throat, then took a long slug of beer and set the can back down. “About six months. I like the boy; we get along. He’d drive over here and we’d sit and talk every once in a while.”

“Oh? What about?”

“Lotsa things, but most often about how that jackass of a father was treating him.”

“He has animosity toward his father?”

“Just hates him, is all. I tried to tell him Adam acted the way he did out of greed and ignorance, not because he didn’t love Paul. But I tell you, Carver, I don’t think Adam Kave gives a gnat’s ass about anything but himself and that god-awful wiener business he runs. Neither of them kids of his had much guidance growing up.”

“You see Nadine now and then, too?”

“Naw. Not that one. Too busy for an old crank like me. Tennis and goin’ out with the boys is her games, what I hear. Kinda wild sometimes, but not a bad girl, you know what I mean.”

“I get the impression Adam loves his wife,” Carver said, “if not his kids.”

Emmett lowered the sandwich and glared at him for an instant with Adam’s intense dark eyes. “Love, shit!” he said. “I suspect that poor, sick wife of his is just something else he owns and likes to parade in front of them he figures is his inferiors.”

“You know she’s dying?”

Emmett nodded. “I heard. Paul told me; boy’s too smart to keep something like that from him.” He finished the sandwich in one last huge bite.

Carver waited until the old man had chewed and then washed down the last of the brittle BLT with a pull of beer. Emmett’s gray caterpillar eyebrows writhed in something like pain as he belched softly and patted his chest. There was a sandwich that hadn’t been worth the effort.

“What’s his reaction to that knowledge?”

“Seems to accept it.”

“What did Paul say about his father?”

“What was the facts,” Emmett said. “That Adam didn’t understand him and didn’t care about him. Kinda hard to ease the boy’s mind and steer him away from thinking what was so obviously true.”

“How often do you see your brother?” Carver asked.

“I ain’t seen Adam in fifteen, twenty years, when he was in this part of the state on business, and that ain’t long enough for me.”

“For either of you,” Carver suggested.

“Fine,” Emmett said. “Just goddamned fine.”

Carver decided to fish. “Guess I can’t blame you for feeling somewhat that way.” He glanced around the shabby room. “I mean, it’s for sure Adam doesn’t believe in spreading the wealth through the family.”

“I don’t want any of that shithead’s money.” The deep voice wasn’t very convincing. Carver suspected dollars might salve if not cure the wounds of the brothers’ relationship.

“You think Paul burned those people?” he asked.

Emmett crimped the beer can back and forth in his thick hand, clacking the metal. It was a sound that wouldn’t take long to get on Carver’s nerves. “My feeling is the boy’s not violent, despite a few adolescent fights he got into. Murder? Naw. Wouldn’t surprise me if he killed Adam, but then I’d say it wouldn’t surprise anybody who knew how Adam criticized the boy when he was young. The things Paul’s told me’d curl your ear hairs, Carver.”

“So curl a few,” Carver said.

Emmett ran his tongue around the insides of his cheeks, as if seeking words between his molars. Found them. “Goddamned Adam! Always assuming the boy’d come out the loser no matter what or how hard he tried. Self-fulfilling prophecy. Paul went out for the tennis team his junior year at high school. Adam used to play like a champ, and he offered to train Paul. His training consisted of whacking serves and returns the boy couldn’t touch with his racket. Finally slammed a ball off the side of Paul’s head. On purpose. Adam is what you might call competitive; he’s gotta show his superiority like that. Can’t let up till he humiliates people. Paul didn’t make the team. Never played tennis again. Adam said he wasn’t surprised Paul stunk up the place in sports. Said he spent too much time alone in his laboratory or reading, and it was no wonder he was a little loony.”

Rough treatment, Carver thought. But Paul Kave wasn’t the only kid who had to grow up in a house with a supercritical father. Carver’s own childhood had been similar to Paul’s in that respect.

“Paul’s gone haywire a few times in the past couple of years and broke up some things. Threw a stool through an ice cream shop window over in Cocoa Beach. Kicked in the side of a car when its driver stole his parking space. After times like that, I’d see his shiny old Lincoln drive up afore long, and he’d come in to see me and we’d talk over what happened. We’d have a few beers, and he’d say it was just this pressure that built up in him and needed release, but that folks really did pick on him sometimes. But he never hurt people, Carver, only things.”

Or maybe to Paul Kave people are things, Carver thought. And it was only a question of time before his outbursts of violence included flesh and blood. “Did he tell you he was a diagnosed schizophrenic and was seeing a psychiatrist?”

“Sure,” Emmett said. “Paul and I have the same opinion of shrinks: bunch of phonies getting rich off other people’s misery. Paul only went to that doctor because he had no choice. Hell, he’s smarter’n any shrink.”

“Then he didn’t think his therapy was helping him?”

“Course not. Didn’t think he needed it in the first place. Despite all his mental mix-up and occasional bouts of aggression,” Emmett Kave said firmly, “Paul’s a fine young man. Can’t say for certain he wouldn’t hurt somebody, but I sure don’t see him setting folks on fire.”

Carver glanced through a side window and noticed an orange tree not far from the house. It was brightly dotted with fruit, and darkened oranges littered the ground beneath it, rotting. “Does Paul talk much about Nadine?” he asked.

“No, sir. But from what little he has told me, she’s got pretty much the same problems he has. I get the idea she’s a rebel, though, and I wouldn’t describe Paul as that. I guess she’s gone on the offense, and Paul fights defensively.”

Up until a few weeks ago, Carver thought.

He said, “If Paul does contact you, will you call me?” He drew a business card from his pocket and stretched to hand it to Emmett.

“If you want me to be honest,” Emmett said, taking the card and laying it in a puddle next to the beer can, “that’d depend on what Paul has to say about them killings.”

“Whatever he has to say, it’ll be easier for him if I find him before the police do. I want to help him, Emmett. And he’s not the type to give himself up easily, is he?”

“No, he’s not that. He’d be scared and angry and get himself hurt or killed-or maybe even kill somebody else out of fear. In his way, he’s gut-deep stubborn. All us Kaves are.”

Carver had gathered that. “Thanks for your help,” he said, and stood up. “Can we talk again about Paul sometime?”

“Sure thing.” Emmett got up and walked with him to the door. “You do me and Paul a favor and don’t mention to Adam that Paul’s dropped by here now and then the past several years. Paul was always scared Adam’d find out. I figure Paul’s innocent, and when all this trouble dies down, I don’t want him thinking I ratted on him and got him in deep shit with old Adam.”

Carver almost refused. After all, Adam Kave was his client and he had a professional obligation of loyalty.

But that was ridiculous, an automatic twinge of obligation and nothing more. An illusion of professionalism. He was already deceiving his client, using him. And under the circumstances his behavior was justified. An eye for an eye, a son for a son.

“Okay, Emmett. Our secret.”

Emmett held out a bacon-scented hand and they shook on the deal, leaving Carver’s fingers greasy. The screen door creaked shut, and Emmett faded into interior dimness.

As Carver made his way across the desert of the yard and back to his car, he was sure the old man was grinning behind the dark screen.

Emmett got off on sharing secrets his brother didn’t know.