Scorcher

Chapter 18

Carver slowed the car when he saw a neon mermaid with a tail that flitted jerkily back and forth in rhythmic spasms of light. Beneath the dizzying, blinking white neon was lettered in blue: MERMAID MOTEL, SLEEP, EAT, CHEAP. Brief but to the point.

He pulled the Olds onto the canted shoulder, braked to a halt, and let traffic swish past while he looked over the motel.

It was small, no more than thirty rooms built in a low U-shape around a swimming pool. The construction looked like cinder block painted dull tan. A dark brown or black iron railing ran along the catwalk fronting the upper rooms. The doors were all the same color as the railing. No one was in the swimming pool. The water appeared greenish and coated with algae. There was a metal sign on the chain link fence surrounding the pool, probably informing guests that the pool was out of order, no swimming. The pool looked like a great place to meet alligators.

Like many of the surrounding businesses, the motel was seedy-looking and had an air of resigned despair about it. This was a stretch of the Orange Blossom Trail outside Orlando that was lined with bars, used-car lots, service stations, topless joints, and a few porn bookstores and massage parlors. Not the central Florida the Tourist Bureau bragged about. Maybe Desoto was right in speculating that Paul Kave was running short of money.

Carver U-turned, then parked in the gravel lot of a closed service station and climbed out of the Olds. Hot, humid air enveloped him, holding the smell of rot and of grease and oil that had seeped below the gravel. A cat, or perhaps a large rat, skittered off the lot into the dark brush, running hunkered low. Or was it something he’d imagined? Carver dragged his bare arm across his perspiring forehead.

He walked up the road several hundred feet to the motel, skirted the office, and located room 100. It was an end room on the lower of the motel’s two levels. He made his way down a corridor, past an ice machine, and beyond a hulking trash dumpster overflowing with cardboard and reeking of overripe garbage. After testing the ground with his cane, he edged off the pavement and behind some bushes growing parallel to the back wall of the motel.

It was dark there; he clenched his eyes shut and then opened them, trying to adjust his sight well enough not to trip over anything or turn an ankle. Night vision wasn’t his strong suit. He moved tentatively, feeling ahead with the cane like a blind man, because the ground was soft beneath the grass, as if it had just been watered. The sweet garbage stench of the dumpster faded as he limped the length of the motel. About half the rooms had lights burning in them.

Opposite the rear of room 100, he found a shadowed area and stood leaning against the trunk of a palm tree. Above him the long fronds rattled softly in the hot night breeze, like clacking dice about to be loosed from a gambler’s hand.

Lights were on in Paul Kave’s room. The drapes were drawn over the rear sliding glass doors but there was a gap in them, widening toward the bottom. Carver remembered his uneasy vision of someone peering through a similar gap in his motel room in Pompano Beach. Nervous speculation. If Paul Kave saw him looking into the room, Paul would freeze for a moment, wondering if it were his nerves, his guilt and fear, causing him to see things that weren’t there. In that vital moment of inaction, he’d be a target. And Carver would need a portion of that suspended time to be sure the room’s occupant was actually Paul Kave. The thought of killing the wrong man made his stomach twist in on itself.

He drew the gun from beneath his shirt and limped toward the small pool of light outside the gapped drapes.

He’d considered simply knocking on the door of room 100, but Paul would be put on guard, perhaps even try to escape out the back. And the shot would make noise; other guests and the management would be alerted. Better this way, Carver decided. He could squeeze off a couple of well-aimed rounds and quickly disappear back into the night, like the fleeting dark animal he’d glimpsed near where he’d parked his car. He could then make his way to the Olds without being seen. By the time the alarm and confusion subsided at the Mermaid Motel, he’d be miles down the highway. A sound and simple plan. The kind that worked.

He could see faint shadowed movement inside the room. Paul Kave pacing. Trying to walk away his fear so he could remain cooped up and temporarily safe while his instincts screamed for him to run, cried for distance. Or did someone with Paul’s warped and murderous mentality think that way? Possibly he felt safe most of the time. Secure. Carver hoped so.

A cloud glided sedately across the moon, fading the earth to black and then returning it to less than total darkness. As if that were some sort of signal, cicadas began their ratchety shrieking in the surrounding fields. There was something desperate in their high-pitched, ongoing scream.

Outside the glass doors, Carver braced himself with the cane, extended his stiff leg awkwardly out to the side, and stooped down. He wouldn’t be able to stay in that position long, but while he was there he could hold the gun steady enough. He wouldn’t have much time to get off a volley of shots.

He held the automatic ready, aimed through the glass, his gaze fixed on the small portion of the room visible through the gap in the drapes. His mouth was dry and his nerves were singing. He waited for Paul Kave to cross that vulnerable, tiny slice of room 100. The lane to the land of the dead.

Carver controlled his breathing and remained motionless. He could sense that Paul was still moving around inside the room, pacing with restless energy, but not across the deadly area before the gunsight. Carver was one with his prey now, inside Paul’s head as only a dedicated hunter could be, as if his own nerve endings were picking up echoes of Paul’s deranged thoughts; as if he could influence him, urge him to that part of the room that meant death. You want to die, want to end it, I know you do.

The gun’s steel bulk grew heavier in Carver’s grip. He’d need a steady hand when the time came, so he rested the butt of the automatic against his good knee. He could raise it again in half a second and have Paul in his sights. End this thing for both of them.

After a while, Carver’s bent leg began to ache and his thigh muscles started to quiver. He’d have to stand up soon, he knew, or he might not be able to straighten his body after firing into the room. He also feared a muscle cramp that might hinder him in his getaway. He decided to give Paul until the count of thirty before averting the gun’s aim and standing up.

No, make it the count of fifty.

At twenty, a figure finally appeared inside room 100. Carver’s heart bucked and raced.

It was Paul Kave, looking thinner than Carver imagined, and frightened and young. So young. His blond hair was mussed into greasy spikes. Was that a shadow beneath his nose, or was he trying vainly to grow a mustache? A naive attempt at disguise?

Carver had the automatic sighted in on target. He felt tension in his trigger finger. He controlled it so he wouldn’t pull up on the gun and spoil his aim.

There was a faint sizzling sound, off to his right.

He jerked his head in that direction and saw a short, paunchy man in bermuda shorts and a white sleeveless undershirt, standing outside the glass doors two or three rooms down. The man had stepped out to smoke a cigar, and he was holding a burning match to its tip and causing the flame to dance and flare brightly as he puffed his cheeks in and out like a bellows. He was facing Carver. As soon as the match went out he’d notice him. He’d have to!

The man flicked the match away, removed the cigar from his mouth, and started to gaze at its glowing ember with a stogie smoker’s satisfaction. Then he spotted Carver, did a show-business double take, and said, “Hey!”

Without thinking, Carver swung the gun to aim at the man. The cicadas had stopped their ratchety screaming, figuring something was going down and they wanted no part of it. The night was silent except for the distant rush of passing traffic on the far side of the motel.

“Whoa, Christ!” the man said. He hurled the cigar into the black sky, where it arced like a meteor as he ducked back into his room. For a little fat guy he could really hustle.

Carver was up and limping as fast as possible into the shadows. He plowed through thick shrubbery. His cane skipped on an uneven slick surface and he almost fell, saved a tumble by grabbing a branch, feeling thorns slice into his palm as he held himself erect. Thin branches or vines clutched at his ankles, slowing him down. Nightmare running. The cane snagged and he almost dropped it from his slippery grasp. Behind him he heard male voices yelling. Words he couldn’t understand. Then a woman’s voice: “. . Man with a gun!”

He remembered the automatic and realized he’d unconsciously tucked it back in his belt when he fled. It was a cool, hard lump against his stomach.

Then he was free of the shrubbery, still in darkness so thick he could feel it on him like black oil, and hobbling fast toward his car. He could see headlights on the Orange Blossom Trail; the road curved ahead. He had to be close to where the Olds was parked. His speed surprised him; fear was a powerful motivator. This was the kind of terror Paul Kave must feel every minute.

Carver was sucking air in hard, rasping breaths. More voices behind him. He couldn’t tell how close-wasn’t sure whether he was being pursued. Guy with the cigar wouldn’t be chasing him; he’d scared hell out of that one, maybe cured him of smoking altogether. Saved the bastard’s life!

The cane started to slide beneath his weight. A grating sound. Gravel. He was on the parking lot, only twenty feet from the car!

He clambered into the Olds and started the engine, glad he’d thought to leave the key in the ignition switch. Quiet, he cautioned himself. Quiet! You’re just someone in the area, passing through. Pulled off the road to look at a map or empty the ashtray. On your way to Disney World. Innocent as all hell.

Careful not to spin the tires and send gravel flying, he let the Olds roll toward the highway. He braked, waited for a tanker truck to howl past, then eased onto the pavement and accelerated. Leaned back in the seat.

Jesus, the wind felt grand!

Not too fast! He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. His toe tapped the brake pedal. He drove past the Mermaid Motel at the speed limit exactly. There was no sign of activity there, but he knew there would soon be plenty. He also didn’t doubt that Paul Kave was right now getting clear of the motel as quickly as possible, and would be lost again to the police and to Carver.

Half a mile down the highway, a patrol car approached him going in the other direction, siren yodeling wildly and roofbar lights flashing red and blue glare. The driver swerved to avoid a station wagon slow in pulling to the side. In a hurry, all right. Too late, pal, Carver thought as the cruiser zipped past. He watched the light show recede in his rearview mirror.

The pulsing lump in his throat receded and his breathing evened out. He was away clean. The cigar smoker had barely glanced at him and probably hadn’t noticed the cane, scared as he was. Probably busy fouling his underwear and saw nothing but the gun swinging his way. And Carver had hobbled into the black night before anyone else had a chance to see him.

Near the expressway he parked the Olds on the shoulder and sat for a while, feeling the low drumbeat of the idling engine through his buttocks and thighs. He was sweating hard and his hands were shaking. Something in his stomach wanted out. He wasn’t sure he could drive.

What he was experiencing was more than simply delayed reaction to stress. He’d felt that before and knew it well enough to recognize it. This was something else, at a deeper level.

If he hadn’t been interrupted, he would have squeezed the trigger and sent bullets smashing through glass, and then the flesh and bone of Paul Kave. Killed the scared kid with the phantom mustache. No doubt at all.

The thing about it, Carver wasn’t sure how he would have felt afterward. And for the first time since his son’s death, afterward mattered.