Scorcher

Chapter 22

Carver drove to Edwina’s house but she wasn’t home. A call to Quill Realty established that she was out selling real estate. She was holding open a house on the good side of town; going for a big commission. The job Edwina had originally taken as therapy after a disastrous marriage continued to lend sustenance to flesh and mind. All Carver really knew for sure about her former husband was that his name was Larry and he’d beaten her on a regular basis. Every few weeks, usually after making love with Edwina, thoughts about Larry disturbed Carver’s sleep.

He helped himself to cold cuts with sliced olives in them, and lettuce from the refrigerator. Then he laid two slices of wheat bread on a paper towel, and put together a sandwich with too much Miracle Whip, the way he liked sandwiches. He’d never tasted a cold slab of processed meat that wasn’t stomach-turning anyway, so why not overpower the loathsome stuff with condiments? Make assuaging his hunger bearable as well as quick.

Eat to live, he told himself, not the other way around. The sandwich was gone in four or five bites; that oughta hold him for a while. He suspected the strange meat might have been tasty if he’d taken time to notice.

He washed down the sandwich with a glass of ice water, then went out on the veranda and sat in a webbed lounge chair, looking out to sea and smoking a Swisher Sweet cigar. Though the sky was blue in the direction he was facing, there were low, dark cumulus clouds creeping in behind him, lead-colored and laden with rain. The kind of clouds weather forecasters loved because they were so obvious.

The seabirds had already found cover, and small boats were making for shore into the brunt of the wind. Carver watched a tiny sailboat sporting black-and-yellow canvas tack laboriously toward the marina on the other side of Del Moray. The craft described a slow, zigzagging pattern, using the wind to propel it at angles toward its destination. The boat’s dogged antics reminded him of his progress in finding Paul Kave.

Where was Paul now and what was he thinking? Planning? Where had he gotten the rifle to take a shot at Carver? Was he driving a stolen car? Was that how the police would trace him before Carver could get to him? And was Joel Dewitt leveling? Was a barbecue-sauerkraut hot dog really as scrumptious as Adam Kave implied?

The last was the only question Carver could easily answer to his satisfaction, and the one that provoked the least curiosity.

Suddenly the veranda was in shadow and a few cool raindrops struck his bare forearms. He looked down at the moisture glistening like dew among the dark hairs above his wrist.

The veranda stonework was spotted with rain now, and the wind was kicking up feisty and cool at Carver’s back. It was pleasant sitting outside and observing the increasing number of whitecaps among the blue-gray incoming waves, but the rain would get serious within a matter of seconds. The long fringe on the umbrella over the table by the swimming pool swayed seaward. The water in the pool rippled and danced like a miniature ocean. He could hear it lapping like laughter at the sides of the pool.

Carver felt his back getting wet as the rain gradually fell harder. He stayed outside until the little sailboat had tacked out of sight to safety, then he stubbed out the unsmoked half of his cigar in an ashtray with a tiny puddle in it. The wind quickly carried the acrid scent of the wet, smoldering tobacco out to sea. He stood still for a moment, relishing the coolness of the storm, then he limped into the house.

He removed his wet shirt and his shoes and stretched out on the sofa. The rain was beating on the west windows now, and wind was playing a comfortable low tune on the tile roof. The inside of the house smelled musty and close but not unpleasant. Cozy, in fact. Shelter from life’s bad weather.

Carver glanced at his watch. Three-fifteen. This was the usual July late-afternoon Florida storm that blew in suddenly from the Gulf and would just as abruptly bluster out into the Atlantic. Edwina would probably be home before long. Carver’s car was in the garage, out of sight and dry with its canvas top down. If Gibbons had been at least temporarily pulled from the task of shadowing him, no one knew he was here. The world was on hold, and without Muzak.

Something metal was snatched by the wind and clanked across the veranda or driveway. Outside; nothing to do with Carver. What was happening beyond the walls didn’t concern him.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to sleep.

He awoke to Edwina’s kiss on his lips. His body jerked and she leaned back where she was kneeling beside him. Then she smiled and kissed him again, taking her time about it. He had an erection. How long had she been there and what had she been doing?

Carver blinked. Not a bad way to wake up. The room was dim.

“Whazza time?” he asked.

“Seven-thirty.”

“How come it’s so dark out?”

“Still storming. The rough weather turned around and drifted back to shore. There are tornado alerts all over central Florida. People in mobile homes have been advised to put on their lead shoes.”

Carver sat up. He heard a drumroll of thunder that suggested trumpets might follow. Close. Lightning illuminated the living room like a dozen flashbulbs going off. More thunder, much louder this time. Something glass sang on a hard surface.

“I’m afraid of tornadoes,” Edwina said, but there was no fear in her voice. “They pick up people and put them down somewhere else. And I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

“Then we better get under those heavy beams in the bedroom ceiling,” Carver said.

The beams in the bedroom were probably no heavier than in the rest of the house, but Edwina nodded agreement to his suggestion.

They both stood up and she took his hand and walked ahead of him, going slowly as he supported himself with the cane. He was still a little woozy from sleep. The air seemed heavy and charged with static electricity. He could hear the rhythmic swishing of Edwina’s nyloned thighs brushing together beneath her dress, and her damp hair smelled fresh from the rain.

He loved storms.

They both loved storms.

Thunder shook the house.

Neither of them noticed when the rain stopped.

At eleven o’clock Carver left Edwina sleeping and drove up the coast to his cottage. It would be wise to be there if anyone was looking for him, for any reason. And wise not to be with Edwina.

He entered the cottage cautiously. Within a few seconds he assured himself that he was alone; there weren’t many places to hide. He locked the doors and windows, switched the air-conditioner on low so he might hear any unusual sound, and slept with his cane and Colt automatic within easy reach.

He thought he’d sleep fitfully, but instead he was unaware of dreams or time until he opened his eyes to daylight.

And noise.

Loud noise.

The phone was jangling.

Carver sat up on the mattress, fumbled for his cane, then managed to stand and limp toward the phone. He didn’t know how long it had been ringing before he’d awakened, but he’d counted five rings; whoever was calling was patient. Sunlight was angling in low from just above the horizon. No wonder. Carver’s watch read ten minutes after six. He ran his dry tongue over his teeth so he’d be able to speak; they seemed huge and coated with Velcro.

“Amigo,” Desoto said, when Carver had picked up the phone and mumbled a hello. “Edwina’s okay.”

Carver was still half asleep, and caught off guard by the cold thrust of alarm in the pit of his stomach. “Okay? Why shouldn’t she be?”

“There was a fire at her house last night. I got it on the telex from Del Moray.”

Carver’s mind jumped all the way to a hundred and ten percent wakefulness, thoughts a wild jumble. A fire! Where he’d left her so she’d be safely out of his presence! If there was going to be an attempt at murder by arson, it should have been here, at the cottage. He told himself to slow down, not to speculate. Coincidences did happen, even in the lives of cynics and the people they loved. “Is she hurt at all?”

“No. I phoned there and was told a smoke alarm woke her up and she crawled out of the house completely unharmed. Damned fine little gadgets to have around, eh? Like watchdogs that don’t eat.”

“Where is she now?”

“Her place. Hey, I told you, she’s all right. The emergency’s over, my friend.”

Over for now, Carver thought. Fire had been introduced into his life like hell on earth, maiming him in body and then mind. First fire from the barrel of a sadistic holdup man’s gun, then from the mind of a maniac. As if he’d done something to piss off a supreme being that liked to play with matches.

“I’m driving to Del Moray,” Carver said.

“Thought you’d want to, amigo. That’s why I called.”

“Was the fire an accident?”

“Could be. Lots of lightning in that area last night. But it’s too early to tell. Thinking about Paul Kave?”

“I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“And maybe now, amigo, he can’t stop thinking about you.”

The eastern horizon was still smeared with orange-tinted pink, like an art student’s garish first attempt at a sunrise, when Carver reached the highway and pointed the long hood of the Olds toward Del Moray.

Last night’s storm had left the air clear and sweet-scented, and he had the top lowered. Large flying insects smacked off the windshield to abrupt oblivion. A sea gull soared gracefully along parallel to the car for a while, as if blatantly observing Carver, then veered sharply to the south, maybe on its way to report to McGregor.

Carver felt as if he were in deep water that was beginning to swirl and draw him toward the black vortex of a whirlpool. He cursed and goosed the Olds another five miles per hour faster.

If he drowned-or burned-he wanted to do it alone. Not with Edwina.

As if death came with options.