Flame (15 page)

He knew his best protection was that Jefferson would never dream that he’d be here, lounging and soaking up rays not a hundred feet from his motel room.

Jefferson was moving around inside the room. He seemed restless. Too edgy to stay still. Peering through the plastic chair-webbing, Carver could see him pass in front of the pale corner of the bed. Bend over and open what looked like a suitcase near the bed. Not exactly a suitcase; a large duffel bag, probably. Jefferson withdrew something from the bag, a long object that appeared to be wrapped in cloth. No, not wrapped; in a case of its own. He unzipped it, and Carver knew: a gun case.

From the case Jefferson withdrew a rifle or shotgun. Guy came armed for anything.

What now? Was Jefferson going to clean the gun? Play agents and bad guys? What?

Nothing Carver could have guessed. Jefferson stood holding the long gun sideways before him in both hands, then slumped on the edge of the bed and laid it across his knees. Bowed his head and stared at it. After a while, his shoulders began to quake. Or was it the play of sunlight over the wide glass door?

No, Jefferson’s shoulders were heaving, Carver was sure. The DEA agent was staring at the gun in his lap and weeping.

Made no sense.

Possibly it wasn’t a gun. That could be it. But what then? Some sort of bizarre religious object that might prompt such emotion?

Carver waited.

Five minutes.

Ten.

Finally Jefferson straightened his back. He stood up slowly. Took a swipe at his eyes with the back of a hand. Looked as if he did that, anyway.

He placed the gun—plainly a rifle or shotgun now—back into its zippered case. Replaced it in the duffel bag. Stooped low and slid the bag beneath the bed. Walked almost out of sight into another room.

Carver saw a light wink on, for a second outlining Jefferson’s broad body. Then Jefferson closed a door behind him, probably to the bathroom, and the world beyond the wide glass door was dark except for the pale rounded corner of the bed and the faint reflection of the sea.

C
ARVER WAITED ALL THE
rest of that day, eating supper in a Jack-in-the-Box across the highway, where he could keep an eye on the Sundown Motel parking lot. Neither Jefferson nor Palma had emerged from his room. Apparently they were sleeping through most of the afternoon, maybe resting up for whatever operation they had planned for that evening. Bad boys with badges.

At seven thirty, from where he was sitting in the parked Olds, Carver saw the gray, four-door Dodge pull from the parking lot with its amber directional signal blinking frantically. It turned to head south down the coast highway toward Del Moray.

He resisted the temptation to follow the car. Instead he forced himself to wait until nightfall. Darkness wasn’t absolutely necessary for what he had in mind, but it would help.

Finally he peeled the back of his sweat-soaked shirt from the Olds’s vinyl upholstery and dragged his stiff body out from behind the steering wheel. Stood leaning on the car and stretched the kinks out of his back and arms. Limped across the street to the Sundown Motel and to Jefferson’s end room. Nodded to a fetchingly plump woman and her children splashing in the pool. Smiled at a young girl flouncing down the steps to meet someone waiting near the office. Carver belonged here. Every move he made said that he did. Stayed here every summer.

Even his brief struggle with the room lock shouldn’t attract much attention. Motel locks. Wrong keys. Happened all the time. Only Carver was struggling not with a key but with his honed Visa card.

The lock slipped easily enough, like most motel locks. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, making it a point to switch on the light boldly, as if the room were his or he had some business there known to Jefferson.

It was like a lot of motel rooms. Done in shades of beige and with mass-produced wood-fiber furniture that was bolted to the walls or floor wherever possible. Never could tell when motel furniture thieves might strike. There was a faint, musty smell in the room; the scent of the sea had found its way in. Carver’s heart was crashing in his ears; his blood was racing. He didn’t mind.

To work.

He quickly crossed the room and pulled the drapes closed over the sliding door that led to the beach. Dragged a long canvas duffel bag from beneath the bed and opened it. Pulled out an old worn padded leather gun case and unzipped it.

This was what Jefferson had sat staring at with such wracking emotion. A Remington rifle.

Carver examined it closely. It was a Gamemaster pump-action model, a .30-06 caliber, old but in solid mechanical order. He worked the pump, listening to the precise metallic clicking of the action. Saw that the firing chamber was empty. The rifle wasn’t loaded.

After deciding there was nothing special about the rifle, he slid it back in the gun case and arranged the case in the duffel bag as it had been, surrounded by faded Levi’s and some sport shirts, none of which he could imagine Jefferson wearing. The impression was that the clothes were merely there to round out the long duffel bag and obscure the fact that it might contain the rifle. A DEA agent could travel with this setup, Carver realized. Even airport security checkpoints would pose no problem in the face of U.S. government credentials.

Carver checked the closet and found several suits, some slacks, and a sport coat, all on wooden motel hangers. Good-quality clothes. Stylish but not flashy. Drug agents had to be well dressed, Carver supposed. “Miami Vice” gone conservative.

He let himself out of Jefferson’s room and returned to the Olds. Drove into Del Moray and had a dinner of salad and clams at the Happy Lobster with Edwina.

Afterward, he followed the red taillights of her Mercedes to her house and then made love to her, trying to forget for a while at least dead hogs and clients and backwoods preachers. People who carried knives designed specifically to separate flesh from bone. People who hanged other people and then bounced beer cans off their heads.

He succeeded.

He lay listening to the sea and his own ragged breathing, and felt contentment.

But later that night he dreamed he was swimming in a dark ocean of blood, and that his stiff leg was as unwieldy in liquid as on dry land and made it impossible to stay afloat.

And that his horror and the blackness he sank into were unending.

M
C
G
REGOR HAD PICKED UP
Carver at the office in his unmarked police car, a pale blue Buick Skyhawk that looked like a family sedan but had a twelve-gauge riot gun mounted sideways out of sight below the dash. They’d headed west, away from the ocean, and now they were driving along Heron Street, through the poorer section of the generally wealthy community of Del Moray. Despite what the travelogues said, Florida wasn’t all Disney World with beaches. Even Mickey Mouse had his dark side. Ask Minnie.

Small, dingy shops lined both sides of Heron, and down the cross streets Carver could see rows of almost identical clapboard houses whose state of disrepair was emphasized by the brilliant morning sun. Though it wasn’t quite eight o’clock, most of the shops were already open. In front of a liquor store, a fat Hispanic man wearing baggy khaki shorts and what looked like a wildly colorful pajama top had tossed a pail of soapy water on the sidewalk and was methodically sweeping the suds toward the gutter. Behind him a sign in the window proclaimed that paychecks could be cashed at the store with a purchase. Quite a contrast, Carver thought, between this neighborhood and the creamy pastel stucco, clean wide streets, white belts, gold chains, and green money of the east side of Del Moray. The nearer the ocean, the higher the net worth.

McGregor slowed the Buick and cruised slowly, baring his long yellow teeth and glaring at a mangy, collarless dog rooting in a ripped plastic trash bag at the curb. Waxed paper and what looked like chicken bones were spread all over the sidewalk. The dog stopped what it was doing and glared back at him. Maybe something passed between them; McGregor shrugged and, if he’d thought about shooing away the dog, changed his mind and drove on. Said, “I checked on your three friends in Atlanta. Walter Ogden’s an officer of Wesley Slaughter and Rendering. Been with the company since the mid-sixties. What exactly he does nobody’s sure, but he wields clout with the company brass. He’s got no police record at all, not even traffic violations, which ain’t surprising for a guy like that. Got him the drag to fix it when he’s pulled over for speeding or DWI.”

Carver said, “It was clear in Atlanta Ogden was the executive type. What about the other two?”

“There’s no sheet at all on the woman, Courtney Romano. Probably not her real name, and nothing in the alias file. Butcher’s Vincent Butcher. That’s right, his
real
name. From New Orleans originally. He’s got enough of a sheet on him to make up for the other two being clean. Got in trouble when he was a teenager for killing neighborhood dogs and cats with a knife. Didn’t just kill them, though. Tortured them first. The courts decided he was mentally ill. Ain’t that a surprise? They arranged treatment, and after six months, when he was seventeen, he went into the Marines. He wasn’t one of the few good men, so they bounced him out within another six months on a medical discharge. Marines were right to do that. Two years later he tortured and killed a prostitute in Shreveport who tried to up her price on him. Did creative carving on the greedy bitch with a knife. For that one he did five years in prison, then he was paroled and put under the care of a psychiatrist. Get this—after a year the psychiatrist disappeared.” McGregor turned his head and gave Carver his lewd, gap-toothed grin. “The shrink was never found. Authorities finally figured he ran away with his receptionist, who he seemed to be balling after hours, since she disappeared a few days later. Nothing was ever proved, though. Red tape ensued, and the Louisiana parole board decided Butcher had seen enough of doctors and got him a job with Wesley Slaughter and Rendering in their slaughterhouse outside New Orleans. Just the occupation for a fella fascinated by sharp steel, hey? When the company moved to Georgia, Butcher went along. Never had any contact with the Georgia law. So he either underwent a personality transplant or he’s got powerful friends that clean up his messes soon as he makes them.”

“Has to be friends,” Carver said. “I don’t see any change in his personality. And there’s no way he could put together a human-earlobe collection without attracting at least some attention from the law.”

“If what you saw were real earlobes. Those kinda guys like to puff up tough. Mighta been nothing but chunks of cured beef or pork he showed you, not earlobes at all. You said him and his pals were putting on an act for you, trying to scare you shitless so you’d back away from the investigation.”

Carver said, “Think of it in light of his past.”

“Real earlobes,” McGregor said, after only a moment’s hesitation.

He turned the Buick off Heron, onto West Belt Road, and they began driving north to the highway that would take them back to the coast. There was something dead on the pavement, a cat or small dog, directly in the path of the car. McGregor ignored it. Carver winced as a tire made soft impact.

McGregor said, “You had breakfast?”

“Yeah.”

“I was gonna suggest we stop, but I’ll get you back soon as possible instead so I can get at some sausage and eggs. There’s this place on Magellan serves me free in exchange for a little added police protection.” He nudged a few miles per hour more out of the Buick and concentrated on his driving.

Watching McGregor carefully from the corner of his vision, Carver said, “I found out the two guys that were in Wesley’s Fort Lauderdale condo are DEA agents.”

McGregor’s long face didn’t change, but his grip tightened on the steering wheel. “You shittin’ me, Carver?”

“No. They’re the ones set up the impersonation deal. Wesley’s a big-time drug dealer, they say. He was out of the country, probably on a buying expedition, so they hired Bert Renway and went fishing.”

McGregor said, “Some bait.”

“That was my reaction. They took offense.”

McGregor said, “The DEA don’t usually work that way, though these days I wouldn’t put anything past them. Do anything to get credit and publicity; fuckin’ war-on-drugs glory hounds, stomp on people’s rights so kids can grow up to be solid citizens and buy cars and deodorant instead of dope. Keep everybody employed. The U.S. Constitution means nothing to them.”

“I didn’t realize you were a patriot.”

“Me? Hell, yeah. Even got towels look like flags.” He drummed his dirty fingernails on the vinyl-covered wheel. “DEA, huh? Goddammit, I don’t like this even a little bit, Carver!”

Carver said, “Well, there’s nothing to like.”

“This means we been screwing around with a federal investigation. Shit, shit, shit. That kinda thing can get your ass in a sling in a hurry.”

“Ruin a career,” Carver said. “Maybe when this is over we can get on somewhere as night watchmen.”

McGregor glanced over at him. Shot him the same look he’d given the stray dog rooting through the trash. “You actually dumb enough to be enjoying this?”

“Only one aspect of it. The one that puts you behind the eight ball.”

“Well, unless you shot off your mouth, far as the DEA knows, I thought from the beginning and still think the body in the car bombing was Frank Wesley. They don’t know I know, and besides, they’re the ones faked the autopsy report outa Miami. Lawless pricks.” He shook his long head and frowned. “Damn! I shoulda guessed it’d have to be federal agency to put that kinda pressure on and phony up a victim identification. Fuckin’ dental records!” The frown disappeared suddenly; the old gray matter was buzzing. “You know, there has to be something big in the works for the DEA to pull that kinda stunt to preserve their investigation. The attempt on Welsey’s life has gotta be part of a much bigger picture.”

Carver had to admire how McGregor had zeroed in on the one feature of the horrendous situation that might be worked to his benefit. Big pictures might mean big opportunities. The man was a survivor for reasons other than that he was an unprincipled carnivore.