Flame (20 page)

The Olds’s canvas top was up but all the windows were cranked down. Wind boomed and swirled through the car’s interior. Taut canvas slapped against the steel struts as Carver pushed the car hard along the Orange Blossom Trail toward Orlando. Flying night insects met hard and instant death against the windshield; Carver had to use the squirts and wipers now and then in order to see clearly.

At the Orlando airport he parked the Olds in an inconspicuous slot in a park-and-fly lot, then rolled up the windows, climbed out, and locked the doors. He limped around to the trunk and removed his scuffed leather suitcase. Lugged the suitcase over to the next row of cars and down about a hundred feet, where he’d left the green Ford he’d rented earlier.

He placed the suitcase on the passenger-side front seat of the Ford, then limped around to the driver’s side and lowered himself in behind the steering wheel. Experienced that new-car smell everyone with big payments bragged about.

He’d asked for a Ford with the biggest motor they had, and Hertz had accommodated. The car’s engine turned over on the first try and throbbed with quiet power. He backed out of the parking slot, slipped the automatic gearshift lever into drive, and the Ford jerked forward and wanted to fly. Carver smiled.

It was just past three  
A.M.
when he drove from the lot.

The sun was only a faint and uneven red smear on the eastern horizon, like a novice painter’s mistake, when Carver killed the Ford’s headlights, tapped the brake pedal, and turned off the highway. He was jouncing over the narrow road that led through the rows of citrus trees to the small airstrip and abandoned house.

Carver braked gently and then parked about a hundred yards from the house, which he could barely see as a squat, dark form beyond the trees. Then he climbed out from behind the wheel and hobbled over uneven ground toward the decrepit structure, feeling ahead of him with the cane like a blind man. The only sound was the screaming of crickets in the field behind the house. If they were aware of Carver’s presence, they didn’t seem to mind enough to lapse into wary silence.

He kept to the side of the road, tasting the grit of powdery dust he couldn’t see. The Colt in its belt holster was gouging the top of his right thigh with each step. He adjusted the holster. Didn’t help. Hell with it. Sweat trickled down his rib cage. Some ran down his forehead and into his eyes. Stung. He wiped his face with his hand, wiped his hands on his pants leg, and kept limping through the velvet darkness toward the house.

It took him a few minutes to assure himself the house was unoccupied. Then he let himself in through the unlocked porch screen door and stood very still, peering around at the blackness.

It was even darker in the house than outside, and the screams of the crickets were muted. The place smelled musty, and the faint scent of greasy beef and onion lingered from the McDonald’s debris he’d seen on his last visit. But now it had about it the cloying sweetness of garbage, and it almost turned his stomach. He swallowed saliva that tasted metallic, but he felt the nausea recede.

After a few minutes his eyes adjusted to the dark and he could make out objects. He limped over to the table, leaned on it, and used the crook of his cane to lift the nearby upended chair. Then he sat down in the chair. It creaked loudly, like Van Meter’s delicate desk chair, and for a moment he was afraid it might splinter beneath him. But it held.

He placed the Colt automatic before him on the table. Waited for sunrise.

When the crickets had quieted and shafts of daylight lanced through the dirt-smeared windows, Carver left the house and returned to the Ford. It was parked beneath some of the older and larger orange trees that had thick foliage. The trees were dotted with oranges, probably Valencias, but they were too small for picking.

He opened the car’s trunk and removed the suitcase. Opened the suitcase and removed a ball of thin but strong twine and a pocketknife. He placed the twine and knife on the Ford’s grained vinyl roof and then limped around and slid the key in the ignition. Twisted it to the accessory position, then lowered the front left power window so he’d have a handhold to help him climb onto the car.

With the aid of the cane, he managed to pull himself up onto the hood. The thin steel gave and sprang back, pinging loudly beneath his weight. Thanks, Detroit. Careful not to step on the wipers, he clambered up onto the car’s roof. Hertz wouldn’t approve, but what the hell, he had more at stake than they did.

It took him about twenty minutes to bend the trees’ lower and smaller branches and tie them so they were interwoven over the Ford. Crude but effective camouflage.

Sweating as if he’d been digging ditches, he slid back down to the ground, satisfied that the car couldn’t be seen from the air or the road.

He raised the window, removed the key from the ignition switch, and locked the car. Then he trudged back to the house, lugging the scuffed leather suitcase.

Seated again at the table, he got a thermos of hot coffee from the suitcase, poured some into the metal cap, then calmly sipped it. The steamy aroma whetted his appetite, but he decided not to eat anything until lunch. He knew he’d have to wait here a long time. Maybe days. Maybe a week. And maybe his waiting would be useless and he’d simply have to give up and try a different approach. He’d come prepared to wait. In the suitcase were a few changes of clothes, a small portable radio, some bottled drinking water, a box of granola bars, and some canned soup and packaged junk food. Also a large thermos of soup, some of which he was prepared to drink cold after the first day. Lunch.

Like most cops and former cops, Carver possessed a smoldering kind of patience that was almost infinite. Waiting was something he did very well. He could retreat into himself and block out everything else, but simultaneously retain an automatic alertness. Cops learned to do that instead of going mad with boredom.

He finished the coffee and then leaned back in the old wood chair and sat quietly, his eyes half closed. Not awake, not asleep. Not watching, yet aware. If the slightest change occurred anywhere around him, he’d know.

Nothing moved in the dim, ruined house. The day grew brighter, and the occasional moan of a passing truck on the distant highway drifted lazily to Carver. He didn’t seem to notice. Last night had been long and exhausting, but he knew he couldn’t afford to fall completely asleep. Not here. Not now.

He didn’t mind. In a way, he’d gone on the offensive. Made moves that would confuse. He liked that.

Something small and frantic scampered lightly across the roof. In a four-footed hurry. Most likely a squirrel.

Carver ignored it. Probably it was on its way to feast on an orange. Maybe later Carver would follow the squirrel’s example. Go out and try to find an orange ripe enough to eat. Have that with his soup.

He sat in the increasing heat and waited, his heart ticking out measured beats like the timer on a bomb.

J
UST 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 attaché 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 attaché 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.