Flame (26 page)

“Champagne and caviar. Courtney’s last meal.”

Jefferson’s body stiffened and he leaned back in his chair. But his expression didn’t change. Something had been set in motion years ago for him, and its momentum was irreversible. Carver could understand that, which was why he feared it so much.

The waitress came over and refilled their cups for the third time. Jefferson pulled a crumpled pack of Viceroys from his pocket. Glanced at Carver. “Mind?”
I’m letting the woman you love be obliterated, but I wouldn’t want to offend you with tobacco smoke or risk giving you lung cancer in twenty years without your permission.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Only now and again.”

“When you’re nervous?”

Jefferson gave Carver a brief smile. Dragged a blue Zippo lighter from the same pocket the cigarettes had been in and lit a Viceroy. The lighter worked on the first try; Jefferson had everything under control.

Or did he? The waitress hurried over and told him he was in the no-smoking section. Asked if he’d like a table where he could smoke. Jefferson told her no thanks. Said he was sorry, he hadn’t known. He snubbed out the cigarette on the heel of his shoe and dropped the butt into his pocket.

Carver sat gazing out the window at the
Bold Entrepreneur
for the next hour or so, trying to imagine Edwina below deck. Just on the other side of that curve of pure white hull. What were they doing to her? She should be safe as long as they thought she could be used as leverage to control him. But how accurately could you figure somebody like Vincent Butcher? He was a sadist, a psychotic fascinated by sharp steel and what it could do to flesh. Maybe Wesley and Ogden couldn’t control him.

At seven o’clock Farneaux still hadn’t arrived. The
Bold Entrepreneur
continued to rock and bob gently at her moorings. A gull touched down and perched for a moment on the boat’s navigational antenna, then flapped away into the graying sky, bucking the ocean breeze.

Jefferson was drumming his fingertips heavily on the table. The dull, relentless thumping was getting on Carver’s nerves. He wondered what would happen if he simply stood up and limped toward the door. Would Jefferson shoot him in the back? Hardly.

But Carver almost certainly would be taken into custody, as Jefferson had promised. Cuffed and led from the restaurant. The diners at Lobster Jack’s would get to see the apprehension of a notorious drug smuggler—at least Jefferson would flash his DEA credentials and tell them that. Or give them a similar story. Carver figured that was about how it would go. Gave up on the idea of simply trying to call Jefferson’s bluff and walk to freedom and whatever he thought he could do to help Edwina. Jefferson probably had never bluffed in his life.

Carver drank yet another cup of coffee, loathing the bitter aftertaste of the stuff. But he knew he might need the caffeine to help keep him alert. For what, he wasn’t sure. Something, though. Something. He
was
sure of that.

When the supper crowd had thinned, and the waitress had stopped giving Carver and Jefferson meaningful glances to let them know they were keeping the table occupied with only a potentially small tip, Carver said, “I gotta go to the bathroom. All that coffee.”

Jefferson put down his cup and thought about that. Then he nodded. “I’ll go with you. Gotta take a leak myself.”

“I thought you DEA guys didn’t have genitalia.”

“I’ll pretend,” Jefferson said. “Get up and move, you wanna take a piss.” He stood up himself. Stretched. Shook his head no to the waitress when she raised her eyebrows inquiringly as to whether they were finally leaving and wanted the check. The waitress was visibly building up a dislike for Jefferson.

Carver limped toward the rest room at the back of the restaurant. He wasn’t surprised to see the facing doors labeled BUOYS and GULLS. He pushed open BUOYS and went inside. Jefferson was close behind him.

The rest room was large and done in pale green tile. An exhaust fan was rattling up near the ceiling. It was cool in there and smelled like disinfectant. A guy in white slacks and a navy blue T-shirt turned away from one of the four white urinals, zipping his pants. Left without washing his hands. The chef maybe.

Jefferson moved back while Carver stood at the end urinal and relieved himself, leaning against the wall with his palm, his cane hooked into his belt.

When he was finished, he zipped his fly and limped over to the nearest washbasin. It had one of those faucets that turn off automatically so no one can leave the water running and flood the rest room. Carver rinsed his hands and stood drying them under a blower that sounded like a vacuum cleaner.

Jefferson had stepped to the urinal and unzipped his pants. Carver waited until he heard urine splatter.

He moved fast, gouged the tip of his cane into Jefferson’s back near the lower spine. Said, “I’ll blow your fuckin’ backbone in half you don’t get both hands flat against the wall, feet apart!”

Jefferson started to turn his head. Carver slapped his palm against his ear. Jefferson placed both hands high on the tile wall, pressing hard with splayed fingers. Edged his feet back. Carver kicked at Jefferson’s shoes, forcing his feet farther apart. Reached around and drew Jefferson’s revolver from its spring-loaded holster. Stepped back.

Jefferson had spotted his pants some, but he’d stopped pissing. He said, “Goddammit, the cane!”

“Might have been a gun,” Carver said. “Thing is, you get used to a man with a cane so it seems like part of him. You forget it exists. Then, when something that feels like a gun barrel pokes you in the spine, it takes you a few seconds to remember the cane.”

“Long enough for him to get a real gun,” Jefferson said. He pushed away from the wall and turned around slowly, almost lazily. He was smiling. “We both know you won’t use the gun, though, Carver, so it might as well have the same firepower as your cane.”

Carver said, “I’ll use it. For Edwina.”

That stopped Jefferson. He looked as if he’d been about to step forward, but his body took on a tense stillness. Poised but unmoving. Maybe love, need, was something he understood. Maybe what he was doing to Courtney was costing him more than Carver had thought.

Carver told him to move into the nearest toilet stall.

Jefferson hesitated, but he obeyed. Did as Carver instructed and leaned with both hands against the wall over the commode. Carver reached beneath Jefferson’s coat and worked the set of handcuffs from their leather case near the small of his back. Then he made Jefferson sit down on the toilet seat. Forced his arms around behind him and hand-cuffed him to the plumbing. Jefferson might be able to jerk the pipe loose from its fitting and work the cuffs over it, but it would take him a while.

When Carver had stepped back out of the stall, Jefferson said, “Now what? You call McGregor? Get the area crawling with local law? Get your lady friend shot or used as a hostage?”

Carver was surprised. “You know about McGregor?”

“We know everything,” Jefferson said, glaring up at him. Son of a bitch was serious. Government types!

Carver kicked Jefferson’s ankles to the side and swung the stall’s metal door shut. Punched the button on the blow dryer again in case Jefferson decided to make some noise to attract attention. Limped out of the Buoys’ room.

Smiled at the waitress. Stood in line at the cash register briefly, behind a customer who needed change for a hundred-dollar bill. Paid the check. Got out of the restaurant. All peachy. No problem. Apparently.

“Now what?” Jefferson had asked. Well,
that
was something the DEA didn’t know.

Couldn’t know.

Because Carver wasn’t sure himself.

T
HE FORD WAS STILL
parked in the restaurant lot, but the gray Dodge was gone. Probably Ralph Palma was slouched in it somewhere watching the
Bold Entrepreneur
, forcing down a hamburger and coffee while the people on board the boat enjoyed their champagne and caviar. Jefferson had it figured out, all right, class-conscious bastard. No going back for him and he knew it. In love with his destiny and locked in a dark dance with death. Carver had heard that same music and knew its power to hypnotize.

As soon as he got into the Ford, he noticed the little square receiver for the transmitter he’d placed on the boat was gone from where he’d left it on the front seat. He bent forward and reached under the seat. The Colt automatic was still there, cool and heavy to the touch. It felt like doom.

He started the car and drove from the lot, down along the dock and away from where the
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was tied up. Made a couple of left turns and parked in the next block.

Between two low brick buildings, a dry cleaner and a bookstore, he could barely see the bridge of the
Bold Entrepreneur.
He sat in the car for a while with the engine idling and the air conditioner blasting, watching the boat, admiring how the setting sun glanced orange-red off its brightwork, letting his mind turn over. Then it occurred to him that Jefferson might be free from the handcuffs by now. Might have gotten together with Palma to go looking for him. The Ford would be easy to spot.

Carver moved the Ford down a block. Then he got the Colt out from under the front seat and tucked it in his waistband beneath his shirt, next to Jefferson’s smaller .38 revolver. A dangerous thing to do and an easy way to get your balls shot off, but it kept both guns out of sight.

He got out of the car and crossed the street. Limped back a block, to near where he’d been parked, and then went between the bookstore and dry cleaner and walked behind them.

He was in a kind of wide alley. There were dumpsters and trash cans along one side, but all neat and clean. A tidy stack of newspapers, bound with twine, sat next to one of the trash cans. Carver figured the truck that picked up the trash would suit the area, be new and bright, with a smiling, uniformed crew.

On the other side of the alley was a grassy area with palm trees and two bleached white concrete benches. Though the sun was low now, the temperature remained high. Probably in the nineties. Carver was sweating; he felt hot and oily. He limped over to one of the benches beneath the palm trees and sat down. He had a better view of the dock from here, through another line of gently swaying palms, and he wasn’t noticeable himself.

He sat patiently, practicing what he was good at: waiting. Putting together what he was going to do. Trying to, anyway.

Farneaux arrived just before dark.

A long blue Lincoln coasted along the dock, past the
Bold Entrepreneur
at about twenty miles an hour. It must have let Farneaux out some distance from the boat, because it was a good five minutes before Carver saw a short, well-tailored man with iron-gray hair step jauntily from the dock onto the
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and quickly duck through a door and into a companionway beneath the bridge. There were lights on aboard the boat now; the portholes glowed, and occasionally there was shadow movement beyond the thin curtains. A loop antenna above the bridge began to revolve. Heightened activity.

The boat could set to sea now. All the players were aboard.

All but one.

Carver stood up from the bench and planted his cane firmly. Limped toward the line of palm trees and the dock.

Toward the gently rising and falling white hull.

Knowing what he had to do, even if he didn’t know exactly how to do it.

A
S
C
ARVER THUMPED ACROSS
the rough plank dock he could smell the rotted-fish scent of the water beneath him. He was still a hundred feet from the boat when a man in dark slacks and an unbuttoned white shirt emerged from below deck and made his way up to the flying bridge. Another man followed him up onto the deck but walked toward the stern. He hopped nimbly onto the dock, bent over, and with a deft motion untied the aft hawser from its cleat. Swaggered along the dock toward the bow to untie that line so the
Bold Entrepreneur
would be floating free.

Busy with the line, he didn’t notice Carver. He and Carver stepped on board the boat at about the same time. Carver almost fell and had to steady himself for a moment by hooking the crook of his cane over the low rail. The sudden movement and clatter of the cane caught the man’s attention. Carver was in too close to be seen by the man on the bridge, and a generator was chugging away and covering softer sounds.

Startled, the man in the unbuttoned white shirt stared at him. He had bushy black hair trimmed short and wild, a chest matted with more black hair. Broad shoulders. Very flat-bellied and lean through the waist. Kind of guy who could give you trouble.

He cocked his head and dropped his hands to his sides. Took a step toward Carver. Said, “Help you?” His voice was neutral; he didn’t know which way to play this, how he should act.

Carver said, “I’m supposed to deliver a message to Frank Wesley. Important.”

That made the man even more curious. Over the chugging of the generator, Carver was barely aware of voices, loud laughter, from below deck. Where were Jefferson and Palma? He was sure they knew he’d come on board; he hoped they wouldn’t charge in after him, fuck up everything.

The man moved closer. Carver smiled. Into this now. “You Mr. Ogden?”

The man started to answer, barely parted his lips, when Carver rammed the tip of the cane deep into his abdomen just beneath the sternum. Breath whooshed from the man and his eyes widened in surprise and pain. When he clutched his stomach, Carver whipped the cane across his throat, playing for keeps. The man dropped to his knees, bent over sharply, and rolled onto his side. He was gagging and trying to catch his breath all at the same time, unable to make much noise with his crushed larynx. One hand clawed at his throat.

Twin diesels clattered and roared to life, and the boat began to vibrate and head out to sea. Carver shoved the stricken man overboard, knowing he might drown, knowing that leaving him on board might be fatal to himself and Edwina.
Playing for keeps.
Over the roar of the diesels, he had to strain to hear the splash.