voiced. Not because of the money, or the possibility of a cracked drug operation, but because it seemed that at last Willis Eiler could be put to rest alive or dead.
That might be the final stage in the exorcism of a demon.
CHAPTER 29
Daninger seemed surprised to see them again at his motel. He smiled, bowed, smiled, genuflected, smiled, smiled, and gave Carver and Edwina adjoining rooms near the deep end of the Tumble Inn’s swimming pool. The possibility of litigation still ran strong.
Carver slept late the next morning, but he was still awake before Edwina. He left her sleeping and drove into Solarville to check in with Chief Armont. At the rear of the headquarters lot, Mackenzie’s Jeep was parked, its wheels and fenders caked with mud.
The chief said he was glad to see Carver but didn’t put on nearly as good an act as Daninger. But then, he didn’t have the motivation. He asked Carver what he was doing back in town.
When Carver told him, Armont didn’t seem to like it. He knew there was plenty of drug trafficking going on in and around Solarville. He also knew that some of the people involved had the influence to cost him his job. He didn’t like the fine line he had to walk; he did what he could without committing professional suicide, kept his town as straight as possible and only looked the other way when he had to. Carver sympathized with him, but at the same time wondered exactly how much Armont did or didn’t know. A man could keep his eyes clenched shut only so long.
“I didn’t figure you were the sort a few murder attempts would keep away,” he told Carver. “I knew you’d be back. You’re the dog-with-a-rag type: won’t let loose because you can’t.” He sounded as if he were that type himself, only circumstances kept him from acting on instinct and sinking his canine teeth into the rag. His flat, cop’s eyes narrowed. For an instant it was apparent that he envied, and admired, Carver. “You’ve got leeway. You’ll always find a way to get the job done.”
“I’ll always try, anyway,” Carver said. “You know how it is.”
Armont nodded. He did know. That was his burden.
“Have you checked on Sam Cahill?” Carver asked.
“His house has been staked out. No Sam Cahill anywhere around here lately, if you ask me.”
And no Willis Eiler, Carver thought. It was possible that the hand Willis and Cahill were playing had folded of its own accord and they’d moved on to new hunting grounds. They were both men who had disappeared with daylight before.
After leaving police headquarters, Carver drove the short distance down the hot and dusty street to The Flame. He parked on South Loop, directly across from the restaurant, and was starting to get out of the car when he noticed there were few other cars parked nearby and there was no sign of life inside the restaurant’s tinted windows.
It was Sunday; he’d forgotten. Apparently The Flame was extinguished for the Sabbath. That meant that to talk to Verna Blaney and try to get an inkling if she knew where Cahill had gone, he’d have to drive out to her cabin.
He got directions easily enough from jug-eared Wilt at the Shell station, then drove to the south end of town and then farther south on a series of narrow, elevated dirt roads that ran through thick swamp, between tall cypress and mangrove trees, their limbs laden with Spanish moss and dangling creeper vines. An otter glared at the car from the side of the road, then disappeared back into the swamp. Carver realized he was inside the red-penciled area on the map he’d found in Willis Eiler’s apartment in Orlando.
Verna Blaney’s place was in disrepair, but it was more than simply a cabin. It was isolated well off the road, at the end of a long gravel driveway. Low and ramshackle, it had a flat-roofed front porch with three wooden steps leading up to it, and curtains pulled closed at all the windows. The grayish clapboard house sported black shutters and a tall brick chimney. There was a screened-in porch built onto the west side, but the screens were rusty and torn, hanging in flaps as if objects had been hurled through them. Behind and to the left of the house was a crude wooden dock, and near it, resting on dry ground, was one of the flat-bottomed airboats some of the Everglades residents used to navigate the swamp.
These boats drew hardly any water, and were often powered by a military-surplus aircraft engine or a converted automobile motor, with a propeller above the stern set to blow backward and power the boat over narrow stretches of flat land as well as shallow swamp water. The large propeller whirled inside a wire cage to prevent anyone from accidentally reaching or walking into its blades. Doing that would be like stumbling into a giant blender.
At full throttle an airboat roared like a plane and gave passengers the sensation that they were flying at high speed an inch off the ground or water. Sometimes they were. Carver remembered that Verna’s father had made his living taking tourists for airboat rides before his death last year. The airboat by the dock was dusty, had thick, leafy moonvine intertwined with the propeller cage, and obviously hadn’t been moved for a long time.
Not far from the house sat a rusty Ford pickup truck that might have been drivable, but didn’t look as if it had been moved for quite a while, either; but Carver remembered seeing it parked near The Flame.
He walked across the bare plot of ground in front of the house. The earth was dry and packed hard, without the slightest vegetation, as if weed and grass killer had been sprayed on it to hold back the swamp. Racketing with the screams of cicadas, the swamp bent green and malevolent around three sides of the low house, which seemed to be hunkered down, threatened and cowering.
“I ain’t never shot nobody before,” Verna Blaney said. “It’d be a new and interesting experience.”
She was standing on the porch with a double-barreled shotgun cradled in her arms, tucked beneath her high and ample breasts, which were straining the seams of a yellow cotton dress.
Carver stopped walking and stood very still about fifty feet from the porch steps. Verna was barefoot and had a puffy, sleepy look about her eyes, as if she’d been taking an early afternoon nap and he’d awakened her. Or maybe she’d still been asleep from the night before. Late to bed, late to rise… was that the real Verna?
“What do you want?” she asked. And she asked it as if Carver didn’t have much time to frame an answer.
“I want to talk.”
“I don’t want to listen. Get out. Fast. Now!”
Carver leaned on his cane, didn’t move as if to leave. “You’re being unreasonable, Verna.”
“I don’t think so. You ain’t the first man to come out here way to hell and gone to see me. And it ain’t because they enjoy the drive, or my company. They don’t have to look at the scar, they figure, or listen much to what I got to say. It’s the body they think is just fine. And a woman like that, with that mark on the side of her face, why she’d be just aching all over for male companionship.”
Carver was getting the idea. Verna Blaney thought she knew men through and through, the single-track, rutting beasts that peopled her dreams. He thought about her living all these years there alone with her father. He wondered about Ned Blaney. What kind of father had he been to give her that impression of men? What had he done to her? Or maybe there was something to what she said, considering some of the male Solarville natives Carver had seen. Might the Malone brothers have been two of Verna’s crude and carnally intent visitors?
“I only want to ask you a few questions about Sam Cahill,” Carver said.
Verna was running a hand down the shotgun’s twin barrels now, curving her fingers around them lightly, almost sensually. Carver couldn’t help it; his eyes flicked downward and up, taking in her ripeness. Something exotic that had grown in the swamp, primitive and dangerous.
She’d expected his involuntary reaction; it seemed to confirm something. She glared icicles at him. “Put a bag over her head,” she spat. “You ever hear that expression, mister? Put a bag over her head and she’d be a good fuck?”
“I’ve heard it,” Carver said.
“So’ve I. Most all my life.” She turned her head defiantly for a moment so Carver had to look at her scar. “Damned propeller from a swamp boat my pa was tinkering with did this, when I was only twelve. They said I was lucky to be alive, still have my head.” She was holding the shotgun at the ready now, aimed at a spot on the ground
