was armed and ready to return fire; a tiger that had turned around.
Carver backed away from the cottage and into the cover of the low brush. He fought his way up the slope toward the highway, using the cane almost in the way a gondolier powers a boat with a pole along a Venetian canal, setting its tip deep in the soil ahead of him, and pulling then pushing with both arms and his chest muscles as he dug the edge of his good right foot into the loose earth for leverage and propelled his body forward. He was working up a thick sweat, attracting mosquitoes and sand fleas. Something small flitted around one of his nostrils. He ignored it. The soft hushing sound of the surf cautioned him to be as quiet as possible; danger here. The knowing ocean.
As he neared the highway shoulder, he thought he heard a car spin its tires on the baked, dusty ground and drive away. But he wasn’t sure. By now it was probably unnerving to the gunman not to be certain of Carver’s location. If whoever had taken a shot at him hadn’t immediately fled.
Making better time now, getting the knack, he made his way along the road shoulder toward the point where he was reasonably sure the shot had been fired. As he got close, he drew the Colt from his belt and moved silently. On the hunt now. Better than being shot at.
After a moment he paused, forcing himself to breathe evenly.
From where he was crouched he could see the Olds several hundred feet away. In the bright morning light the silver-rimmed bullet hole near the flat left front tire was barely visible. From this distance, the gunman had probably used a rifle. Not with a telescopic sight, or the shot would have been more accurate.
Unless it had been fired by a scared young killer on the run. One used to another murder method. Paul Kave, trying to take out two generations of Carvers.
There was a slight sound, like a long sigh, directly in front of Carver, He aimed the gun in that direction and tried to crouch lower, feeling pain in his hip above the stiff knee. A lump formed in his throat; he swallowed it.
His flesh tingled and he waited.
Waited.
Foliage rattled, and a man with a revolver emerged from the brush and trudged toward the road.
He wasn’t Paul Kave. He was a big man in saggy Levi’s and a yellow T-shirt with an orange setting sun printed on it and stretched tight across his meaty chest and stomach. He was in his late thirties and had a dark beard and perpetually arched eyebrows, and a hooked nose that was much too large for his round face. Carver thought he looked like an Arab terrorist. The man moved as if tired, letting the revolver brush at his thigh as he swung his long arms. It was a bulky, large-caliber gun, maybe a.357 Magnum.
Carver let him take a few more steps toward the highway and then said, “I can pop three holes through you before you can turn around.”
The man stopped and his body stiffened. “Not ‘freeze’?” he said. He sounded scared, but not scared enough. Something didn’t fit here.
Carver leaned on the cane and stood up. His good leg was shaky, the knee rubbery. “Toss the gun away, then turn around and face me or I’ll show you what I meant about those three holes.”
“This thing’s expensive,” the man said. “I don’t wanna get sand in the action, you don’t mind.” He stooped slowly and placed the revolver lovingly on the ground, then straightened up and turned toward Carver in one gradual motion. He was smiling now, so cooperative. “Guy who shot at you got away,” he said. “Drove off a few minutes ago.”
“Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he’s right here lying his ass off.”
“That piece didn’t put the bullet in your car,” the man said, nodding toward the revolver at his feet. “Hasn’t been fired, in fact.” He moved two slow steps to the side. “Pick it up and give it a sniff.”
“Smell your own gun.” But Carver knew the man was probably telling the truth. It would be difficult with a high-powered handgun even to hit the car from this distance.
They stood there in the hot morning for a while, neither man moving. Gulls screeched about some difference of opinion on the beach. A jet plane tracked past out over the ocean, very high.
When the trailing thunder of the plane had faded, along with some of the tension of the moment, the man with the beard sighed loudly through his nose-the sound Carver had first heard-and said, “Mind if I dip something out of my pocket?”
“Depends on what.”
“My identification. I’m a police officer.”
For some reason, Carver wasn’t surprised. “Orlando?”
“Fort Lauderdale,” the man said. “Name’s Gibbons. I’m McGregor’s man.”
“That’s not moving you any further away from getting shot,” Carver said.
The man smiled wider. Such a charmer.
Carver said, “You been following me in a white Ford?”
“Yep. It’s parked down the highway. McGregor wants me to keep a loose tail on you, let him know if you’re doing the job. Looks like you could use a bodyguard, while we’re at it. I scared off somebody when I heard the shot and saw you duck down. I ran hell-for-leather up here, but whoever plinked at you drove away. There’s tire tracks over there, and the dust was still settling when I arrived.”
“I told you, I heard the shot and saw nothing but dust. I don’t even know which way the guy went. I’m pretty sure he used a rifle, though. You can tell from the sound.”
“I was too busy to reason all that out,” Carver said. “Let’s see your shield.”
Gibbons fished in a hip pocket and drew out a wallet-size leather folder with his Fort Lauderdale I.D. He moved a few steps toward Carver and held it far out in front of him. Carver scanned it but didn’t really need to look. Gibbons had flashed the I.D. in the smooth, practiced manner of a longtime cop. McGregor’s man, all right. In on the deal and looking out for his future. His wagon hitched to a dark star that might soon be on the rise. Politics and justice, in bed together like the old lovers they were.
Carver tucked the gun back in his belt beneath his shirt.
“Gonna thank me?” Gibbons asked, grinning.
“No. Maybe you left your rifle in the brush.”
“You’ll look around for it later and won’t find it,” Gibbons said. “Cops don’t shoot at other cops, even at private ones like you, Carver.”
“Usually that’s true, but this is kind of an unorthodox investigation.”
“That’s what McGregor said, but he didn’t give me all the details.”
“Me either, it turns out,” Carver said. Something big, a truck or bus, whined past on the nearby highway. “He and I need to talk about that.”
Gibbons shrugged. “Want a ride back to your place?”
“I’ll walk.”
“Thought you might. Mind if I leave now, or are you planning to Mirandize me?”
Carver raised the Colt level. “You have the right to get the hell out of here,” he said.
Gibbons did, without looking back.
Carver decided not to search for the rifle that wouldn’t be there. He’d done enough scrambling around in the rough.
He slapped at and missed a mosquito about to sting his left arm, then he stood still until he heard Gibbons’s car start and drive off. The sound of the white Ford’s engine wavered and died as it headed south toward Fort Lauderdale.
Then the only sounds were the gulls screaming, and the drag of Carver’s footsteps and cane as he made his way down to the cottage.
After draining a cold Budweiser, he called McGregor.
“I been expecting to hear from you,” McGregor said. “I just got done talking on the phone with Gibbons.”
“There’s a man I don’t want to see again,” Carver said.
“Shouldn’t talk that way about him. He’s a nice fella, though he does give the impression he’s on his way someplace to hijack an airliner. All he’s really doing is the job I sent him on.”
“I want you to give him another job instead of having him shadow me. Gotta be some traffic somewhere needs directing. Aren’t I always hearing how you guys are short of manpower?”
