Scorcher

“Whazza time?” he asked.

“Seven-thirty.”

“How come it’s so dark out?”

“Still storming. The rough weather turned around and drifted back to shore. There are tornado alerts all over central Florida. People in mobile homes have been advised to put on their lead shoes.”

Carver sat up. He heard a drumroll of thunder that suggested trumpets might follow. Close. Lightning illuminated the living room like a dozen flashbulbs going off. More thunder, much louder this time. Something glass sang on a hard surface.

“I’m afraid of tornadoes,” Edwina said, but there was no fear in her voice. “They pick up people and put them down somewhere else. And I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

“Then we better get under those heavy beams in the bedroom ceiling,” Carver said.

The beams in the bedroom were probably no heavier than in the rest of the house, but Edwina nodded agreement to his suggestion.

They both stood up and she took his hand and walked ahead of him, going slowly as he supported himself with the cane. He was still a little woozy from sleep. The air seemed heavy and charged with static electricity. He could hear the rhythmic swishing of Edwina’s nyloned thighs brushing together beneath her dress, and her damp hair smelled fresh from the rain.

He loved storms.

They both loved storms.

Thunder shook the house.

Neither of them noticed when the rain stopped.

At eleven o’clock Carver left Edwina sleeping and drove up the coast to his cottage. It would be wise to be there if anyone was looking for him, for any reason. And wise not to be with Edwina.

He entered the cottage cautiously. Within a few seconds he assured himself that he was alone; there weren’t many places to hide. He locked the doors and windows, switched the air-conditioner on low so he might hear any unusual sound, and slept with his cane and Colt automatic within easy reach.

He thought he’d sleep fitfully, but instead he was unaware of dreams or time until he opened his eyes to daylight.

And noise.

Loud noise.

The phone was jangling.

Carver sat up on the mattress, fumbled for his cane, then managed to stand and limp toward the phone. He didn’t know how long it had been ringing before he’d awakened, but he’d counted five rings; whoever was calling was patient. Sunlight was angling in low from just above the horizon. No wonder. Carver’s watch read ten minutes after six. He ran his dry tongue over his teeth so he’d be able to speak; they seemed huge and coated with Velcro.

“Amigo,” Desoto said, when Carver had picked up the phone and mumbled a hello. “Edwina’s okay.”

Carver was still half asleep, and caught off guard by the cold thrust of alarm in the pit of his stomach. “Okay? Why shouldn’t she be?”

“There was a fire at her house last night. I got it on the telex from Del Moray.”

Carver’s mind jumped all the way to a hundred and ten percent wakefulness, thoughts a wild jumble. A fire! Where he’d left her so she’d be safely out of his presence! If there was going to be an attempt at murder by arson, it should have been here, at the cottage. He told himself to slow down, not to speculate. Coincidences did happen, even in the lives of cynics and the people they loved. “Is she hurt at all?”

“No. I phoned there and was told a smoke alarm woke her up and she crawled out of the house completely unharmed. Damned fine little gadgets to have around, eh? Like watchdogs that don’t eat.”

“Where is she now?”

“Her place. Hey, I told you, she’s all right. The emergency’s over, my friend.”

Over for now, Carver thought. Fire had been introduced into his life like hell on earth, maiming him in body and then mind. First fire from the barrel of a sadistic holdup man’s gun, then from the mind of a maniac. As if he’d done something to piss off a supreme being that liked to play with matches.

“I’m driving to Del Moray,” Carver said.

“Thought you’d want to, amigo. That’s why I called.”

“Was the fire an accident?”

“Could be. Lots of lightning in that area last night. But it’s too early to tell. Thinking about Paul Kave?”

“I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“And maybe now, amigo, he can’t stop thinking about you.”

The eastern horizon was still smeared with orange-tinted pink, like an art student’s garish first attempt at a sunrise, when Carver reached the highway and pointed the long hood of the Olds toward Del Moray.

Last night’s storm had left the air clear and sweet-scented, and he had the top lowered. Large flying insects smacked off the windshield to abrupt oblivion. A sea gull soared gracefully along parallel to the car for a while, as if blatantly observing Carver, then veered sharply to the south, maybe on its way to report to McGregor.

Carver felt as if he were in deep water that was beginning to swirl and draw him toward the black vortex of a whirlpool. He cursed and goosed the Olds another five miles per hour faster.

If he drowned-or burned-he wanted to do it alone. Not with Edwina.

As if death came with options.

Chapter 23

As Carver braked the Olds to turn into the driveway of Edwina’s home, a yellow-orange fire engine gave a shattering blast of its air horn, flashed more different-colored lights than Carver could remember seeing even at Christmas, and bounced from the drive onto the highway. The jackhammer roar of its powerful diesel engine reverberated as it disappeared into the bright morning like a chimera.

Carver expected to see more fire-fighting equipment when he topped the crest of the driveway, but there were only Edwina’s red Mercedes, parked well away from the garage, and a yellow Plymouth with a cherry light on its roof and the seal of the Del Moray Fire Department on its door. The garage itself was blackened, and half the roof had either collapsed or been axed in by the fire fighters. He noticed that the front end of the Mercedes was also blackened, and both front tires were flat and melted like modernistic soft sculpture.

Edwina and a short, dark-haired man in a bright white shirt weren’t looking at the car, though; they were staring up at the house as if assessing damage. The white shirt looked incredibly clean and pure, contrasted with the charred areas from the fire. When they heard Carver’s car parking near the yellow Plymouth, they turned and looked in his direction. Edwina seemed relieved to see him and leaned slightly toward him. White Shirt stood his ground and gave Carver the flat, disinterested but appraising stare of officialdom everywhere. Carver saw now that there were epaulets on the man’s pristine shirt, and a gold insignia sewn above the left breast pocket. He wondered if firemen saluted.

Carver hugged Edwina and listened to her assurances that she was all right. She seemed calm and unafraid. He sensed a vibrant anger in her, held in check beneath her surface but seething.

White Shirt stood patiently waiting for the scene to run down, glancing only once at Carver’s cane. Edwina stepped away from Carver; her eyes were puffy, as if still irritated by smoke. She said, “This is Chief Belmont of the Del Moray Fire Department. Chief, Fred Carver.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Carver,” Belmont said, not moving to shake hands. He spoke in a slow Georgia drawl that probably led people to underestimate him. He was in his fifties, starting to go to fat, and had pale, doughy features, what was either a burn scar or a birthmark high on his forehead, and murky green eyes the color of martini olives. His black, probably dyed hair, was swept back but mussed, as if combs were for pansies and he’d raked his head with his fingers. He looked as if he needed sleep. “Miss Talbot here tells me you mighta been the target of this.”