“Okay, Fred.”
He could think of nothing to say. He had nothing for this woman he’d lived with and eaten with and slept with and held in the night.
Nothing to say to her.
There was a silence that lasted light-years before she said softly, “ ’Bye.”
He told her good-bye and hung up.
The swamp was in the room now, in his head. Screaming and thrumming and sucking and croaking.
Primal and deadly.
Alive and frightening.
He closed his fingers around his cane propped against the nightstand. Slowly raised it and touched its tip to the wall, as if to reassure himself there was a barrier between him and what was wild and incomprehensible in the outside world.
A full minute passed before he broke contact with the solid wall and lowered the cane.
He leaned back on the bed and gazed up at the ceiling, where Beth had been staring, and he trembled with a chill.
Lakes turning.
25
Carver sat up in the bed when he heard the crunch of tires on gravel stop right outside the door. He felt his bare back stick to the headboard above his wadded pillow. Reaching his cane, he stood up and hobbled to the window. He peered out through the crack between the drawn drapes, narrowing his eyes against the morning glare.
A dusty white Ford with red and blue roof-bar lights was parked next to the Olds. It had a thick, bent antenna jutting from a rear fender. A blue and gold shield on the door, with what looked like a decal of an alligator above it, said DARK GLADES POLICE. Above the alligator, black letters spelled out CHIEF. A man with a Smokey hat sat behind the steering wheel. His face was in shadow, but he was obviously staring out the windshield at Carver.
Carver didn’t pull away from the window. He watched as a tall, well-built man in a blue uniform climbed out of the car and nonchalantly slammed the door. A holstered revolver, a nightstick, and handcuffs dangled from his thick black belt, along with a square, black walkie-talkie. All that paraphernalia made him walk with a lazy swagger, arms floating out to the side to keep them from bumping equipment. He was young and had a handsome, angular face. A friendly face. He smiled at Carver as he passed from sight. His knock on the door was soft but insistent. The foreplay of the law.
Carver limped to the door and opened it.
The man was still smiling amiably. He looked more like a college football hero than a backwater town police chief. A broad-shouldered wide receiver who could run and block and would be hard to bring down.
“I’m Chief of Police Ellis Morgan,” the man said.
Carver nodded. “Fred Carver.”
“I know.” Morgan made a face and glanced in the direction of the fierce morning sun angling fire in over the treetops. “Can I come in where it’s cool, Mr. Carver?”
“Sure, sorry.” Carver stepped back and to the side. Morgan eased past him, glancing at the cane, no surprise or pity in his eyes. He removed his Smokey hat and let spring a shock of thick black hair. Hatless he looked even younger, no more than twenty-five.
“Feels good in here,” he said, dabbing at his forehead with a blue shirt sleeve. His friendly blue eyes did a turn around the room and didn’t flicker when they took in the bed, which had obviously been slept in by two. He said, “Came by to talk about the trouble happened in Whiffy’s yesterday evening.”
“It’s over, I hope,” Carver said.
Morgan let out breath in a way that made little popping sounds between his pursed lips. “Nope, not likely. The Brainards aren’t the type to let something like what happened go by. I mean, your lady friend, black woman at that, was whipping ass on big Junior when Whiffy broke it up. Old Farnham was watching from where he sat at the counter, said lucky for the Brainards Whiffy came in when he did, or they’d have been royally stomped.” He grinned. “That the way it went?”
“That’s how it might have gone,” Carver said.
“The lady said her husband taught her to fight tough like that. Martial-arts stuff. And you’re not her husband?”
“I’m a friend.”
The blue eyes darted to the bed and back. “Now and then we get tourists stay here, Mr. Carver. For the fishing or to take airboat rides or some such. But I tell you, you don’t strike me as the fisherman type.”
“How about airboats?”
“Around here, Mr. Carver, airboats are mostly used to poach ’gator or smuggle drugs. You don’t want me to think you might be
Carver said, “I’m glad I’m not wearing my alligator shoes.”
Morgan leaned back with his buttocks against the edge of the dresser and crossed his arms, still with his amiable country smile. Maybe he slept wearing that expression. “I gotta be impressed, a guy puts up here at the motel, drops by Whiffy’s for supper with his lady, then the two of them are well on their way to whaling bejesus outa the town’s leading muscle. Go ahead and eat their supper after the commotion dies down. I mean, ordinary folks just don’t behave such a way.”
Carver said, “Sure came as a surprise to B.J. and Junior.”
“Lots in life surprises them boys.” Morgan idly twirled his hat in both hands by its stiff brim. “Mr. Carver, you’re some rough man, even though you walk with a cane.”
“Cane can be a potent weapon.”
“ ’Pears that’s true. And you look in fine physical shape other than the bum leg. How’d you pick it up, car accident?”
“I was hit by something,” Carver said. He saw that the chief wanted to find out more but had decided not to ask.
Morgan said instead, “What kinda work you in?”
Carver figured it was wise not to underestimate the man, young and backwater or not. “I’m a private investigator from up north.”
“North?”
“Central Florida.”
“On a case?”
“Not exactly. Just here with my friend. She’s a Florida State student and she’s received some threats from the people where she lives. Because I stay there overnight sometimes. It’s a condo where the neighbors are mostly from Southern states and don’t think highly of interracial love.”
“Love, is it?”
“Maybe. You’re getting awful personal, Chief.”
“Well, I don’t give a damn what you two are to each other. None of my business. I’m trying to save you and the lady some trouble, Mr. Carver. You see, compared to here in Dark Glades, the neighbors at the condo up north might seem like the NAACP.”
“Whiffy led me to believe that.”
“He’s right. Whiffy’s a good man to listen to. Lived a lotta his life out away from here. Played baseball in the minor leagues, then did a brief stint with the Atlanta Braves. Poor guy couldn’t hit the high hard one.”
“He told me,” Carver said. “He was a catcher.”
“Yeah, tell that looking at his hands.” Morgan stood up straight and his expression changed. He was smiling more warmly. “Morning, ma’am.”
Standing in the doorway to her room, Beth smiled and returned his good morning. She was wearing her jeans and a khaki shirt that had oversized pockets with flaps over her breasts. Her hair was still glistening with water
