Burn

a serpent’s between his yellow teeth.

Then he was gone and the door closed.

“That man is some ugly piece of work!” Beth said.

“He’d be complimented if he heard you say so,” Carver said. “I told you, he feeds on other people’s rage. It’s his way of establishing human contact.”

Beth was incredulous. “You telling me I should feel sorry for him because he’s lonely?”

“No, no,” Carver said. “Once people get to know him better they really hate him. Nobody feels sorry for him.”

“He should be shot,” Beth said. “He definitely should be shot.”

Carver said, “Hand me that ice pack.”

20

Using the spare cane Beth had brought from the office, Carver had left the hospital at nine that morning. Dr. Woosman had been busy in surgery, so there hadn’t been much of an argument.

But within fifteen minutes after they’d reached the cottage and Carver was lying on the sofa with the drapes closed, he heard Beth call Dr. Woosman and discuss the situation with her. He couldn’t understand any of her words, only her mood and speech rhythms. Beth spoke for ten minutes in that intimate, conspiratorial tone that women could achieve within a short time after meeting one another, and that men achieved only after years of tentative trust-unless they were used-car salesmen.

When she was off the phone, Carver called Desoto and told him about the attack in his office.

“So you’re all right?” Desoto asked when Carver was finished. Concern was evident in his voice.

“I will be soon enough.”

“I don’t think you can expect much help from McGregor,” Desoto said.

“That’s why I called you. The giant who did a job on me is a bad memory for anyone who’s seen him.” Carver shifted position slightly and the elastic support around his ribs reminded him it was there. “Have any idea who he might be?”

“No, amigo, but I’ll see if I can find out. Crime in Florida these days has a high turnover rate. High mortality rate, too. They come and go. Sometimes I wish they wore numbers outside of prison. You said the big man told you to stop asking questions about Marla Cloy?”

“Not exactly. That’s part of the problem. I’ve done some snooping around about Joel Brant, too. I don’t know if the big man was warning me about Marla or about Joel.”

“You might consider not asking any more questions about either of them. No,” Desoto corrected himself quickly, as if he’d given it second thought and changed his mind, “that won’t happen. You’re probably even more obsessive now. If they had twins, you’d start asking about them, too.”

“I feel more concussive than obsessive,” Carver said.

“All the more reason you should lie low and rest.”

“Will you let me know as soon as you find out anything on my oversized friend?”

“Of course. Is Beth watching over you now?”

“Afraid so. Like a nurse from the CIA.”

“Good. You need somebody. Do as she says, amigo. Take your medicine like a big boy and try not to make an ugly face.”

Even as he spoke, Beth walked in from the kitchen area with a glass of water and the vial of pills Dr. Woosman had prescribed and no doubt reminded her about over the phone.

“I don’t have much choice,” Carver said, and hung up.

“If the subject of your conversation’s what I think it is,” Beth said, “you’ve got no choice at all.”

She watched while he swallowed the pill and downed the entire glass of water, then she switched on a lamp and leaned over him. “Now, let’s take a look at those eyes, see if the pupils are the same size or if one’s round and one’s square.”

He looked directly at her without blinking and thought about crossing his eyes to alarm her, then decided he’d better not if he didn’t want more medical input from Dr. Woosman.

At one o’clock, after Carver had felt well enough to sit up and managed to eat a light lunch, the phone rang.

Beth snatched up the extension before he had time to answer.

“Somebody named Spotto,” she called from where she was working with her computer at the breakfast counter. “He wants to see you.”

Before she could protest, Carver lifted the receiver of the phone by the sofa and gave Charley Spotto directions to the cottage.

Spotto had called from near Carver’s office and reached the cottage before two o’clock. He was a small, wiry man who, every time Carver had seen him, wore a natty blue pinstripe suit, white shirt, and shamelessly polyester red tie, like a cut-rate politician without the influence to rate much graft. He had thinning black hair combed straight back, a narrow face, and an incredibly crooked nose that gave the impression he was peeking from the corner of his eye. He also had a permanent case of nerves; this or that part of him was always twitching as if hooked up to electricity.

Carver stood and introduced him to Beth, who made polite noises then ostensibly busied herself in another part of the cottage, though she stayed within earshot. Spotto gave Carver a slanted look, as if to ask if it was okay to talk in front of Beth, and Carver nodded.

He offered Spotto a beer but the offer was declined. Aware of Beth’s baleful gaze, Carver sat down very carefully in the chair by the sofa. Spotto remained standing and went into an unconscious little shuffle, like a dance step that kept him in one place.

“I’ve been busy,” Spotto said.

Carver couldn’t imagine him not busy.

Spotto began making weaving motions in the air with his hands. He laid out some preliminary information on Brant, most of which Carver already knew. Then he got down to what Carver was more interested in, his impression of Brant. “Your guy Joel Brant seems to be pretty much the way he represented himself to you. He’s a successful home builder in central Florida, here in Del Moray and a few years ago in Winter Park.

“His reputation with employees and acquaintances seems solid. His social life’s not much. He goes out to lunch or dinner with business people now and then, sits in on poker games with a group of old friends at least once a week. Plays a little golf. Seems like a straight arrow workaholic. No history of violence except a fight one time over a poker game, and apparently he got the worst of it.”

“Any stories on him concerning women?” Carver asked.

Spotto did some more air-weaving with his nervous fingers. “Guy’s a widower, all right. His wife, Portia, was killed just over six months ago on AlA when a drunk driver hit their car head on. She died instantly. Brant’s still grieving, according to a few people I talked with. Couple of folks said he blames himself for the accident. Didn’t say why. Maybe the Brants had an argument before they got in the car, and he figures he provoked it and it might have caused the accident. Maybe he blames himself for drinking enough to affect his driving so he couldn’t swerve the car out of the way, then only suffering minor injuries and not dying along with his wife. Maybe he blames himself, period, for whatever might in any way have been his fault. Grief works like that, leaves some people with a load of guilt no matter what.”

“Wait a minute. You mean Joel Brant was driving?”

“Right. Portia was the passenger. The guy driving the car that hit them was blind drunk.”

“Was he killed too?”

“Only injured. The cars hit off-center, passenger side to passenger side. There were no passengers in the drunk’s car.”

“If Brant was driving, I can understand why he might be suffering guilt pangs.”

“Sure,” Spotto said. “He does have a fairly steady female friend. A real estate agent named Gloria Bream. But I couldn’t tell you whether it’s romance or business.”