Flame (17 page)

He got out and stood alongside the car, peering westward. The Lincoln must be traveling fast; dust from its passage hung in a low haze over the bright tops of the orange trees. Heat rolled out from under the Olds and over Carver’s feet and ankles. Damned uncomfortable.

He set the tip of his cane, crossed the highway at an angle, and began walking up the dirt road.

Carver stayed to one side and limped along one of the Lincoln’s tire tracks, where the powdery earth was packed flat and firm. There was no sound but the soft drag of his feet and cane in the dust, and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze that played over the orange trees. He figured he could duck into the thick rows of trees if he heard a car coming. Make himself reasonably invisible.

The trees were all about the same size, not large enough to provide shade on the road. Now and then the breeze kicked up, and the insistent rustling of the leaves, all around him, was like urgent whispering. The sun was a hot weight on his shoulders, burdening him and slowing him down.

He’d gone only a few hundred feet when, through the trees, he saw the dust-coated white trunk and chrome rear bumper of the Lincoln.

It was parked in front of a small and decrepit white clapboard farmhouse. Not much more than a cabin, with slanted wood front steps and a wide screened-in porch.

Carver crouched motionless in the cover of the orange trees and watched. There was movement behind the rusty screen. The indecipherable murmur of voices.

Then Ogden, Butcher, and Courtney Romano came out of the house. The screen door was on a spring, and Courtney let it slam behind her. The slap of wood on wood reverberated over the fields like a rifle shot.

Butcher was carrying two small red-and-white TWA flight bags. Courtney had a black garment bag slung over her shoulder. The three of them stepped down off the porch and walked out of sight around to the back of the house. Courtney was walking with a kind of rolling, cautious strut, the way women do in high heels on soft ground. The heels of the two men were kicking up powdery clouds of dust.

Carver moved closer to the house, then off to the side so he could see behind the low clapboard structure.

There was a large rectangular clearing behind the house, green and level. A small, new-looking, single-engine airplane sat at the edge of the clearing. It was a high-winged plane, white with a red propeller. Had red stripes down the sides of the fuselage. Carver thought it was a Cessna but he wasn’t sure. As with boats, types of aircraft had proliferated.

Butcher swung open a door and loaded in the flight bags. Took Courtney’s garment bag and carefully laid it inside. Ogden and Courtney climbed up into the plane. Butcher raised a beefy arm in a casual wave.

There was a grinding sound and the engine coughed and turned over; the red propeller danced and then became a shimmering blur in the sun. Butcher dashed around the plane and yanked chocks from in front of the wheels.

The engine snarled louder and a hurricane of dust rose and drifted toward Carver. Through the haze he saw the plane’s flaps and vertical stabilizer wriggle back and forth in a test of the controls. Then the plane, perfect for short takeoffs and landings, bounced over the field and out of sight behind the house.

A huge form was moving through the dust haze. Butcher. Head down, swinging his arms. Like prehistoric man lost in time. Which maybe he was.

Carver braced with his cane and shuffled back into the trees. Bumped his head on an orange or grapefruit.

But Butcher was in a hurry and didn’t notice him. Climbed into the Lincoln and was pulling away even as the plane’s motor changed pitch and roared in takeoff.

Butcher and the Lincoln were gone, leaving only tire tracks and settling dust. Carver didn’t think Butcher would notice his footprints inside the car’s previous tire tracks, or the Olds concealed on the other side of the highway.

He glanced up through the branches and caught a glimpse of the plane. It was climbing steeply, heading north.

After a few minutes the drone of its engine faded and died. Carver was alone in the heat and silence.

He straightened up and limped toward the house.

The closer he got, the more it struck him that there was an air of desolation about the clapboard structure. Paint was faded and peeling. A section of gutter over the porch sagged wearily. Up close, the front-porch screen appeared even rustier and there were gaping holes in it.

Moving quietly, he made his way to the shade side of the house and peered in through a dusty window.

Nothing.

Not even furniture visible through the dimness. Carver limped around to the front of the house, up the slanted wooden steps, and through the screen door onto the porch. The porch floor wood was rotted. A dusky palmetto bug at least an inch long crawled sluggishly into a shadowy gap near the front wall. At first Carver thought the door to the cabin was open, then he saw that there was no door. It was leaning against the opposite wall and draped with cobwebs. He went inside, his cane making hollow thumps on the plank floor. Wiped his forehead. Stood in muted light and stifling heat and listened to the steady drone of flies. What was drawing them were several crumpled white McDonald’s bags in a corner. An open foam container that held traces of a hamburger. Lettuce, something gooey—maybe cheese. A few curved strands of onion stuck to the Styrofoam. There were footprints in the dust on the floor. Two sets of men’s. One of a woman’s high heels. Against a wall was an old oak table, a couple of wooden chairs. A chair lay on its side like something dead near the table. Sunlight lanced through a hole in the roof and spread a bright puddle of light near the upended chair. Dust motes swam where the sun penetrated.

Obviously the cabin itself was unimportant, and the citrus trees primarily cover for a landing site.

As he limped back outside into brighter air and lesser heat, Carver asked himself what he’d expected to find. Bales of marijuana? Kilos of cocaine? The Southern Christian Businessmen’s League would run a narcotics operation that was too efficient and sophisticated to play so loosely with its product.

He used his tongue to work grit from his teeth and then spat. Moved down the narrow, dusty road toward the highway. Limping in the same tire track he’d used to guide him to the parked Lincoln and the desolate house.

Laboring with his cane, he remembered the hulking, primal form of Butcher loping effortlessly through the haze, and he shivered in the heat.

C
ARVER DROVE TOWARD
O
RLANDO
, stopping once at a roadside restaurant to wash the dust from his throat with iced tea and eat a club sandwich for lunch. The restaurant was called Citrus Charlie’s and featured orange juice drinks with every meal, some of them innovative. Fancied itself a family establishment, according to scrawled lettering on the orange-colored menu. Below “Desserts,” right under “Orange Dip Delite,” was written “Jesus Saves,” as if He were a regular customer and always ordered the special.

There were orange THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING signs all over the place, so after eating, Carver paid his check and limped outside. Glared up at the orange sun, and then stood in the shade of the souvenir shop built onto the side of the rough-cedar building and smoked a Swisher Sweet cigar. Watched the traffic on the highway. Lots of campers and motor homes out today. Northerners dumb enough to come to Florida in the summer.

Even in the shade, the sun got to be too much after about five minutes, so he flicked the cigar butt away and got back in the Olds.

It wasn’t much cooler in there. Carver started the car and got back on the sun-blanched highway. The Olds’s prehistoric engine didn’t mind the heat. Not like a little four-cylinder, flailing away at peak efficiency just to hold the speed limit.

He set the air conditioner on high, and after about twenty minutes he could touch the vinyl upholstery without burning himself.

Today it was marimba music. A syncopated song of lament throbbing like a strong but irregular heartbeat from the portable radio on the sill behind Desoto’s desk. Next to it the yellow ribbons tied to the air conditioner grill whipped from side to side like pennants in a sea breeze. Made the office look cool, anyway.

Desoto sat behind the desk thinking about what Carver had just told him. He had his white shirtsleeves rolled up in concession to the heat, but his ice-blue silk tie remained tightly knotted. He was even wearing a thin gold tie bar to keep the knot at a stylish angle.

When Carver was done talking, Desoto said, “Sometimes they’re like wolves,
amigo.
They just lie back and watch. Nothing happens till you run, then they give chase.”

“You saying I should leave Edwina in Del Moray?”

“Might be the best thing. You gonna tell her she’s been photographed and is being watched?”

“I don’t know yet how to play it,” Carver said, “I’m not sure I
should
tell her.”

“She’ll be pissed off if you don’t.”

“Pissed off if I do. And she might try something stupid, like confronting Butcher.”
Jesus, earlobes!

Desoto leaned back in his chair. Laced his fingers behind his head carefully and lightly, so as not to muss his sleek dark hair. More a pose than a relaxed attitude. As if there might be some photographer sneaking around
here
, snapping shots for a most-eligible-bachelor calendar. He said, “I think you should bring McGregor into this. Let him assign somebody undercover to protect her.”

“I thought of that. Don’t like it but I might do it.”

“As it is, you got no choice but to play along with the Atlanta crowd. You’ll be spying on the DEA while the government knows about it. Spying on the Wesley operation all the time you’re doing that.” He shot Carver his matinee-idol smile. Handsome matador out of place and costume. “What’s that mean, I wonder; you’re a double agent? Triple?”

Carver said, “Means I’m in the middle.”

Desoto brought his arms around in front of him and sat forward. Folded his hands on the desk. The breeze from the air conditioner stirred the dark hair on his right forearm. The marimba band harmonized softly and earnestly in Spanish. “This citrus ranch with the deserted house,” Desoto said, “you think it’s nothing but a drug drop?”

“I don’t know. Seems to me it’s too dangerous to be used as that. More likely a place for small aircraft to land so they can shuttle people in and out of Florida without drawing attention. Speaking of which . . .”

“I checked as soon as you phoned from the restaurant,” Desoto said. “Vincent Butcher took a twelve-thirty commercial flight back to Atlanta. Looks like his job was to fly down early and set up a rental car, so Ogden and Courtney Romano could get here at their convenience and he could pick them up when they landed. Play the chauffeur.”

“These people,” Carver said, “they’ve got clout and balls. They know the DEA’s watching them and still they plan on operating.”

“Not balls,” Desoto said, “it’s the money. So much money they don’t have the balls to turn away from it. So they chance almost anything. Do almost anything to anybody. The profit’s the thing, so fuck the risk. It clouds their thinking,
amigo.
Gives the good guys the advantage in the war on drugs and creates the impression it’s a war that can be won.”

“You don’t think it can be?”

Desoto shook his head sadly. “Ever see the monthly statistics on drugs confiscated? Arrests made? Compare them to estimates of what’s flowing into the country from every place else in the world? Hell, it doesn’t even have to come from outside the country; people grow the shit in their basements under ultraviolet lights,”

“The DEA’s headache,” Carver said. “I don’t look at the stats or read about the drug epidemic. Enough bad news without that. Let the DEA do their thing. I only wish they could do it without me.”

“Yeah. Problem is, you can’t really trust the DEA. Not after the Renway deal.”

“There’s something wrong about all of it,” Carver said. “Jefferson. He doesn’t seem quite level. Not your usual DEA operative.”

“Seems not. Guy sounds like a zealot.”

“He is. And the dangerous kind that’s hard to recognize because he doesn’t foam at the mouth.”

“So he’s a rogue agent. It happens. Who’s gonna stop him?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about Palma?”

“I think he’s afraid of Jefferson.”

“Are you?”

“No. But I probably should be.”

Desoto said, “I can’t think of anybody involved in this who
shouldn’t
scare you. No—hey, wait. Except for your client. Because he’s dead.”

The marimba band swung into “La Cucaracha.” Made Carver wish he were Spanish. Wish he could dance.

He snatched up his cane and got out of there.

M
C
G
REGOR SAID,
“I
DON’T
like it. You tell me the three black hats from Atlanta turn up here in Del Moray, then you drop by my office. Case you haven’t caught on, I’m not supposed to be involved in this investigation of yours.”

“Of ours,” Carver corrected.

McGregor ignored him. Swiveled in his chair to gaze out his office window, stirring the air just enough to send the cloying scent of his cheap cologne Carver’s way. Smelled like furniture wax and stale sweat. He’d been on the Del Moray police force long enough now that his fellow officers knew him and despised him. Knew him and were afraid of him. Not because he possessed greater talent or resolve, but because he’d resort to anything, no matter how unethical, to get what he wanted. What he wanted was advancement. Power. He was getting it. Using what he had to get more. That was McGregor’s life.

He’d connived his way into one of the better offices, though still not the best in the converted home that was Del Moray police headquarters. But it did have a much-coveted window, even if the view was of the pale gravel parking lot. Officers’ private cars. A few angled, dusty patrol cars, one with COPS SUCK boldly scrawled with a fingertip on a dirty front fender.

Carver said, “Stop worrying; I told you, they flew back to Atlanta. They’ve got no way of knowing I came here to see you.” He didn’t like being in McGregor’s office. Liked even less that he’d come here to ask a favor. To McGregor, favors were currency as real as folding money. Debts to be collected with interest.