Flame (27 page)

The deck’s vibration running up his legs, into the core and blood of him, Carver drew the Colt from his waistband. His heart was racing and he felt the odd exhilaration that told him he was ready. More than ready—eager.

He limped to the low door he’d seen Farneaux disappear through. Opened it. Saw a narrow set of polished wood stairs. Lifted the cane and used the strength of his arms on the railing to steady himself as he dropped through the companionway and below deck.

Landed on soft carpet and quickly found his balance with the cane.

Silence hit like a bomb. In the surprisingly spacious, plush area below deck, they all turned and stared at him. At the gun.

Walter Ogden was there, seated with his legs crossed on a red velvetlike bench that curved along the side of the hull. Four men in shirtsleeves, one of them Frank Wesley, were sitting at a round poker table, not playing cards but eating. Not caviar and champagne but steak and red wine. Except for Wesley, who had a glass of what looked like bourbon in front of him. A small black man who was actually wearing a tall white chef’s cap was standing over the table, delicately holding a bottle of wine in both hands. His eyes riveted on the gun, he slowly sat down next to Ogden on the bench, cradling the wine bottle as if it were an infant he needed to protect.

Carver couldn’t hear the generator down here, but it or power off the engines was doing good work, keeping the boat very cool. The smell of the sea didn’t penetrate from outside. The carpet was thick and red, the color of the curved bench, and there were matching little red curtains framing the portholes, which were covered by white sheer curtains. On the paneled walls were fox-hunting prints, like those on Willoughby’s walls down in Hillsboro Beach.

All four men at the table started to stand, as if they’d all reached the same conclusion with the same mind. Or maybe there’d been some sort of signal.

Carver waved the gun in a tight circle. Said, “Stay sitting, gentlemen.”

They lowered themselves back into their canvas sling chairs, again in unison. Ogden, on the low red bench, hadn’t moved.

Carver had what he thought was a bulkhead behind him, so he wasn’t worried about his back. “Where are the others?”

Ogden said, “Farneaux’s in the head.” Still without moving.

A door opened and Farneaux, now with his suitcoat off, ducked his head and stepped in from what looked like a narrow teak-paneled hall with a bathroom off to the side. He had a puffy face and a yellowish complexion that suggested he was ill. When he saw Carver and the gun he looked even sicker. His eyes rolled. His slash of a mouth opened to trail a thread of saliva and then arced down in fear and disgust.

Carver said, “Where’s Butcher and Courtney?”

Ogden seemed to be the only one with enough presence of mind to speak. “Resting.”

“Get them in here.”

Ogden didn’t have to get up. He reached above his head and pressed a button mounted on the smooth white ceiling.

Within less than a minute, Courtney stepped through the same door Farneaux had come through. Her thick black hair was mussed and she had on red shorts and a khaki blouse. Red high heels. Looked like a hooker. Part of her act, Carver figured. She blinked as if she were tired. She appeared surprised for a moment, then her face went blank. Carver could imagine her brain spinning behind those calm dark Latin eyes.

Butcher followed her, ducking almost to a squat to get through from the low passageway. He was wearing white shorts and was barefoot. Didn’t have a shirt on. He was fat, but below the layer of blubber muscles rippled like separate live things trapped in cellulite. Might have been a sumo wrestler. He was wearing the obscene rawhide necklace of cured earlobes around his fat, perspiring neck. One of the lumps of flesh was a lighter color than the others. There didn’t seem to be a hair on his body, not even on his tree-trunk-thick, slightly bowed legs.

He gave his piglike little grin and said, “Well, looka what we got here.” He’d been holding his right hand behind him. Moved it around now to show he was gripping a knife with a long, thin blade. “I got me a new charm on my necklace, Carver. But you know about that, don’t you? How’s the ear feel today?”

“Feels like it’s time for you to shut up.”

Wesley stood up and faced Carver. “To what do we owe the dramatics, Mr. Carver?”

Carver said, “Sit back down.” He didn’t like Butcher and Wesley both standing. Not to mention Courtney, who didn’t yet know the game. His eyes shifted to the grotesque necklace.
A new charm.

Wesley didn’t move. Instead he said with something like impatience, “We all know it’s not in you to squeeze that trigger. It takes a certain type of man to kill face-to-face. You’re not that type. Butcher is. So let’s waste no more time pretending.”

“I have the gun,” Carver reminded him.

“Means nothing.”

“Guns always mean something.”

“Not in this case. Because you’re the product of your morality. Of too many books, TV shows, and movies that taught you how to behave. Made you what you are. You’re a hard man, but you have compunctions, Mr. Carver, and they’ll freeze your finger on the trigger.”

“Can you be sure?”

“I certainly can,” Wesley said in a condescending voice. “Because I know about people. How they think. What they become. How they can’t help what they are and, under extreme stress, can’t be anything different. Being sure, and acting on it, is how I’ve reached the pinnacle. Why I don’t fall off.”

“You might make a mistake.”

“Haven’t made one yet. Sheep never attack wolves; it isn’t in nature’s plan. No mistake here, Mr. Carver, except for yours.”

Ogden stood up now. He’d been listening. Wesley had convinced him. He nodded to Butcher.

Butcher put on his dreamy grin and moved toward Carver. The boat rocked gently, as if influenced by his weight.

Wesley said, “You made the mistake by coming on board, Mr. Carver. But we can talk about it. Sit here at the table and sip fine wine and make our respective positions clear. Be men of reason. Agreed?”

Carver squeezed the trigger. Butcher’s head jerked and blood sprayed. He remained standing but the top of his skull was gone. Red and gray matter patterned the teak wall behind him. There was a stupid, incredulous look on his face, as if he’d just been told a joke he didn’t understand. No top to his head, he had to be dead, but he wouldn’t fall. Hadn’t even dropped the knife.

Carver shot him again, this time in the chest, and he dropped in the lifeless, limb-splayed heap of the dead.

Wesley sat back down.

So did Ogden. Farneaux was slumped in a corner, vomiting, stinking up the place. He’d been standing close to Butcher and his white shirt was spattered with blood and brain matter. The cook was shaking violently on the bench, his chefs cap cocked at a crazy angle on his head. He’d dropped the wine bottle but it hadn’t broken on the soft carpet. Wine was gurgling from it. Everyone at the table looked sick; no one could take his eyes off Butcher.

They hadn’t seen killing firsthand, none of them. They’d caused plenty of deaths since the King assassination, but their victims had been rival middlemen and burned-out addicts. Poor, trapped kids and desperate dealers they’d never met. This was different. This was someone they knew, even if they didn’t like him. This was blood and bone and gristle. Violence right here with them and about them, where they could see it and smell it and couldn’t deny or escape it.

Courtney was trembling like the cook, but her expression was still impassive.

Ogden was the only truly calm one. He said, “What the fuck you want out of this, Carver?”

Carver said, “Edwina Talbot. Get her.”

Ogden didn’t answer at first. Then he laughed. Wesley glared over at him as if he’d done something obscene.

Ogden said, “She’s not on board. Never was.”

Carver swung the Colt toward him. “I don’t mind squeezing the trigger again.”

One of the men at the table said, “Jesus, no! Don’t!”

Ogden seemed unconcerned. “We don’t have her. Didn’t take her. If somebody told you we did, they were lying.”

Carver looked at Courtney. Courtney, no longer trembling, said, “He’s telling the truth. She’s not on board.”

Wesley was regaining his composure, though his face still had a greenish tint. He swiveled in his chair to face Carver and said, “Search the boat if you’d like. It’s not that large.”

Carver told him to stand up.

Ogden said in an amused voice, “Minute ago you wanted him to sit down.”

Carver gripped Wesley’s soft arm and jammed the Colt’s barrel hard into his temple. Wesley made an involuntary whimpering sound and backed with Carver into the narrow passageway, leaving the door open.

Quickly Carver checked the two staterooms and the bath. They were empty. Wesley was right; the boat wasn’t that large, there weren’t many places to look. And if Edwina were on board, Courtney probably would have said so. Somebody would have admitted it. Shooting Butcher had made the desired impression.

Carver shoved Wesley back out into the main room. Told him to sit down again. Wesley obeyed.

But the action seemed somehow to have cleared Wesley’s mind. It was clear that Carver had miscalculated; Wesley saw that as a weakness to be exploited. He said, “You believe us now? That your lady friend isn’t on board?”

Carver said nothing. Trying to figure it. Why he’d been lied to and what was the angle.

“Which means,” Wesley said, “that we’re guilty of nothing. On the other hand, you’ve forced your way on board and killed a man.”

Carver said, “I doubt you’ll radio the Coast Guard.”

“Point is,” Wesley said, “your heroic rescue turns out to be a farce. Where’s that leave you?”

Carver knew where it would have to leave him. He’d known it from the moment he’d heard the powerful twin diesels as the boat nosed out to sea.

He said, “There a lifeboat on this thing?”

Wesley laughed, feeling the balance of power shift. “Only an inflatable raft, I’m afraid. Not a very romantic way for you to make your exit.” The rest of the men at the table were gaining confidence along with Wesley. One of that prosperous group actually smiled. Nobody was looking at Butcher’s body now.

Carver said, “Call your man on the bridge. Tell him to set the boat on course and to get down here.”

Ogden shrugged and stood up. Leaned over an intercom and said, “Harry, set her on course and come below.”

In a minute or so a pair of jeans-clad legs were descending the companionway. Rubber-soled deck shoes touched carpet.

Harry was only in his twenties, but he was solidly built and tough-looking, like the man Carver had taken out at the dock. He looked around and sized up what was happening. When he saw Butcher his face got hard. His eyes got older. He’d been around enough, this one.

Carver said to Courtney, “You know where the raft’s stowed?”

She nodded. Still trying to understand what was happening. She knew it had to be Jefferson or Palma who’d told Carver Edwina was on board. Obviously didn’t know why.

Carver instructed her to sit on the bench where Ogden had been. Then he motioned with the gun for everyone else to go through the door into the hall leading to the head and cabins.

Wesley said gloatingly, “So you yourself are going to take a hostage. You’re getting in deeper, Carver.”

Carver said nothing. He made Wesley lead the way so the rest would follow. Which they did, wordlessly.

When they were all on the other side of the door he closed it and jammed the table up against it. Wedged two chairs between the table and the opposite wall. They’d be able to force the door open eventually. But when they did they couldn’t be sure Carver wasn’t still out there with the gun.

He looked at Courtney and said, “They know about you.” Which wasn’t true but would gain her cooperation. Carver didn’t want to take the time to explain about the explosives Jefferson had sent on board with her.

She stared back at him, then nodded. Had no choice but to believe him.

Carver said, “Let’s get off this thing.”

She stood and led him up the companionway and onto the deck. Though there was a breeze, the air was warm and thick. The motion of the boat seemed more violent up here, the night sea angrier. Whitecaps shimmered in the vast darkness.

Courtney opened a square hatch and dragged out a folded rubber raft, some collapsible oars.

She’d calculated this before. Within a few seconds she’d yanked on a cord and a CO
₂
cartridge inflated the raft. It was good size, about ten by six, probably built to accommodate four to six people.

The
Bold Entrepreneur
was making only ten or fifteen knots. Carver and Courtney slid the surprisingly heavy raft overboard. Courtney immediately dropped down into the waves less than six feet from it and scrambled into the raft. Carver jumped into the water after her, making sure not to loosen his grasp on his cane. Sank for what seemed forever and then came up about twenty feet from the raft. He roller-coastered on a wave, stroked toward the raft, and found that the ocean was moving it away from him.

Courtney stared at him, as if making up her mind. Then she shifted position and raised one end of the raft to change its angle into the waves. Somehow steadied it in place.

After a struggle, Carver got close to it. Hooked it with the cane and dragged himself aboard, sprawling on his chest and stomach. Coughed up sea water. Courtney helped him get turned around. He was surprised by her strength.

Slumped on the undulating rubber bottom, he felt his waistband and discovered he’d lost one of the guns. Jefferson’s pistol.

For a few moments he and Courtney sat watching the receding lights of the
Bold Entrepreneur.

Then Courtney said, “They’ll be out of where you put them pretty soon.”

“We’re not far from shore,” Carver told her. “They won’t find us in the dark.”

She said, “Don’t be so sure,” and with a strong and skillful wrist motion extended the telescoped oars.

The wind seemed brisker now, and the sound of the unseen ocean was an endless and imponderable murmur of surrounding power. Now and then a wave would slap the raft hard, sloshing water on board and sending the oblong rubber craft spinning.