Carver said, “Times like this, I feel exactly the same way, so don’t stand there wasting my time with bullshit.”
Junior and B.J. exchanged glances. Junior said, “Thinks he’s a tough asshole ’steada just an asshole.”
B.J. said, “Well, dead’s dead. He wants his tombstone to say he was tough, that’s okay.”
Junior spread his feet wide and angled his body, in position to raise the shotgun to his shoulder. “You ready, B.J.?”
Carver figured they were bluffing, but he couldn’t deny the terror that spread through him. He centered his weight between his good leg and his cane. Tightened his finger on the Colt’s trigger.
Behind him, Beth’s voice said, “We’re sure as fuck ready.”
Junior’s little pig eyes actually widened. His body tensed and he drifted around to face Carver square. B.J. looked confused, letting his revolver dangle loose at his side.
Beth moved up to stand beside Carver. She was holding an Uzi submachine gun in a way that left no doubt she knew how to use it. The resolve in her eyes left no doubt that she would.
Junior and B.J. unconsciously backed away a few steps. They knew there was enough firepower in Beth’s hands to kill them ten times over within seconds.
Carver smiled.
B.J. stared at him and said, “What the fuck is she, some kinda African female mercenary?
Junior, looking enraged now and showing some guts, said, “That what you are, nigger?”
“Not a mercenary,” Beth told him, “just a psychotic killer.” She raised the Uzi.
The Brainard brothers’ mouths fell open. They couldn’t know if she was serious. Couldn’t know her finger wouldn’t twitch on the trigger even if she wasn’t serious. As B.J. had pointed out, dead was dead.
Neither brother turned around. Still facing Carver and Beth, they backed slowly toward the Blazer. Every few steps, Junior whipped his head around on his thick neck to make sure they were moving in a straight line, shortest distance between two points. Then his glittering pinpoint eyes fixed again on Beth.
When they reached the Blazer, Junior yanked open the door and scrambled inside, anxious to get metal between himself and submachine gun bullets. Never averting his intense and angry stare, B.J, raised himself up behind the steering wheel slowly, wary and controlled.
The Blazer’s starter ground and the engine kicked over. The truck lurched as B.J. shoved it into gear.
B.J. and Junior were still watching Beth as the Blazer rolled on its wide, knobbed tires toward the driveway. When the hood was aimed at the road, Junior stuck his head out the window and yelled, “We’ll be back, bitch!”
The Blazer’s engine howled and its tires threw gravel and blue-black smoke as it tore out of the lot and the line of fire.
Beth waved the Uzi and snarled, “Yellow shit bastards!”
Carver said, “Calm down.” Trying to calm down himself. His stomach was tight, and the taste of metal lay thick on the edges of his tongue. Death had been close.
“He needs to learn not to call people ‘nigger,’ ” Beth said.
Carver looked down at the Uzi. “You’ve got what it takes to teach him.”
She exhaled loudly in that way of hers, puffing out her cheeks. “Roberto’s got these things laying around like ashtrays. Thought I might as well bring one with me when I left.”
Carver said, “It loaded?”
“Damn right, it’s loaded. And I was within a half-inch of using it.”
Terrific, Carver thought. “You sure you’re not some kinda African mercenary?”
She smiled.
He said, “Let’s go inside outa this heat. I need to make a phone call.”
Desoto was at his desk. When the lieutenant picked up his phone in Orlando, Carver could hear Latin music in the background. A merengue, heavy on the guitars. After Carver identified himself, the music faded.
“You okay, amigo?”
Carver said he was.
“And the Gomez woman?”
“Okay too.”
“Hmm.”
“Anything I oughta know on that end?” Carver asked.
Desoto said, “I got word our friend McGregor’s trying very hard to find you.”
“He would be.”
“He’s also got some kinda semi-secret operation going in Del Moray. Seems to think there’s gonna to be a major drug drop there.”
“Semi-secret?”
“Yeah, that DEA guy, Dan Strait, found out about it. He’s cut himself in. Too many people know what’s happening for it to work, you ask me. All those people, somebody’s bound to tip the drug runners. They have connections all through the Florida police. Even the DEA.”
“Comforting thought.”
“For them.”
Carver said, “Beth and I are getting a rough time from two brothers here who’re said to be in the drug trade. B.J. and Junior Brainard. Ever hear of them?”
“You forget I don’t know where you are, amigo.”
“Okay, a little town called Dark Glades, in the Everglades. But if anybody asks you, there is no such place. You might really think that if you were here with us.”
“All right. But even if I never heard of Park Glades-”
“Dark Glades.”
“Okay-I could check with the law there and see what’s the deal with these brothers.”
“The law’s a guy named Morgan and a two-man police force. It’s a small town.”
“Maybe the DEA has got something on the Brainard brothers. But if I check with them, they’ll know something’s up in Dark Glades. They haven’t stopped thinking about you and Mrs. Gomez, my friend.”
“What about Mister Gomez?”
“I understand Roberto’s disappeared. But that’s not unusual; he’s dropped from sight plenty of times. But this time would it have to do with a drug drop in or near Del Moray?”
“Might.”
“Then McGregor’s not wasting his time?”
“Not entirely. Unless he goes about things the wrong way.”
“The weasely bastard has a way of doing things the wrong way and still coming out on top.”
“So far, anyway. Maybe he’ll nail Gomez. And if he doesn’t, Strait’s got a chance.”
A long silence buzzed and crackled on the line. “You’re the one put McGregor onto the drug drop, aren’t you? So he’s got a shot to nail Gomez before he can catch up with your client.”
“I’m a taxpayer,” Carver said. “Why shouldn’t McGregor work for me?”
“If he gets Gomez for keeps, he might work for you as mayor.”
“A risk, but McGregor running for mayor is better than Gomez running free.”
“Agreed, but it’s a close call.”
“Does Gomez have any drug dealings in the swampland?”
“Anywhere in Florida, he’s maybe got his hand in. Drug types are thick with each other until money causes a falling-out and bullets start to zip. You want me to check with the DEA on these Brainard brothers?”
Carver thought about it, then said, “No, I think I better take on only one monster at a time.”
“Same monster, amigo, just a different head.”
“Greek mythology?”
“American reality.”
Carver gave Desoto the Casa Grande’s phone number, but told him he probably wouldn’t be in Dark Glades much longer.
Beth stared at him questioningly as he said this.
As Carver hung up the phone, they both turned toward the rubber-on-gravel growl of an approaching vehicle.
The Brainards’ Blazer coming back?
Carver limped to the window and looked outside.
Chief Morgan was climbing out of his dusty white patrol car, hitching up his pants.
Carver wasn’t surprised. Watts had seen the guns.
27
As Chief Morgan approached, Carver limped to the door and opened it. Sun glinted off the patrol car’s windshield. Warm outside air rolled in around Carver. The fetid stench of the swamp enveloped him, and for an instant he sensed in a primitive part of his brain the remorseless saga of survival being played out in the green arena of the Everglades.