“What about the two you recognized?”
“They went to trial. Got acquitted. No surprise. Couple of weeks later, they both got killed when a train hit the car they were in. I know what you’re thinking, but it ain’t true; I had nothin’ to do with the accident.”
“You wouldn’t be dumb enough to admit it if you had.”
Jefferson smiled; there was nothing behind it but darkness. “True enough,” he admitted.
“Why are you telling me this?” Carver asked.
“ ’Cause I want you to know where I’m comin’ from, as they used to say. I got somethin’ personal against the scum of this world, and I fought my way out of an orphanage and through school just so I could do somethin’ about ’em. What I do, it’s more’n a way of turnin’ a dollar. I got no family and few friends, so this occupation’s who and what I am. You understand? Helluva lot more’n just a job.”
“A mission?”
“Might call it that. Preacher blood in me, I suppose. Thing is, I want you to know this: You might be a hard-ass, but I’m harder.”
Carver said, “I kinda sensed that from the beginning.”
Jefferson smiled and nodded. The dark eyes that had softened and misted were unblinking and had a hard sheen on them now, revealing nothing. Even as the outwardly amiable smile revealed nothing of why the facial muscles had arranged themselves in that configuration.
Jefferson said, “Afternoon, then, Mr. Carver,” almost in a mocking emulation of Southern black subservient dialect.
But he didn’t bow before he left.
Carver didn’t show Jefferson out. But as soon as he heard the DEA agents’ car start and gravel crunch under tires, he was limping toward the door with his own car keys clutched in his perspiring hand.
He drove for only a few minutes along the coast highway before spotting the gray Dodge half a mile ahead.
Whichever of the two agents was driving held steady to the speed limit. The Olds, with its muscle-car V-8 engine, throbbed beneath Carver and wanted to take a big bite out of the highway. Carver restrained it.
About a mile outside Del Moray, sun glinted off the Dodge as it slowed and turned off the highway into the lot of a motel.
Carver knew the place: the Sundown Motel, a recently constructed two-story structure of pale brick and stucco, forming a U around a swimming pool and featuring its own wide, private beach. A well-appointed motel, but not one of the luxurious ones. It was nice to see that Jefferson and Palma weren’t abusing their expense accounts, though no motel along the Florida Gold Coast was exactly cheap.
Carver slowed the Olds and coasted to a stop on the road shoulder where a grouping of date palms and tall red azaleas obscured the car from view. Beyond the tops of the azaleas that were swaying gently in the breeze, he could see Ralph Palma strolling along the catwalk to a middle, second-floor room. Just the top of Jefferson’s head was visible as he walked to a first-floor corner room facing the beach. Then his entire body came into view. He managed to let himself into the room after a brief struggle with the lock.
The Sundown Motel was doing a good business. The sun was glancing off the roofs of fifteen or twenty cars in the parking lot. Beyond the flat-roofed, sharply angled structure, the sea lay blue and shimmering, the primal magnet that drew tourists even in the high heat of summer. Aside from a drifting, dissipating vapor trail from an airliner, there was nothing in the sky that resembled a cloud. It wasn’t going to rain today.
Carver figured the Olds would be okay parked where it was for a while. He placed the Colt in the glove compartment. Then he climbed out of the car and locked it behind him. It wasn’t exactly secure, but someone would have to slash the canvas top in order to get in.
He limped off the gravel shoulder, over soft and sandy ground toward the motel. Almost jabbed a small lizard with the tip of his cane. Didn’t realize it was there, sunning itself, until it escaped in a sudden flash of green.
At the edge of the parking lot Carver stopped and peeled off his shirt, wadded it and carried it in his free hand as he continued toward the side of the motel where he’d seen Jefferson enter his room.
He’d learned long ago that if you acted as if you belonged somewhere, few people would question your presence. The veracity of the act sprang from inner conviction. Carver told himself he was one of the guests at the Sundown Motel, as he leaned into his cane and limped around the building to the beach.
The rooms that faced the ocean had the usual wide glass doors that allowed guests to walk directly out onto the beach. There were a lot of people sunbathing behind the Sundown Motel. Or sitting at the edge of the sea to let the surf foam around and over them and then withdraw. Two blond girls about seven, his Ann’s age, were tossing a red Frisbee back and forth and never managing to catch it. Half a dozen people were in the water, laughing and shouting and riding the breakers as they rolled in. A couple of brave souls were far out at sea swimming parallel to the beach. A speedboat snarled past, skipping on the waves before they had a chance to break, farther out than the swimmers. The man at the wheel was wearing a yellow shirt and a crumpled white hat. As the boat bounced past, leaving a roostertail of spray, he turned his head toward the beach. Carver got the impression he was staring straight at him, but that had to be imagination. Nerves. Sometimes Carver’s occupation played hell with the nervous system. Dried the mouth and shriveled the stomach. Yet-God help him-he knew there was a part of him that was enjoying this. For some people, adrenaline was a narcotic.
He glanced at the Frisbee-tossing girls again and thought of Ann. And Laura. Laura. When she and Carver were first married, it had seemed such a sure bet that it wasn’t a bet at all. It was visceral. When they were in the same room, it was as if each of them had swallowed powerful magnets and were drawn to each other. Had to be together. To touch.
Then, when the magnetism had finally worn off, they’d discovered they hadn’t much in common. Didn’t really like each other’s company. Mystified and helpless, they’d let the marriage drag on wounded until it died. How many people had that happened to?
Not the time to think about it, Carver told himself. Concentrate on the here and now.
The motel had furnished blue lawn chairs that were scattered about not far from the building. Most of them were occupied by sunbathers, but Carver found a free one and dragged it across the sand and positioned it carefully, as if seeking a precise angle of sunlight. What he was doing, actually, was arranging the chair at the desired angle to the wide glass door of Jefferson’s room.
He settled down in the chair, resting the cane between his legs where it couldn’t be seen if Jefferson glanced outside. He was facing three-quarters away from Jefferson’s glass door, but by turning his head slightly he could see the vague shape of Jefferson moving around inside the dim room.
Carver felt safe enough here. Just another Sundown Motel guest and sunbather-as long as Jefferson or Palma didn’t decide to log some beach time and happen to see his face. Should have brought my sunglasses, Carver told himself. Maybe a false nose, mustache, beard, and a toupee, some cotton wadding to puff out the cheeks. Newspaper with a peephole cut in it.
He knew his best protection was that Jefferson would never dream that he’d be here, lounging and soaking up rays not a hundred feet from his motel room.
Jefferson was moving around inside the room. He seemed restless. Too edgy to stay still. Peering through the plastic chair-webbing, Carver could see him pass in front of the pale corner of the bed. Bend over and open what looked like a suitcase near the bed. Not exactly a suitcase; a large duffel bag, probably. Jefferson withdrew something from the bag, a long object that appeared to be wrapped in cloth. No, not wrapped; in a case of its own. He unzipped it, and Carver knew: a gun case.
From the case Jefferson withdrew a rifle or shotgun. Guy came armed for anything.