Carver decided to swim back to where he’d entered the water. He’d crawl back on land, get dressed, and then drive to a phone so he could get in touch with Jefferson and let him know what was happening and where.
Careful again to keep the boat between him and the beach and house, he stroked seaward. Glancing back now and then to make sure there was no one on deck who might notice him.
When he was far enough out on the dark sea, he swam south, angling gradually toward shore. Passed the dancers again. Watched until he spotted the illuminated steps leading up to the lighted house.
He swam toward a point just north of the steps, and ten minutes later he hauled himself onto the beach less than a hundred feet from his cane. Quite the navigator.
After retrieving the cane, he limped to where he’d left his clothes. Brushed water out of his thick fringe of hair and quickly got dressed.
He found that scaling the slope back up to level ground was easier than going down. He could plant the cane like a mountain climber’s piton and use it to lever himself along. Still, by the time he’d gained the top his breathing was deep and ragged. The ocean swim had been less of a strain.
He made his way back to the road, then limped along its shoulder, sure that he wasn’t attracting undue attention. The sea breeze had almost dried his clothes and hair; what remained might have been perspiration.
He saw the dark shape of the Ford and hurried toward it.
As he settled in behind the steering wheel, he let out a loud sigh and smoothed back his damp fringe of hair again. Attack dogs, armed guards, fences with barbed wire. Like a luxury command post in a state of war. Hell of a thing to contend with. He was glad the night was over. That he was back in the cocoonlike safety of the car and could get away from here.
As he leaned forward to fit the key in the ignition, a motion in the rearview mirror caught his attention. He glanced at the mirror and his gaze froze on it. A pair of eyes was staring back at him.
Eyes he recognized.
Eyes that paralyzed him with surprise and fright.
Before he could move he felt a cold blade on the side of his neck. Vincent Butcher in the backseat, leaned close to him and smiled in an oddly amused and tender way. Carver could still see him in the mirror. Smelled his fetid breath. Their gazes were still locked. Horror became hypnotic.
Butcher said, “Where you been, sweetmeat, nosin’ around?”
Gravel crunched outside the car. Footsteps.
The passenger-side door opened and Walter Ogden slid in and sat down. He was dressed impeccably in a window-pane-checked gray suit with a blue handkerchief in the pocket. Handkerchief matched his tie. He smiled at Carver. “Well, you seem to have dropped from sight,” he said in an amiable tone, “Time you filled us in on where you been and why.”
Carver said, “You didn’t get my postcard?”
Butcher probed with the knife point. Might have drawn blood. “There’s your funny bone actin’ up again,” he said. “Cut it out, huh, Carver? Or maybe I will.”
Ogden, with less flair for melodrama, simply said, “Talk.”
Seemed to mean it.
Chapter 29
Carver made up most of it as he talked. And it was good. Afraid as he was, he had to admire his skill. Almost believed it himself. Verbal dexterity came easy when inspired by a knife at the throat.
All the while he talked he could smell Butcher’s sour breath. Feel the knife blade vibrate with his own heartbeat. Then he realized the blade was steady, it was his carotid artery that was pulsing against unyielding steel. Life against death.
“I laid low in Miami,” Carver said, not wanting them to know he was aware of the citrus farm and the deserted house with the landing field behind it. “Kept moving and staying at cheap motels. Knew you or the DEA or both’d be looking for me.”
“Why would a smart ol’ boy like you do such a thing?” Ogden asked. Didn’t quite believe Carver; sounded puzzled.
Carver shrugged. Felt the knife burn in and sat still again. “I was in a box. Right where you put me. Didn’t know what to do, so I decided to do nothing.”
“Don’t sound like you,” Ogden said musingly. “Not judging by what we know about you.”
“Which is?”
“That you’re an asshole,” Butcher said softly.
Ogden ignored Butcher. He said, “You don’t have a history of sulling up like a possum when trouble comes your way. If you’re nothing else you’re a determined asshole”-a nod to Butcher-“who keeps scrambling no matter what. No, more than determined. Obsessed.”
Carver was tired of hearing himself described that way. “It’s hard to be obsessed with something when you have no choice. When you’ve been forced into it.”
Butcher said, “Speakin’ of forcin’ somethin’ into somethin’ else,” and pressed with the knife point hard enough to make Carver gasp and draw back his head, arching his back as if sitting at military attention. What Butcher wanted to see.
Ogden sat quietly for a while with his head bowed, thumb and forefinger toying with the crease in his pants. Headlights from passing cars now and then illuminated his thoughtful features. “Know what I think?” he said, after a truck had passed and rocked the parked Ford with a brief turmoil of wind. He kept his head lowered thoughtfully, staring at the glove compartment. “I think you didn’t short-circuit and go to Miami at all. I think you calculated we wouldn’t know what to do if you simply dropped from sight, so we’d do nothing. Wouldn’t that be just like you, to find a move we hadn’t thought of? One all the way off the table?”
“Just like,” Carver said.
“But to make sure your lady friend’d be safe, you kept an eye on us. Probably me in particular. That’s what you’ve been doing the last several days, not jerking around down in Miami, but watching us. You followed us here, didn’t you?”
“Think so?”
“How else could you show up here?”
Carver said, “You’re the one dreaming up the story. I already told you the truth.”
“No,” Ogden said, “you’re not to be trusted.”
“Well, I’m not as upright as you two guys and Courtney.”
“We spotted this car parked here,” Butcher said. “Wondered why. Thought it was too much of a coincidence. Then we seen it was a rental so we waited to find out what happened. What happened was you limped outa the dark and climbed in. I wasn’t surprised, Carver.”
“That’s because you’re so good at thinking ahead.”
“You bein’ sarcastic?”
“Don’t you know?”
Butcher said to Ogden, “He’s pretty feisty, ain’t he?”
“That doesn’t matter,” Ogden said. “Question is, did he manage to get on the property and see or hear anything?”
“With the fence and them dogs and security guys? Not hardly. Asshole here’s probably been limpin’ around tryin’ to figure a way in without gettin’ chewed and buried like a bone. Besides, ain’t there an alarm system, too?”
“There’s that,” Ogden said, sounding annoyed that Butcher had mentioned it. Dumb to show a hole card when it wasn’t necessary.
Carver knew they didn’t realize he’d gone for his nighttime swim; they attributed his remaining dampness to perspiration. It figured. Butcher was used to making people sweat.
“Well, your lady’s still okay,” Ogden said, “though Butcher here was hard to hold back at times. He was awfully angry at you for disappearing.”
“I wanted to skin some choice parts of her,” Butcher said in a low monotone. “I can do that so it takes hours afore a person dies. Works on ’em just like it does on hogs.”
Carver wondered if he could whip his elbow around fast enough to mash Butcher’s nose and still avoid the blade. Decided he couldn’t; Butcher knew his business. Knew knives. How much bluff he was, Carver couldn’t be sure. None, probably.