Carver said to Ogden, “Your friend’s a psychopath.”
Ogden said, “Sure. That’s why he’s good at what he does. Only problem is, sometimes we run into someone like you who doesn’t realize the gravity of the situation. That irritates me, but Butcher doesn’t mind.”
“That’s because Butcher has no mind.”
Butcher gave his deep phlegmy chuckle. There was no anger in it, only an amused patience with an edge of anticipation. Carver didn’t like that.
Ogden said, “I gotta admire you, sitting there with a blade at your neck, smarting off all the same. But then, maybe it’s because you know we still need you and won’t open your throat. That it?”
Carver said, “I guess that’s part of it.”
“You can be wrong,” Butcher said.
“Sure can. That’s why I’m sitting here with you.”
“Okay,” Ogden said, his tone suddenly softer and serious. “Here’s where all this leaves us. You don’t stray again, or we’ll consider your usefulness ended and your lady will meet Butcher. You stand by our original agreement and relay the content of any and all conversations you have with the DEA, in particular with Jefferson or Palma. If you don’t stand by our agreement, or you drop outa sight one more time, sooner or later Edwina Talbot dances with Butcher. Maybe you can hold things off and make it later instead of sooner, but believe me, they’ve got a date.” He took a deep breath and swiveled in the seat to face Carver. “Now, we finally got an understanding? Know each other’s hearts and minds?”
Carver said, “Sure. You made it all clear.”
“Well, I thought I had the first time.”
Ogden nodded to Butcher, then opened the door and slid out of the car. Fresh outside air moved in to take his place. A pleasant interlude that didn’t last long.
As soon as the car door slammed, Carver felt Butcher’s arm close on his throat. Somehow he still held the knife so it’s point was digging into the side of Carver’s neck. “Let’s get outa the car, sweetmeat.”
Carver opened the door and heard the rear door open at the same time. The blade was away from his neck for only an instant as Butcher moved with so much quickness he seemed to be standing outside the car even as the door opened. He laid the edge of the blade against Carver’s neck again, then used his other hand to summon Carver out with a little scooping motion of his thick fingers. All the time with a sadistic grin that would have looked silly if Carver hadn’t known the twisted drive behind it was real.
Ogden was standing in the shadows near the front of the Ford. “You wanted to see what was behind the gates,” he said, “so we’ll show you.”
Butcher withdrew the knife. Said, “You wouldn’t try to limp away on that cane, would you?” He laughed like a schoolkid who’d heard a dirty joke.
Ogden said, “Mr. Carver’ll accompany us without any trouble. After all, we’re taking him where he was trying to go. Actually he should thank us.”
“Hear that, Carver?” Butcher said in a gloating whisper. “You oughta say thanks.”
Carver limped along silently, setting the tip of his cane firmly with each step. He wasn’t going to thank these bastards.
Butcher said, “Okay if you don’t say it this time. You’ll tend to get more agreeable as the night wears on.”
They crossed the highway and walked back along the slanted shoulder to the driveway with the closed gates.
Chapter 30
It was a long way up the driveway. Carver couldn’t make out much about the house except that it was large, as it had appeared from the ocean. Only a few windows were lighted in the front part of the house. Oddly enough, he saw or heard no sign of the dogs or any other security measure. Apparently, when Ogden had used the intercom outside the gates, the way had been cleared immediately for them to set foot on the grounds.
Carver was led through a side door. Then, flanked by Ogden and Butcher, he was ushered down a long hall. The walls were sand-colored and rough. The floor appeared to be real marble, a pink-veined gray that reminded Carver of flesh struck lifeless. There was no furniture other than a long, uncomfortable-looking wood bench along one wall, and a potted miniature fruit tree near the far end where the hall either ended or made a right-angle turn. Sparse but stylish.
Ogden stepped ahead and opened a tall door with oversized hinges and knob. Butcher shoved the back of Carver’s head to indicate he should follow Ogden into the room. Carver stumbled forward and almost fell, but he managed to remain upright. Knew he must look like a drunk lurching in a swaying world.
It was a large room, carpeted in deep maroon and with matching floor-to-ceiling drapes of some kind of velvet material. The walls were darkly paneled and covered with arrangements of fox-hunting prints. Red-coated riders on sleek horses leaping hedges and fences. Hounds streaming through fields in frantic chase. Carver noticed that the fox didn’t appear in any of the prints. On a sort of pedestal near a massive stone fireplace was a stuffed fox, head turned, one front paw raised delicately, looking alert and ready to bolt for safety. The taxidermist had done a good job; the stuffed creature probably seemed more alive and aware than had the fox itself when blood coursed through its veins. Almost worth shooting again.
Butcher noticed Carver looking at the fox and said, “You and your furry friend’ll have a lot in common you try any more bullshit.”
Ogden said, “Sit down, Mr. Carver,” and motioned with his hand toward a blue leather sofa.
Carver limped to the sofa and lowered his body into a corner of it. The leather was incredibly soft and he sank deeper than he’d anticipated. It wouldn’t be easy to get up in a hurry if he had to; he propped his cane against the cushion, within easy reach, giving himself another second or two if it became necessary to act.
The door they’d come through opened with a faint brushing sound as it skimmed the carpet, and Carver turned his head to see a tall silver-haired man in his mid-sixties enter. He was long-limbed but thick through the middle, with a pronounced stomach paunch; it made him slightly resemble a spider. He had on pin-striped gray pants, a white shirt, red suspenders. Without speaking, he came around to stand facing Carver. Looked down at him sitting on the sofa and smiled with large yellow teeth. His eyes were pale blue and they weren’t smiling. Something about him. He did look a lot like Bert Renway. The late Bert Renway.
Still smiling, he said, “Mr. Carver, I’m Frank Wesley.”
There was an air of certainty and authority about him that Renway hadn’t had. And a hard quality to the eyes. He filled his space in the world and was very much whatever he was. One look at him and people knew it instantly. Sensed his energy. Wesley was the sort of man who had his private concept of reality and could sell it to others by virtue of his belief in himself. People like him achieved fame or fortune marketing used cars or leading nations into wars. With Wesley it had been hogs. But now it was drugs. More money in drugs. More power.
Carver said, “You’re supposed to be dead.”
Wesley shrugged. “We’re all supposed to be lotsa things we aren’t.” He had a thick Southern accent only hinted at when he’d first spoken. Maybe he could control it. Used it only when he wanted to, for effect. He said, “While I had the chance, I figured I oughta talk to you, explain there’s big things in the wind and you’re not one of ’em. You’re a small thing might just get blown away if you’re not careful.”
“I try to be careful,” Carver said.
“No, sir, I disagree. That’s not your track record. But you are reputed to be a man of good sense, so I’m going to state to you the simple fact that there’s a deal working that involves so much money it’d just be a meaningless figure to you if I said it. You understand, that much money ’bout to flow, we’ll kill you in a minute if it don’t look like you’re of much use to us anymore. You follow that logic?”