He turned and walked as swiftly as he could toward where the Olds was parked, digging his cane in deep with each step. It wasn’t easy, moving uphill toward the highway instead of downhill toward the beach, and he feared that any second Al would begin barking and run to join him.
But apparently Al’s stomach took precedence over his pursuit instincts, and Carver made it to the Olds reasonably sure that he hadn’t been seen or heard by anyone or anything other than the dog.
Catching his breath as he sat behind the steering wheel, he caught sight of a big semi approaching in the rearview mirror. He timed starting the car with the passage of the roaring and whining truck so that it could not be heard by the redheaded man. Letting the idling engine power the car, he put it into drive and the Olds slowly rolled forward and then back up onto the highway.
Carver drove the quarter mile to the cottage road turnoff and continued on his way to join Beth as if nothing had happened and he was unaware of the man watching from cover.
He saw her right away as he parked beside her recently re-paired LeBaron near the cottage. Beth was sitting in one of the webbed aluminum chairs on the porch, her Toshiba in her lap. She was wearing red shorts and a yellow halter top, slumped over and pecking away at the computer’s keyboard. A can of Budweiser sat on the plank floor next to her chair. Her long dark legs glistened with perspiration in the bright sunlight. No wonder the guy parked off the road was using binoculars.
Carver was irritated. He slammed the car door behind him harder than he’d intended. Beth hadn’t looked up. “Where’s Al?” he asked as he limped toward the porch.
Now she raised her gaze from the computer. “I let him out to do what dogs have to do. He went to the door and stood there. Kept staring at me. You said he was trained, Fred, so I figured he knew what he wanted.”
“How do you know he’ll come back?”
“You said he was trained,” she repeated, and began working again with her computer.
Carver clomped up onto the porch and walked past her, entering the cottage. She had the air conditioner on high and it was cool in there.
He pulled Wicker’s card out of his wallet and went to the phone on the breakfast bar.
Wicker answered the phone on the second ring.
“You sound as if you’ve got a pillow over your face,” Carver said.
“Cell phone. I’m in my car. What do you want, Carver?”
“You got an agent about five foot ten, medium build, red hair, drives a late-model cheap blue Dodge, likes animals?”
Silence. Then, “Uh-huh. You spotted him?”
“He’s yours, then?”
“Must be, though I didn’t know about the animals. That’s Anderson. He’s assigned to watch Beth.”
“Without her knowledge?”
“Better that way, Carver. In case our WASP friend tries to pay her a visit. She won’t get careless if she doesn’t know she has protection.”
Carver didn’t know whether to be aggravated with Wicker for posting a watch or to be grateful. What Wicker hadn’t mentioned was that if Beth was unaware she was being guarded, she’d act normally and make more effective bait for the man who’d beaten Lapella. On the other hand, Wicker hadn’t had to assign anyone at all to protect her. Carver decided on gratitude, but he said nothing. That might only encourage Wicker to make more close-to-home moves in secret.
“Does Anderson know that you know?” Wicker asked in his muffled voice.
“No. We can leave it that way.”
“Good. And I assume you won’t tell Beth.”
“It might be better that way,” Carver said, knowing she’d resent being observed. Wicker was right: she might get careless. Might even march down to Anderson, grab him by the shirt, and demand that he leave.
“Fine. Now what’s this business about animals?”
“I’ve got a dog might have torn your man apart,” Carver said. “Luckily Anderson had some meat to throw to him.”
Wicker said something Carver couldn’t understand, fading fast, probably moving between cells or falling victim to some technological glitch beyond Carver’s grasp. He said something else, then the line went dead.
Carver hung up the phone, went around the counter to the refrigerator, and got out a cold can of Budweiser. As he popped the tab, the cottage door opened and Al came in, closely followed by Beth.
Al was licking his chops with a tongue that looked as if it belonged on a larger dog. He glanced at Carver as he followed Beth to the refrigerator. He smelled as if he’d rolled in something.
Beth reached in and pulled out a package of all-beef premium frankfurters.
“What are you doing?” Carver asked.
“I’m going to feed Al. He acts hungry, and you neglected to buy him any dog food.”
Al raised an eyebrow. Carver thought he might have winked.
“You talk with Posey?” Beth asked, using a knife to slice the plastic wrapper on the frankfurters.
“Yes. He wanted to hire me. He’s grieving hard over his fiancee’s death, needs to find out what it was all about. He told me he needs a sense of closure so he can get on with his life.”
“Sounds as if he’s been to a therapist.”
“He probably has.”
“Did you tell him the only definitive closures in life are orgasms?”
Lord, she was tough! “No. It didn’t seem the time or place.”
He watched her slice up half a dozen premium franks on the cypress cutting board, then walk over and dump them into Al’s dish. She stood holding the cutting board and knife, observing with seeming fascination as the dog greedily and noisily devoured his food with the pure and primal gluttony that only beasts possess.
Carver wondered what she was thinking.
How, in her secret heart, was she dealing with her own grief?
21
“You need to get this dog’s nails clipped, Fred.”
He looked down at Al, lying on the cottage floor and recovering from eating six frankfurters. His front nails were plainly visible and looked okay to Carver.
“They wear down naturally,” he said.
Beth stared at him dubiously. “Maybe in the city, when a dog’s walking on concrete most of the time, but not out here on the beach.”
“Sand will wear them down,” Carver lied. He actually had never thought about dogs’ nails and had assumed that nature took care of such things, the way it did beavers’ teeth.
Beth continued staring at him. It struck him that it was good for her to be so nurturing and concerned about Al. It might seem absurd that a dog would in any way take the place of an unborn child, provide an outlet, however misplaced, for a burgeoning maternal care and love, but it was possible. At the very least, Al was a healthy distraction that assuaged grief.
“I’m driving into Orlando to talk to Desoto,” Carver said, “I’ll buy some nail clippers when I stop to pick up dog food on the way back.”
Beth smiled at his sudden change of tack, then bent down and petted the dog. The inert Al made a halfhearted attempt to lick her hand, but it was already gone.
“I phoned the hospital about Linda Lapella while you were gone,” Beth said.
“How is she?”
“Better. They wouldn’t let me talk to her, but they said she could have visitors. We could drive in and see her tonight. I’d like to thank her for what she went through for me.”
“You should stay here and take it easy,” Carver said.
“I’ve taken it easy for too long. I don’t like sitting around thinking. It makes me an easy target for painful recollections.”
“You up on your medicine?”
“Of course.”
“Let’s talk when I get back from Orlando.”
“Bullshit, Fred!”
“What’s that mean?”
“Means you’re not playing fair with me. You’re patronizing me and dancing around whatever I suggest.”
He walked toward her to kiss her cheek, moving suddenly with the cane, and heard a low growl. Al was standing, baring his fangs, his ears back flat against his head and his eyebrows knotted into a tight V of surliness and warning. Carver looked at him in amazement.