Carver thought about it. Wasn’t that what he wanted, too, seeing that the truth came to light?
“I can promise you that.”
As soon as he’d let fly the words, he remembered that promises hastily made had been the cause of most of his problems in life.
26
Just before noon, so he could beat the lunch crowd, Carver drove to Poco’s Tacos for lunch. It was a cloudless and balmy day, and many of the pleasure boats usually docked at the marina were out to sea. Carver sat at a table in the shade of its umbrella, took a crunchy bite of taco, and watched sailboats, cabin cruisers, outboard runabouts, and a guy on a Sea-Jeep frolicking in the ocean. The peril-fraught sea of Columbus and Magellan had become a playground.
As he was sipping soda through a straw, he happened to glance toward the street and notice a big black Buick parked at the curb near the marina entrance. The man behind the wheel was watching him through the windshield, which reflected the sun so that Carver couldn’t quite make out his features. Then either the man shifted position or a cloud passed over the sun, blocking or changing the angle of reflection, and for a second it looked as if the driver was a large man wearing black horn-rimmed glasses.
Carver gripped his cane and stood up, ducking his head to avoid bumping it on the umbrella. Carrying his cup of soda in his free hand, he walked toward the Buick.
The car’s door opened and the driver got out and stood tall. He was a broad-shouldered man wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt, and red tie. He had a blond crew cut and was indeed wearing black horn-rimmed glasses. They made him look studious but didn’t keep him from looking dangerous. The WASP. He crossed his arms, leaned back against the car, and put on a waiting smile.
Carver limped toward him faster, feeling fear mixed with elation, weighing the odds. This was a well-traveled street in broad daylight. It was unlikely that the WASP would display a gun or knife. Whatever physical was going to happen would be fast. Fast was fine with Carver. Fast was what he was about, even if he lacked lower-body mobility. He had quickness and reaction time. And he had his cane for a weapon.
When he was a hundred feet from the WASP, he tossed aside his soda cup, litterbug ready for action. More than ready. Carver’s blood was up. The WASP liked to break fingers, let him see if he could break Carver’s.
When Carver was fifty feet away, the WASP unhurriedly climbed back into the Buick.
The engine was idling, but the car didn’t move. He knows I can’t get there in time with the cane, Carver thought. The bastard’s toying with me, reminding me I’m a cripple.
He let Carver limp to within ten feet of the car before driving away. He didn’t wave, didn’t even bother to glance at Carver. It was a nondisplay and it plainly showed disdain, demonstrating who had control.
Carver hadn’t even been able to make out a license plate number. The plate was in a chrome holder with a plastic cover that was conveniently discolored from the sun.
Carver walked back to where he’d flung aside his soda cup and whacked it with his cane, scattering cracked ice. Then he retrieved the mangled cup and dropped it and his half-eaten lunch into a trash receptacle. He was still in fight-or-flight mode, and he’d chosen fight; his blood was racing and his heart continued hammering with anticipation, pumping adrenaline. His mind knew the crisis had passed but his body, processing older and essential signals that urged survival instead of death, hadn’t caught up. It was an effort for him to calm down.
As he looked out again at the day sailers and pleasure yachts and the man on the Sea-Jeep, the ocean didn’t look so blue and innocent. Florida off and on shore wasn’t the playground pictured in glossy chamber of commerce brochures and travel agency ads. Mickey Mouse and Goofy were here. So were sharks and alligators.
Thinking about the direction the black Buick had taken, he decided to drive to the cottage to be with Beth.
Before turning from the coast highway onto the road leading to the cottage, he parked the Olds and walked to the spot from which he could usually see Anderson’s parked car. This time Carver couldn’t find the usual patches of blue metal visible through the thick foliage. Either Anderson wasn’t on duty or he’d decided to observe the cottage from another position.
Lowering himself into the Olds, Carver put the car in drive, eased back onto the highway, and drove toward the turnoff and home.
Beth’s car was parked in its usual spot in the shade. At least she hadn’t decided to go somewhere on her own, making Anderson work harder for his bureau salary. Or maybe it would have been better if she had left the cottage, with or without Anderson following.
Carver parked the Olds next to her car and got out.
He’d taken a few steps toward the cottage when a loud bark made him stop and stand still.
Al shoved open the screen door and ran toward him, fangs bared, ears so flat against his head they were invisible. Another deafening bark. Carver stood dumbfounded. Was this really Al?
Al didn’t slow down. His rear paws kicked up puffs of dust as they dug at the sun-baked ground for traction. The barking became a low, menacing growl. Carver felt a chill of fear and raised his cane.
“Halt, Al!”
Beth’s voice.
Al skidded to a stop, staring at Carver. Then one of his ears shot erect and he cocked his head, seeming to recognize his master, the guy who’d saved him from the pound.
“It’s all right, Al,” Beth said. She was standing on the porch, holding the screen door open behind her, looking tall and coolly beautiful in a long white dress flowing in the sea breeze.
Suddenly she seemed to realize she was letting in mosquitoes. She released the wooden door and it slammed shut with a reverberating noise like an echoing gunshot.
Al trotted over to Carver, who resisted the temptation to crown him with the cane and instead leaned down and ruffled the fur between his ears. Wasn’t this why he’d adopted Al, to guard against intruders and protect Beth?
Sure, but . . .
“C’mon in, boys,” Beth said, opening the door and hip-switching back inside.
Carver and the other boy followed.
Beth had settled down on the sofa. The TV was on and she was watching CNN. An attractive and serious female news anchor Carver hadn’t seen before was talking about where interest rates would be heading and what that would mean for the housing market. Trying to guess where mortgage rates were going was like trying to forecast the weather, she said. So much ambiguity in the world, Carver thought. The weather, interest rates, murder . . .
He sat in the chair at a right angle to the sofa and leaned his cane against its upholstered arm. He decided that Beth didn’t have to know he’d seen the WASP near Poco’s Tacos and been taunted by him. She’d worry. Besides, she’d always warned him that Poco’s was a dangerous place to dine.
“Everything all right here?” he asked.
She looked at him curiously. “Of course. I’ve got Al.”
Al was enthusiastically devouring what looked like bits of meat and gravy stuck to the bottom of his bowl. He raised an eyebrow and glanced with concern from the corner of his eye, as if any second Carver might throw himself to the floor and try to usurp his place at the bowl. His canine expression suggested that Carver had done such a thing before and wasn’t above suspicion. Al was enjoying Bow-Wow-WOW! nuggets, no doubt, covered with rich broth from a can Beth must have found in the back of a cabinet. Carver thought the animal might be putting on weight.
“Dr. Galt called,” Beth said. “I have an appointment this afternoon to go into the hospital and have my remaining stitches removed. He’ll examine me then, tell me I’m up to par.”