He held the automatic ready, aimed through the glass, his gaze fixed on the small portion of the room visible through the gap in the drapes. His mouth was dry and his nerves were singing. He waited for Paul Kave to cross that vulnerable, tiny slice of room 100. The lane to the land of the dead.
Carver controlled his breathing and remained motionless. He could sense that Paul was still moving around inside the room, pacing with restless energy, but not across the deadly area before the gunsight. Carver was one with his prey now, inside Paul’s head as only a dedicated hunter could be, as if his own nerve endings were picking up echoes of Paul’s deranged thoughts; as if he could influence him, urge him to that part of the room that meant death. You want to die, want to end it, I know you do.
The gun’s steel bulk grew heavier in Carver’s grip. He’d need a steady hand when the time came, so he rested the butt of the automatic against his good knee. He could raise it again in half a second and have Paul in his sights. End this thing for both of them.
After a while, Carver’s bent leg began to ache and his thigh muscles started to quiver. He’d have to stand up soon, he knew, or he might not be able to straighten his body after firing into the room. He also feared a muscle cramp that might hinder him in his getaway. He decided to give Paul until the count of thirty before averting the gun’s aim and standing up.
No, make it the count of fifty.
At twenty, a figure finally appeared inside room 100. Carver’s heart bucked and raced.
It was Paul Kave, looking thinner than Carver imagined, and frightened and young. So young. His blond hair was mussed into greasy spikes. Was that a shadow beneath his nose, or was he trying vainly to grow a mustache? A naive attempt at disguise?
Carver had the automatic sighted in on target. He felt tension in his trigger finger. He controlled it so he wouldn’t pull up on the gun and spoil his aim.
There was a faint sizzling sound, off to his right.
He jerked his head in that direction and saw a short, paunchy man in bermuda shorts and a white sleeveless undershirt, standing outside the glass doors two or three rooms down. The man had stepped out to smoke a cigar, and he was holding a burning match to its tip and causing the flame to dance and flare brightly as he puffed his cheeks in and out like a bellows. He was facing Carver. As soon as the match went out he’d notice him. He’d have to!
The man flicked the match away, removed the cigar from his mouth, and started to gaze at its glowing ember with a stogie smoker’s satisfaction. Then he spotted Carver, did a show-business double take, and said, “Hey!”
Without thinking, Carver swung the gun to aim at the man. The cicadas had stopped their ratchety screaming, figuring something was going down and they wanted no part of it. The night was silent except for the distant rush of passing traffic on the far side of the motel.
“Whoa, Christ!” the man said. He hurled the cigar into the black sky, where it arced like a meteor as he ducked back into his room. For a little fat guy he could really hustle.
Carver was up and limping as fast as possible into the shadows. He plowed through thick shrubbery. His cane skipped on an uneven slick surface and he almost fell, saved a tumble by grabbing a branch, feeling thorns slice into his palm as he held himself erect. Thin branches or vines clutched at his ankles, slowing him down. Nightmare running. The cane snagged and he almost dropped it from his slippery grasp. Behind him he heard male voices yelling. Words he couldn’t understand. Then a woman’s voice: “. . Man with a gun!”
He remembered the automatic and realized he’d unconsciously tucked it back in his belt when he fled. It was a cool, hard lump against his stomach.
Then he was free of the shrubbery, still in darkness so thick he could feel it on him like black oil, and hobbling fast toward his car. He could see headlights on the Orange Blossom Trail; the road curved ahead. He had to be close to where the Olds was parked. His speed surprised him; fear was a powerful motivator. This was the kind of terror Paul Kave must feel every minute.
Carver was sucking air in hard, rasping breaths. More voices behind him. He couldn’t tell how close-wasn’t sure whether he was being pursued. Guy with the cigar wouldn’t be chasing him; he’d scared hell out of that one, maybe cured him of smoking altogether. Saved the bastard’s life!
The cane started to slide beneath his weight. A grating sound. Gravel. He was on the parking lot, only twenty feet from the car!
He clambered into the Olds and started the engine, glad he’d thought to leave the key in the ignition switch. Quiet, he cautioned himself. Quiet! You’re just someone in the area, passing through. Pulled off the road to look at a map or empty the ashtray. On your way to Disney World. Innocent as all hell.
Careful not to spin the tires and send gravel flying, he let the Olds roll toward the highway. He braked, waited for a tanker truck to howl past, then eased onto the pavement and accelerated. Leaned back in the seat.
Jesus, the wind felt grand!
Not too fast! He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. His toe tapped the brake pedal. He drove past the Mermaid Motel at the speed limit exactly. There was no sign of activity there, but he knew there would soon be plenty. He also didn’t doubt that Paul Kave was right now getting clear of the motel as quickly as possible, and would be lost again to the police and to Carver.
Half a mile down the highway, a patrol car approached him going in the other direction, siren yodeling wildly and roofbar lights flashing red and blue glare. The driver swerved to avoid a station wagon slow in pulling to the side. In a hurry, all right. Too late, pal, Carver thought as the cruiser zipped past. He watched the light show recede in his rearview mirror.
The pulsing lump in his throat receded and his breathing evened out. He was away clean. The cigar smoker had barely glanced at him and probably hadn’t noticed the cane, scared as he was. Probably busy fouling his underwear and saw nothing but the gun swinging his way. And Carver had hobbled into the black night before anyone else had a chance to see him.
Near the expressway he parked the Olds on the shoulder and sat for a while, feeling the low drumbeat of the idling engine through his buttocks and thighs. He was sweating hard and his hands were shaking. Something in his stomach wanted out. He wasn’t sure he could drive.
What he was experiencing was more than simply delayed reaction to stress. He’d felt that before and knew it well enough to recognize it. This was something else, at a deeper level.
If he hadn’t been interrupted, he would have squeezed the trigger and sent bullets smashing through glass, and then the flesh and bone of Paul Kave. Killed the scared kid with the phantom mustache. No doubt at all.
The thing about it, Carver wasn’t sure how he would have felt afterward. And for the first time since his son’s death, afterward mattered.
Chapter 19
Her phone rang twelve times before she answered, even though it was right beside her bed. He wasn’t surprised. She slept deeply.
She cleared her throat. “ ’Lo.”
“Edwina, this is Carver.”
“Four inna morning. Whassa matter?”
“I’m not sure. I’m sorry; I wanted to hear your voice.”
“S’okay. You know it is.”
“I almost shot Paul Kave last night.”
She paused one, two, three beats. “Why didn’t you?” As awake now as she could be at 4:00 A.M.
“I was seen and had to get away.”
“Will anyone be able to identify you?”
“I don’t think so.”
She was quiet for a while, then she said, “You still want to kill him?” He reached far back into the mysteries of his mind before he answered.