Finally McGregor’s voice pierced the semidarkness and the acrid stench of smoke. “Out! Everybody fuckin’ out!”
Carver let himself bounce down the stairs, beneath the lowering pall of dark smoke, and grabbed Dewitt’s arm. With his free hand he slammed a fist into Dewitt, who merely whined and coughed and went limp. No fight left. Nothing. There was a clamor of footfalls on the stairs. McGregor suddenly had Dewitt’s other arm. Without speaking, he and Carver dragged Dewitt toward the steps. The flames were crackling now and the smoke was soup thick. Emmett was no longer visible.
Carver somehow found his cane in the flickering glare. He clutched Dewitt’s shirt in his right hand, and with his left he extended the cane and hooked it over the back edge of a wooden step and pulled while he propelled himself upward with his good leg. McGregor had a hand under Dewitt’s armpit and was working frantically to get out of the basement. Carver was remotely aware of sirens screaming outside, some of them deafening, some growling to silence nearby so that other shrill, singsong cries could cut through the night.
He was ahead of Dewitt now, pulling desperately, ripping Dewitt’s shirt, tearing his own fingernails. McGregor was snarling up at him like a mindless rabid animal, pushing both Dewitt and Carver forward. Carver felt Dewitt’s body mash his good leg against a step, bruising bone just below the knee. Then the leg was free, digging for leverage. Right now the sharp pain was a reminder of life, a spur to action.
The black smoke rolled thicker and started up the stairs behind them, as if suddenly it had taken on malevolence and purpose and sensed a dark victory.
Then they were on the smooth, hard linoleum. Carver was surprised to find that the kitchen floor was warm.
Legs and feet surrounded them. Scuffed shoes, shiny shoes. Someone grabbed Carver beneath the arms and lifted, shoved and bullied him toward the gaping back door. Carver resisted, though he didn’t understand why. There were multicolored lights outside, flashing, revolving, casting dancing, strangely hued shadows from another dimension, another life where nothing had depth or weight or solid meaning. But it was the real world out there-not here in the burning house.
Carver sucked in smoke, retched and spat. The whole house must be blazing to create so much smoke. There was a thick, sweet stench in the haze that he recognized. Nausea almost doubled him over. He started to retch again, then controlled it and refused to breathe, holding what little air he’d retained in his straining lungs. He didn’t want to pull in any more smoke, any more of Uncle Emmett burning. His chest heaved and his heart smashed in on itself, slower but more powerfully with each beat. He absolutely refused to breathe; he was finished breathing, forever! A voice, far away, called, “Dad, Dad, Dad, Daddy, Daddy!” He was aware of his mouth involuntarily gaping wider and wider, like the house’s back door to the night outside. He heard a high, rasping shriek, a harsh intake of air-Carver fighting for oxygen and life.
And suddenly he was in the clear night, slumped against the rough bark of a thick tree and breathing. Eating the air as if it were spun sugar at a carnival. Sweet, sweet breathing.
Stronger now than he’d ever been, he shoved away from the tree.
He was standing in a whirling, dizzying world that had gained substance and reality. Standing straight and tall again without his cane.
No, he was falling. .
Oh God, how far?
Chapter 35
The tugging Carver had felt at his sleeve turned out to be three pellets from a twelve-gauge riot gun fired by a Kissimmee police officer behind him on Emmett’s basement steps. The pellets had entered at an angle, two of them lodging just below the skin’s surface, the other penetrating about an inch. The two near the surface the doctor had removed. The other one he was going to leave in Carver in the hope that infection wouldn’t occur and the pellet would eventually work its way closer to the surface, where it could be removed easily and without complication. A nurse joked with Carver about his not being able to use a compass until the steel pellet was removed. Carver didn’t think magnet jokes were funny.
After treatment at the hospital emergency room, he’d spent the night in Orlando in Desoto’s spare bedroom. He lay now in the harsh morning light, listening to the hum and hustle of traffic outside, grateful for the prognosis that his arm would soon return to its full range of strength and mobility. The idea of a second useless limb had frightened him badly, colored his dreams, and made him think about being at the mercy of small boys who delighted in slowly pulling the legs from insects.
The syncopated beat of Latin music drifted into the room from another part of the condo unit. Desoto had left for work, Carver knew. Must have forgotten to turn off the radio. Or maybe he left the damned thing playing all the time. That would be like him.
Carver lay quietly until the hypnotic beat threatened to lull him back to sleep. But it was ten o’clock, and he’d slept enough. Though he had no compelling reason to rise, he struggled up to sit on the edge of the mattress. A dull ache beat through his arm, in time with the music and his heart. It was a pain he’d endure rather than take the Percodan pills the doctor had prescribed. Carver preferred to be in slight pain, but awake and with his full mental facilities.
The room he was in was small and square, with a modern dresser and a high-riser that made into a comfortable bed. The draperies had come with the unit and were a dull gold color and not thick enough to block much sun. An unframed Delacroix print hung on the wall by the bed, a curiously flat French street scene. Somewhere Desoto had picked up an appreciation of art.
Carver found his cane, got up, and reached his pants where they were draped over the back of a chair. His wallet had dropped to the carpet behind the chair, and he used the cane to slide it over to where he could pick it up. He sat back down on the bed and struggled into the pants, then he stood up and limped from the room.
The rest of the place reflected the familiar Desoto. The carpet and drapes in the living room were deep red, the furniture black vinyl, stainless steel, and laminated wood that was lacquered to a high gloss. It was expensive furniture. Desoto spent most of his salary on clothes and on his environment. A Fisher stereo system took up most of a long shelf along one wall. There was a tiny red light glowing on it, and a series of needles on illuminated dials were twitching and bobbing in time with the rhythm that throbbed from the two big speakers at the ends of the shelf. It made Carver wish he could still dance. He crossed the thick carpet to the stereo and punched plastic buttons until he found the right one. The red light winked out.
The silence in the apartment seemed to pulsate after the tango music stopped, as if the beat had permeated the air and would die hard.
Carver made his way to the bedroom door to make sure Desoto was gone. He glanced into the room. Red carpet and drapes in there, too. Another print, a large one of a fleshy nude woman reclining among some flowers. There were two gigantic speakers that were probably wired to the stereo in the living room. The dresser and headboard were black and highly lacquered like some of the living-room furniture, in a simple art deco style. There was a round water bed large enough for the moon to affect with tides. It had some kind of white fuzzy spread over it. Carver looked up and was a little surprised to see no mirror on the ceiling. The closet ran along an entire wall and was no doubt full of Desoto’s elegant suits and accessories. There were mirrors everywhere except above the bed.
In a sort of awe, Carver turned away and went to the kitchen to put some coffee on to brew while he tried to take a shower and keep the dressing on his arm dry.
When he’d located the coffee and got the electric percolator going, he returned to the living room and found that Desoto had come home.