Somehow he lurched forward step after step without it. He got the impression that he was moving quite fast.
But when he glanced back at Lujan, Carver was surprised by how much nearer he was.
Lujan clamped the knife in his teeth, then bent low and picked up something. Carver squinted and strained to identify it.
His cane. Lujan had found his cane.
Grinning, still holding the knife in his mouth, Lujan lifted the cane high so Carver could see it clearly. Then he disdainfully snapped it in half over his knee. He tossed the broken pieces in opposite directions, then smiled a creepy smile and began advancing again. He was enjoying this more now, knowing Carver was hobbled by his handicap, was trapped.
Carver felt the cold surf lick at his ankles as he stood watching Lujan walk toward him, still grinning like a pirate around the knife blade.
A coldness moved into Carver’s mind, a calm stillness and a fierce will. He wasn’t ready to die. Someday he’d die, maybe even tonight, but Lujan wasn’t going to choose the minute, the second. Lujan wasn’t going to play Destiny.
He backed into the surf, watching Lujan.
Lujan seemed to sense some change in his quarry. He held the knife in his hand now and was moving more slowly, still with a swagger, but also with a hint of caution.
When the big man was less than fifty feet away, prepared to move into killing range, Carver dropped down and did his contorted backward squirm into the rolling surf.
Lujan was surprised by the maneuver, by its awkward speed. He hesitated, then sprinted forward. He’d had enough of this Mickey Mousing around; it was time for blood.
He was almost on top of Carver when a large wave roared in. Timing it perfectly, Carver waited, then hurled his body backward into the rush of water, felt it embrace him and carry him away in its backwash.
Carver was floating. Lujan was ten feet from him now, still standing in shallow water, a faintly amused expression on his broad, peasant’s face. So, this was getting complicated, he seemed to be thinking. But the night was middle-aged if not young. Tiempo. There was time. This was a new game, but one he could play. And win.
As Carver began swimming away from him, out to sea, Lujan methodically removed his shirt, then took off his shoes. He ran splashing into the waves like a kid on vacation, waving the knife in his right hand. Then he began swimming after Carver with a strong crawl stroke, the blade winking in the moonlight with each powerful arc of his thick right arm.
They were on even terms now, Carver knew. His bad leg was little hindrance in the water; he could maneuver with his enemy.
He kept swimming straight out from the beach, letting the bigger man tire out. There was no sound now, only the roar of the incoming waves, lifting and lowering both swimmers with the sea’s ponderous eternal rhythm.
Carver began swimming more slowly, holding back slightly, hoarding his strength. He looked back and could see Lujan about a hundred feet away, still swimming strongly, closing on him. Carver thought he could see the son of a bitch grinning again.
Letting the rage, the indignation at this man actually trying to take his life well up powerfully in him, infusing him with energy, Carver took the initiative. He surface-dived, flattened out underwater, bobbed up just ahead of Lujan, and saw the startled expression on Lujan’s face.
Carver stroked to the left, to confuse his pursuer, fixed Lujan’s exact position in his mind, then went under again and swam toward that point.
Still beneath the surface, he waved his arms about, groping. He felt nothing. He surfaced just behind Lujan.
Lujan was whirling around in the water as Carver drew a deep breath and submerged again.
This time he found Lujan’s legs easily, avoided a kick, clutched a knee, and worked his way down a bulging calf. He tried to grab Lujan’s ankle, then decided a pants leg would provide a better grip.
Bunching a thick cuff in his fist, he began to stroke in upward motions with his left arm and good leg, forcing himself and the struggling Lujan deeper.
In the darkness of the depths he felt Lujan writhing above him, trying to kick free, trying to bend his body enough to strike at Carver’s hand with the knife. But as long as Carver maintained their downward momentum it was impossible for Lujan to reach him with the blade. And as long as he held his grip on the pants cuff, it was impossible for Lujan to break free.
Carver’s lungs were burning and he was tiring rapidly as he took them deeper and deeper, into blacker, cooler water. Something brushed his leg. A fish? A strand of drifting seaweed? Whatever it was, it floated away like a brief premonition.
Lujan began struggling more violently above him, panicking. His free bare foot was beating with increased fury at Carver’s fist clenching the pants leg, but the resistance of the water robbed him of any power.
Carver forced them still deeper, feeling his ears pop from the pressure. Inanely, the words to an old seafaring song ran through his mind: “Many brave hearts are asleep in the deep…”
Then Lujan seemed to stop struggling. The leg in Carver’s grasp moved limply, lifelessly.
Carver could go no deeper. He was afraid he might not have enough air in his lungs now to reach the surface. He released his grip on Lujan’s pants leg and pushed himself away, flexed his aching fingers, and let himself rise, hastening his ascent by paddling with his hands and his tired good leg.
At least a minute passed, he was sure. Certainly it felt that long.
Then he broke the surface and saw a star-scattered dark sky that had never looked so vast. He sucked in a long, rasping breath, rolling onto his back. He rotated his head, looked around him.
He was alone on the moon-splashed, undulating surface of the sea.
Breathing deeply and regularly, getting his strength back as the burning sensation in his lungs lessened, he floated loosely.
He was farther from shore than he’d thought. The light of the channel marker seemed almost near enough to touch, the lights along the beach so distant, impersonal pinpoints like low stars.
It was oddly restful out there alone-relaxing. He rose and dropped with the sea rhythmically, softly, and it seemed from time to time that he actually fell asleep. He was strangely at home in the water, as if he belonged there and not on land: evolution in reverse to a point no one had anticipated-not Carver, not his therapist. His hours in the ocean had altered his being, saved his life.
The sea seemed to swell and ebb within him as he drifted in solitary peace.
Then, with a chilling jolt of fear, he imagined that Lujan might still be alive. It was possible. The man might be beneath him now, shooting up underwater with torpedo speed, the knife extended to slash into Carver’s vulnerable submerged softness.
He told himself that was absurd, that Lujan was dead.
But there was no way to be positive. The high and lonely yellow moon glowed down at him in benevolent warning. The sea rose and fell and sighed and urged caution, and return to life on land. “That’s where you belong,” it whispered. “Where you belong…”
Carver shook himself, rolled onto his stomach, and stroked toward shore.
CHAPTER 26
The corpse was found bobbing in the surf the next afternoon. A honeymooning couple from Detroit had spotted it on the beach at Okadey, a small beachside community six miles south of where Carver had gone into the ocean with Lujan pursuing him. At first the honeymooners had thought they’d spotted some sort of sea animal; the body was bleached almost white from the salt water. Then they’d seen the dark of the pants just beneath the roiling surface and realized what it was and notified the authorities. Carver wondered if their discovery had ruined their honeymoon or added spice.
Carver had phoned the local law after he’d made it back to shore the previous night. Then he’d called Desoto and Burr. Burr had turned up at the cottage within an hour. He let the locals do their jobs, staying in the background, watching. Now and then, in an almost noncommittal way, he’d offer a suggestion, probe for an answer or explanation. He knew his stuff. Very professional. Carver had to admit his opinion of Burr had been raised a notch. The DEA agent’s cool yet fervent dedication might not be an endearing quality, or make for the complete man, but it was the sort of dedication that brought results. Not unlike Carver’s dedication.