Burn

by John Lutz

  Achilles Jones was nowhere in sight.

  Carver hit the accelerator and the Olds roared up the street as he swiveled his head to glance from side to side, like a fighter pilot in enemy skies. He no longer smelled gasoline, so the fuel must have leaked from the motorcycle and not the Olds. Several pedestrians stared at him, but they were half the size of the man he was seeking.

  The siren was much louder now and had been joined by another, but Carver knew that by the time he explained what had happened and talked the uniforms into searching for Jones, it would be too late.

  In frustration, he made a right turn and drove down the next block. He was aware now of a rhythmic scuffing sound as the car gained speed, then the acrid scent of burning rubber; the big Harley must have bent the Olds’s fender in so that the tire was rubbing.

  He circled the block twice, slowly enough so that he no longer heard the scraping sound, before conceding that Jones had somehow disappeared.

  A part of him couldn’t help feeling relieved.

  His heart was racing faster than the car’s backed-off engine, and his hands were trembling as he returned to the scene of the accident.

  33

  CARVER SAT IN Desoto’s office and wished he had a cold beer. The run-in with Achilles Jones had been more than attempted assault and a fender-bender traffic accident: Jones was a suspected killer on the run.

  Desoto surveyed the fan-fold computer paper on his desk, his chin propped in his hand, his dark eyes moving in short, rapid glides as he read. A guitar was playing softly on the radio behind him, deep, somber chords, and a woman was singing softly in Spanish; life was such a bittersweet, tragic affair.

  He looked up at Carver and dropped the hand that had been cupping his chin down to the desk. His beige suit coat was draped on a wooden hanger slung over a brass hook on the wall. He moved his arm slightly and rested his French-cuffed white shirtsleeve on the papers he’d been reading. “Jones is such a common name,” he said, “that it poses difficulties.”

  Carver agreed. He thought of Clive Jones at Burrow. The name was not as stupid an alias as it at first seemed.

  “The Harley’s license plate was stolen in Jacksonville,” Desoto said. “The bike itself—a ninety-four Harley-Davidson Electra Glide Ultra—was traced by its identification number. They’re huge motorcycles that cost as much as some cars and weigh almost eight hundred pounds. That’s why after Jones’s went over on its side, even he didn’t try to right it. It was stolen three weeks ago from a man named Art Figenbaum in Rome, Georgia.”

  Carver was disappointed but not surprised. The Achilles Joneses of the world were marauders who lived off the land. Stolen motorcycle, stolen plates. “You mean this monster’s faded away again as if he never existed? Like Big Foot?”

  Desoto’s lips curved in a brief smile. “Not exactly, amigo. We believe Jones exists. And the fingerprints from the wrecked Harley match the print on the trunk of Spotto’s rental car. Your eyeball account connects Jones directly to the stolen bike, which connects him to the rental car and Spotto. Enough for a murder warrant, and once we fingerprint Jones and make the match for sure, he’s good for the fall. Big Foot doesn’t have the cops after him, right?”

  “Right,” Carver said. “Does this mean you’re not going to dust my office?”

  “No, we still want to lift a matching print there if we can. Best to lock this up tight.” Desoto raised his arm and adjusted the white cuff. Gold glinted. “Jones might not be bright in the conventional sense, but simply by remaining anonymous despite his remarkable appearance, he’s demonstrated a certain cunning. He’s probably heard of fingerprints.”

  Carver understood Desoto’s meaning.

  “You’re the witness that ties him into all this until he’s caught and printed,” Desoto said. “You’re the witness that can make it all stick to him in court.”

  “I’m the witness he wants dead,” Carver said.

  “That’s how it is, I’m afraid. And if Jones isn’t smart enough to know it, the person he’s working for probably is.”

  “Marla Cloy or Joel Brant,” Carver said.

  “Maybe. No way to know for sure precisely what his involvement with either of them is—or if there is an involvement— until we get him in the net.”

  “That won’t be easy,” Carver said. “He’s injured, but not badly enough to slow him down much.”

  “Sometimes injuries from accidents aren’t apparent at first, but they can still be serious. Even fatal. We can only hope, hey? He’s dangerous to people. He’s exactly what you called him, a monster. Inside and out.”

  “True. But I don’t want him dead. I’d like for him to say who hired him to stop my investigation.”

  Desoto looked at Carver, then arched an eyebrow and shook his head. “And you’re dangerous to yourself, my friend. It was foolish of you to chase a man like that after he tried to kill you.”

  “He knows something I need to know,” Carver said.

  “What you need,” Desoto said, “is to stay alive. Does your car still run?”

  “As well as ever, now that I’ve bent the fender back out with a tire tool so the tire doesn’t scrape it.”

  “Then I take it you’re driving directly back to Del Moray when you leave here.”

  “That’s my plan.”

  “Remember Jones is on the loose, and if he’s intelligent enough to be capable of anger, where you’re concerned he’ll be incensed. And an incensed Achilles Jones is a sleep-disturbing notion. I’m assuming you’re not walking around armed, or you’d have shot him.”

  Carver mentally kicked himself for again neglecting to carry the Colt. It remained at the cottage, tucked beneath his underwear in his dresser drawer.

  He knew the practical use of guns and knew how to use one, had used one more than once and without regret because the only alternative was his own death. But he remembered the shock and pain of being shot in the leg, and he didn’t want to carry a gun, to have its bulk pressing constantly against him. Consciously and unconsciously, he fought against arming himself unless it was necessary.

  Today had convinced him it was necessary. He wouldn’t forget again.

  “Remember to be careful, hey?” Desoto said.

  “I always am,” Carver said, “and look what still happens to me.”

  Desoto laughed in his rich baritone, in contrast to the rapid and tragic guitar strumming seeping from the little Sony on his windowsill.

  “My saving grace is that I’m lucky,” Carver said.

  “No, no. Your saving grace, my friend, is that you’re still alive.”

  No motorcycle, no black van with tinted windows appeared in Carver’s rearview mirror as he drove the sun-baked highway back to Del Moray.

  Two police technicians from Orlando were waiting in a four-door unmarked Pontiac when he parked outside his office. He greeted them, then let them inside and busied himself with things that didn’t really need doing while they went about their task of lifting fingerprints. The taller of the two worked silently, while the short one hummed constantly beneath his breath. They had some kind of aerosol cold fog and a special light that supplemented fingerprint powder. They were diligent professionals. Carver didn’t think they’d make a match here, but he didn’t have the heart to tell them.

  When they were gone, he phoned Beth to see how she was and to let her know what had happened in Orlando.

  “Jones will be out to kill you for sure now,” she said. “Fingerprints and an eyewitness make a case.”

  “I’m not so sure he’s smart enough to figure that out. If you could see his eyes ... I think he’s more the sort who either follows orders or simply reacts.”

  “He’ll react by trying to kill you again,” Beth said flatly.

  “You’re a comfort.”

  “I’m a realist.”

  “I love talking to you on the phone. So reassuring. Do you believe in telephone sex?”

  “Sure. It’s the reason for all those little walkie-talkies.�
��

  “Hmm. How are the two of you feeling today?”

  Silence. Thicker and thicker.

  Then, “Don’t give me that stuff, Fred. You know I haven’t made up my mind.”

  “Okay, it was only idle conversation.”

  “That kind of conversation doesn’t make things any easier.”

  She was obviously moody today. Hormonal, maybe. Pregnant women got that way. Hormones ruled. He’d better not mention that possibility, though. She’d jump on him again, accuse him of male misunderstanding and insensitivity.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that sometimes I feel left out of this entire pregnancy process. But I’m the father, remember?”

  “Yes, but it has to be my decision, Fred.”

  “I know.”

  He did know, but he wished she’d stop reminding him. Had she forgotten about telling him she wanted to make him part of whatever she decided? Hormones.

  “Anything else come up on Portia Brant?” he asked.

  “No, Jeff’s still using the Burrow computer to find whatever’s out there on record. Not just on Portia, but on Marla Cloy and Joel Brant.”

  “What about Achilles Jones? And a Harley-Davidson Electra Glide Ultra stolen two weeks ago in Rome, Georgia?”

  “I’ll ask him,” Beth said. “Jeff has ways. If it’s in a data base anywhere, he can get to it.”

  “Legally?”

  “I don’t go into that with him. If he’s an information highwayman, I don’t want to know about it and neither do you.”

  He paused a few beats. “Don’t get mad when I ask about this, but have you been to the doctor lately?”

  “No. Why?”

  Carver stared out the window at the patch of blue sea visible between the buildings across Magellan. “Ever hear of the string test?” he asked.

  “Test for what?”

  “Gender. A pregnant woman dangles a length of string an inch above her wrist, holding it as still as possible. If the end of the string moves in a circle, that means she’s going to have a girl. If it moves back and forth in a straight line, she’s going to have a boy.”

  “Damn it, Fred! I told you, keep that kind of shit to yourself!”

  “All right! Some of the women in my family believed in it. I mean, I was just sitting here and I remembered it for some reason.”

  “You didn’t have to tell me about your family’s superstitious nonsense. Or maybe you did have to. You’ve taken leave of your senses and you’re acting out of compulsion. It’s like you’re goddamned hormonal!”

  She slammed down the receiver.

  Hormonal, she’d said. He sat there for a minute with the dead phone to his ear, amazed that she’d accuse him of precisely what he’d been thinking about her.

  Maybe pregnant women were sometimes psychic.

  34

  CARVER DECIDED NOT TO drive to the cottage to get the gun he’d forgotten this morning. It might be best if he gave Beth time to cool down. He understood her fear. The breech birth and umbilical-cord strangulation of her child by Roberto Gomez had a grip on her mind.

  He drove instead to the taco stand on Magellan and had a burrito, diet Coke, and some sort of odd deep-fried dessert sprinkled with powdered sugar. When he was finished, he planned on driving to Jacaranda Lane to see what if anything was happening with Marla Cloy. Following Joel Brant had resulted mostly in further confusion.

  He’d just fired up a Swisher Sweet cigar when a long shadow drifted across his legs and the tray on the table containing the remains of his early supper. A whiff of cheap lemon-scent deodorant and stale perspiration told him who’d cast the shadow even before he looked.

  McGregor was standing with his fists on his hips, grinning and gazing over at the pleasure boats bobbing lazily at their moorings in the public marina. He’d cut himself shaving this morning, and from Carver’s low angle a large bead of dried blood on the underside of his jaw could be seen still clinging stubbornly.

  “Some day I’ll be able to afford one of those babies,” McGregor said, pointing to the expensive array of boats.

  “Yours will be the only yacht with a lifeboat that seats one,” Carver said.

  McGregor probed between his front teeth with his tongue, still staring at the boats. “Women and children first, I always say. First into the drink, that is.” Carver didn’t doubt that he meant it. McGregor turned his mean little blue eyes on Carver, then carefully surveyed the cardboard plate and waxed wrappers on the table. “You really like that rat food?”

  “Wouldn’t eat here if I didn’t. And it’s a great place to be left alone—usually.”

  “Don’t smart off with me, ass-face, or you’ll be carting around a plasma bottle by the time you get the trots from this chow.”

  “A threat from a police officer?” Carver asked.

  “Uh-huh. Direct threat.”

  Carver took a drag on the Swisher Sweet and watched the breeze play with the smoke. He appreciated the sharp scent of the cigar; it alleviated the odor of the habitually unclean McGregor. “How’d you know I was here?”

  “I know everything about you, jerkoff. When you weren’t at your office, I called your cottage. Dark meat said you weren’t there and probably weren’t gonna be home for supper. So I figured you’d be here at one of your favorite five-star restaurants stuffing your face, and sure enough, here you are.”

  “Do you have some reason to look me up,” Carver asked, “or do you just want to sit around and talk about yachting?”

  “I came to tell you that if you know where your client is, I’d better know right along with you. And I mean within ten seconds.”

  “Why should I know where he is?”

  “Marla Cloy reported a car like Brant’s almost ran her down, then sped away. She’s sure Brant was at the wheel. That’s attempted murder, not to mention violation of a restraining order. I sent a couple of uniforms to pick up Brant for questioning. He blew his cool in their presence and swore he’d kill Marla for what she’s done to him—that’s the way he expressed it, anyway.”

  “Then why isn’t he in custody?” Carver asked.

  McGregor looked uncomfortable, then angry. The breeze off the ocean whipped the tail of his suitcoat around, revealing his holstered nine-millimeter. He raised a hand and touched its checked butt lightly, as if he longed to draw the weapon and shoot Carver.

  “Your client escaped, Carver. That makes things worse for the two of you. He’s a fugitive now, and you’re an accessory if you know where he is.”

  “Escaped how?”

  “He walked into the kitchen to get his sport coat where it was draped over the back of a chair. The next thing my guys knew, they heard a car engine. By the time it occurred to them there was a door to the back stairs from the kitchen, Brant was hauling ass away in that high-powered sports car of his. Nobody’s seen him since.”

  “Your officers give chase?”

  “For about a block, then a tree stopped them.”

  “Some police work,” Carver said. “Reflects on their immediate superior, don’t you think?”

  “What I think is that your ass is in more of a sling than those dumb-fuck uniforms I sent to pick up Brant.”

  “I don’t see it that way,” Carver said. “Brant’s my client, not my brother. I can’t tell you where to find him. What you should do, though, is watch Marla Cloy. You said he threatened to kill her.”

  “Not the first time,” McGregor said.

  “Maybe not. Have you got somebody over at her place on Jacaranda?”

  “She’s gone. I called ahead and told her what happened, told her to stay put. What we found when we got to her house was a note saying she’d left town and wasn’t coming back until Joel Brant was in custody.”

  “More solid police work,” Carver said, smiling around his cigar. “The way you’re going, you’re never going to be promoted out of your broom-closet office.”

  McGregor stuck out his long jaw, almost making the bead of blood fall off. He curl
ed his upper lip up close to his nose. “It would behoove you to find Brant and give him to me, or you’re gonna find yourself in a cell even smaller than a broom closet.”

  “I’m not on your payroll.”

  “But you are on my shit list. Doesn’t pay as well, but it’s more certain.”

  “What else was in Marla’s note?” Carver asked.

  “Why? You think if you find her you’ll find Brant?”

  “They’ll come together eventually,” Carver said. “We both know that.”

  McGregor turned his head to the side and spat between his teeth onto the pavement. A woman at a nearby table paused with her burrito near her mouth and glared furiously at him. “It was a simple typewritten note, nothing more in it than what I told you.”

  “Signed?”

  “Not in pen or pencil. She typed her name at the bottom, left the note under a ketchup bottle on her kitchen table.” McGregor spat again, near Carver’s chair this time. “There is, of course, the possibility she wrote the note under duress, and your client abducted her.”

  “He said he wanted to kill her, not kidnap her.”

  McGregor flicked his tongue around between his teeth. “Maybe he wants to kill her slow and milk it for enjoyment. I would.”

  “You’re not Joel Brant. You’re not most people.”

  “Thank fucking God for that. But don’t get too concerned about who I’m not. You got other worries. The wheels have come off this thing, Carver, and you better help get ’em back on.”

  Carver snuffed out his cigar in the hammered tin ashtray sitting on the table. It died hard, with a final, wavering curl of smoke. “I’ll do everything I can,” he said. It was a good thing to say for the record.

  “You better do just that,” McGregor said. He used the bulky sole of one of his huge brown wing tips to grind the glob of phlegm he’d expectorated into the concrete.

  Carver was beginning to sweat heavily. The heat, McGregor’s body odor and behavior, and the aftertaste of salsa and cigar were making him slightly nauseated. He sat quietly, very still, hoping McGregor wouldn’t notice a sheen of perspiration on his forehead. McGregor homed in on signs of potential weakness like a carnivore on the prowl. Carver moved a hand with deliberate steadiness and took a sip of his cold but watered-down Coke.