Scorcher

by John Lutz

  “Emmett Kave,” Carver said.

  Emmett looked at him down the length of his body, up again to the face. “You say my name like we know each other.” The voice was deep, but not as deep as Adam’s, and it had none of the gravelly quality. “We met?”

  “No. My name’s Carver. I’ve met your brother. The family resemblance is unmistakable.”

  “Hm. Up to a point, I s’pose.”

  “The Kaves have hired me to try to find their son Paul.”

  “Police are trying to do that.”

  “They’d like me to find him before the police do.”

  “Yeah,” Emmett said after a pause, “I can understand why. What are you, a private detective?”

  “That’s what I am.” Carver got his I.D. from his back pocket and held it up to the screen.

  “Don’t mean shit to me,” Emmett said. “Got nothing to compare it with for genuineness.” He aimed a thick finger like the barrel of a weapon at Carver, as if about to warn him off his property. But instead he used the finger to unhook the screen-door latch and then melted back into shadow, like a man retreating into a protective, gloomy cave. “C’mon in, Carver.”

  Carver limped into a small living room that was neater than he would have guessed from the outside of the house. The furniture was dark and old and threadbare, but it seemed clean and was symmetrically arranged. A potted plant cowered in a dim corner as if awaiting execution. The floor was waxed hardwood, covered in the middle by a very worn, obviously imitation Oriental rug with uneven fringe around the edges. Through a far door Carver could see into the kitchen: green linoleum, chrome table leg, rounded corner of old-fashioned refrigerator. The bacon smell seemed stronger when he just looked in that direction. The senses being mischievous.

  “Fixing myself a BLT,” Emmett said. “Want one?”

  “No, thanks.” The box fan didn’t help much; it was hot inside the house. Too hot for Carver even to think about eating. “You go ahead, though. Don’t let me make you burn the bacon.”

  Emmett commanded Carver to have a seat on the sofa, then he strode into the kitchen out of sight. He had the same purposeful walk as his brother, only it was slower. Maybe because he was conditioned to existing in smaller spaces. Neither brother moved like men in their sixties; there was plenty of spring in their legs.

  Carver heard the clatter of silverware in the kitchen. Something dropped to the floor, bounced, and rolled. He glimpsed the refrigerator door opening and closing. “Get you a beer?” Emmett called.

  Carver was tempted but called back, “Not now, thanks.”

  “Why not?” Emmett asked, coming back into the living room carrying a can of beer of a brand Carver had never heard of, and a thick BLT-on-toast on a paper towel. The can was yellow and had what looked like an American Indian emblazoned on it. Mayonnaise-smeared lettuce draped from a corner of the sandwich; one of the crisp bacon slices crumbled, and a tiny charred piece dropped onto the Oriental rug. Emmett either didn’t notice it or ignored it. Maybe the maid was on her way. “You private cops can drink on duty.”

  “But we don’t if we don’t want a beer,” Carver said.

  Emmett grinned and sat down in the chair opposite Carver. It had dark wood arms and its upholstery matched the sofa’s: a maroon flower design embossed on beige, made browner by the years. He chomped into his BLT. The splintering toast and bacon made a crackling sound, softer as Emmett chewed. He looked at Carver’s cane, swallowed, and said, “How’d you get your leg messed up?”

  “Shot.”

  “As a cop or in combat?”

  “When I was with the Orlando police.”

  “Oh. Thought you mighta been a vet,” Emmett said. He took another big bite of sandwich and talked around it as he chewed. “You got the look of a man who’s seen combat.”

  “Only for a little while in Vietnam,” Carver said. He’d been in Nam for seven weeks and two days, until a superficial wound had brought him home and led to a transfer and then discharge, but he suddenly saw again the victims of napalm attack. He refused to ride the vision into the more recent past.

  “Hmph!” Emmett said, as if he might not count Vietnam when he totaled up meaningful wars. “You figure the cops find Paul they’ll kill him before he gets a chance to give up?”

  “No. But it’s a possibility. Emotions are high. And from what I’ve heard about Paul, he might not try to give up, might not be thinking straight.”

  “Hah! Boy thinks straighter than they give him credit for.”

  “How long’s it been since you’ve seen him?”

  “He hasn’t come around here since he’s been on the run, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I was getting around to that,” Carver said, “but what I meant to ask was how long it’s been since you’ve talked with Paul.” There was an edge to his voice. Don’t anticipate my questions, old fella.

  “I know. I ain’t thick.” Another bite of sandwich. The bacon smell got stronger. The box fan whirred steadily, stirring the hot air in the corners of the room. Emmett seemed to be thinking. He swallowed hard, as if it hurt his throat, then took a long slug of beer and set the can back down. “About six months. I like the boy; we get along. He’d drive over here and we’d sit and talk every once in a while.”

  “Oh? What about?”

  “Lotsa things, but most often about how that jackass of a father was treating him.”

  “He has animosity toward his father?”

  “Just hates him, is all. I tried to tell him Adam acted the way he did out of greed and ignorance, not because he didn’t love Paul. But I tell you, Carver, I don’t think Adam Kave gives a gnat’s ass about anything but himself and that god-awful wiener business he runs. Neither of them kids of his had much guidance growing up.”

  “You see Nadine now and then, too?”

  “Naw. Not that one. Too busy for an old crank like me. Tennis and goin’ out with the boys is her games, what I hear. Kinda wild sometimes, but not a bad girl, you know what I mean.”

  “I get the impression Adam loves his wife,” Carver said, “if not his kids.”

  Emmett lowered the sandwich and glared at him for an instant with Adam’s intense dark eyes. “Love, shit!” he said. “I suspect that poor, sick wife of his is just something else he owns and likes to parade in front of them he figures is his inferiors.”

  “You know she’s dying?”

  Emmett nodded. “I heard. Paul told me; boy’s too smart to keep something like that from him.” He finished the sandwich in one last huge bite.

  Carver waited until the old man had chewed and then washed down the last of the brittle BLT with a pull of beer. Emmett’s gray caterpillar eyebrows writhed in something like pain as he belched softly and patted his chest. There was a sandwich that hadn’t been worth the effort.

  “What’s his reaction to that knowledge?”

  “Seems to accept it.”

  “What did Paul say about his father?”

  “What was the facts,” Emmett said. “That Adam didn’t understand him and didn’t care about him. Kinda hard to ease the boy’s mind and steer him away from thinking what was so obviously true.”

  “How often do you see your brother?” Carver asked.

  “I ain’t seen Adam in fifteen, twenty years, when he was in this part of the state on business, and that ain’t long enough for me.”

  “For either of you,” Carver suggested.

  “Fine,” Emmett said. “Just goddamned fine.”

  Carver decided to fish. “Guess I can’t blame you for feeling somewhat that way.” He glanced around the shabby room. “I mean, it’s for sure Adam doesn’t believe in spreading the wealth through the family.”

  “I don’t want any of that shithead’s money.” The deep voice wasn’t very convincing. Carver suspected dollars might salve if not cure the wounds of the brothers’ relationship.

  “You think Paul burned those people?” he asked.

  Emmett crimped the beer can back and forth in his
thick hand, clacking the metal. It was a sound that wouldn’t take long to get on Carver’s nerves. “My feeling is the boy’s not violent, despite a few adolescent fights he got into. Murder? Naw. Wouldn’t surprise me if he killed Adam, but then I’d say it wouldn’t surprise anybody who knew how Adam criticized the boy when he was young. The things Paul’s told me’d curl your ear hairs, Carver.”

  “So curl a few,” Carver said.

  Emmett ran his tongue around the insides of his cheeks, as if seeking words between his molars. Found them. “Goddamned Adam! Always assuming the boy’d come out the loser no matter what or how hard he tried. Self-fulfilling prophecy. Paul went out for the tennis team his junior year at high school. Adam used to play like a champ, and he offered to train Paul. His training consisted of whacking serves and returns the boy couldn’t touch with his racket. Finally slammed a ball off the side of Paul’s head. On purpose. Adam is what you might call competitive; he’s gotta show his superiority like that. Can’t let up till he humiliates people. Paul didn’t make the team. Never played tennis again. Adam said he wasn’t surprised Paul stunk up the place in sports. Said he spent too much time alone in his laboratory or reading, and it was no wonder he was a little loony.”

  Rough treatment, Carver thought. But Paul Kave wasn’t the only kid who had to grow up in a house with a supercritical father. Carver’s own childhood had been similar to Paul’s in that respect.

  “Paul’s gone haywire a few times in the past couple of years and broke up some things. Threw a stool through an ice cream shop window over in Cocoa Beach. Kicked in the side of a car when its driver stole his parking space. After times like that, I’d see his shiny old Lincoln drive up afore long, and he’d come in to see me and we’d talk over what happened. We’d have a few beers, and he’d say it was just this pressure that built up in him and needed release, but that folks really did pick on him sometimes. But he never hurt people, Carver, only things.”

  Or maybe to Paul Kave people are things, Carver thought. And it was only a question of time before his outbursts of violence included flesh and blood. “Did he tell you he was a diagnosed schizophrenic and was seeing a psychiatrist?”

  “Sure,” Emmett said. “Paul and I have the same opinion of shrinks: bunch of phonies getting rich off other people’s misery. Paul only went to that doctor because he had no choice. Hell, he’s smarter’n any shrink.”

  “Then he didn’t think his therapy was helping him?”

  “Course not. Didn’t think he needed it in the first place. Despite all his mental mix-up and occasional bouts of aggression,” Emmett Kave said firmly, “Paul’s a fine young man. Can’t say for certain he wouldn’t hurt somebody, but I sure don’t see him setting folks on fire.”

  Carver glanced through a side window and noticed an orange tree not far from the house. It was brightly dotted with fruit, and darkened oranges littered the ground beneath it, rotting. “Does Paul talk much about Nadine?” he asked.

  “No, sir. But from what little he has told me, she’s got pretty much the same problems he has. I get the idea she’s a rebel, though, and I wouldn’t describe Paul as that. I guess she’s gone on the offense, and Paul fights defensively.”

  Up until a few weeks ago, Carver thought.

  He said, “If Paul does contact you, will you call me?” He drew a business card from his pocket and stretched to hand it to Emmett.

  “If you want me to be honest,” Emmett said, taking the card and laying it in a puddle next to the beer can, “that’d depend on what Paul has to say about them killings.”

  “Whatever he has to say, it’ll be easier for him if I find him before the police do. I want to help him, Emmett. And he’s not the type to give himself up easily, is he?”

  “No, he’s not that. He’d be scared and angry and get himself hurt or killed—or maybe even kill somebody else out of fear. In his way, he’s gut-deep stubborn. All us Kaves are.”

  Carver had gathered that. “Thanks for your help,” he said, and stood up. “Can we talk again about Paul sometime?”

  “Sure thing.” Emmett got up and walked with him to the door. “You do me and Paul a favor and don’t mention to Adam that Paul’s dropped by here now and then the past several years. Paul was always scared Adam’d find out. I figure Paul’s innocent, and when all this trouble dies down, I don’t want him thinking I ratted on him and got him in deep shit with old Adam.”

  Carver almost refused. After all, Adam Kave was his client and he had a professional obligation of loyalty.

  But that was ridiculous, an automatic twinge of obligation and nothing more. An illusion of professionalism. He was already deceiving his client, using him. And under the circumstances his behavior was justified. An eye for an eye, a son for a son.

  “Okay, Emmett. Our secret.”

  Emmett held out a bacon-scented hand and they shook on the deal, leaving Carver’s fingers greasy. The screen door creaked shut, and Emmett faded into interior dimness.

  As Carver made his way across the desert of the yard and back to his car, he was sure the old man was grinning behind the dark screen.

  Emmett got off on sharing secrets his brother didn’t know.

  Chapter 13

  THE NEXT DAY DAWNED red and mean, as if Mother Nature bore a grudge against mankind. Well, maybe she did. Carver looked out the car window at the rows of expensive homes and high-rise condominiums cluttering the majestic shore and supposed she had reason enough.

  He found the Kave family eating breakfast on a screened-in veranda overlooking the ocean. A rust-colored awning had been rolled out overhead to block the sun. The screen was silver, unlike the dark mesh of Emmett’s front door, and the view through it somehow made the Atlantic seem brighter and more shot with sun. Occasionally a hot breeze would kick up off the ocean, causing the awning to flap like a sail. The air that morning was thick and felt silky on Carver’s bare arms and face.

  Adam sat at the head of the rectangular glass-topped table, Elana at the opposite end. Nadine had answered Carver’s ring and, after leading him to the veranda, took her seat again before a partly eaten half-grapefruit with a sprinkling of sugar over it. Carver tried to imagine Paul seated opposite his sister but couldn’t.

  “Care for some breakfast, Carver?” Adam Kave asked. He was wearing a white-on-white shirt and blue-striped tie today, as if he might be going somewhere or was prepared to meet someone. The breeze tried to ruffle his slicked-back graying hair but couldn’t manage; a victory for Brylcreem.

  Carver declined the offer of breakfast, but he sat down at the table, where Paul might have sat had he been there. The proximity of his quarry in space if not time felt eerie. “I’ve been to see Emmett,” he said.

  Elana dabbed nervously at her lips with her pink cloth napkin. She had on the same delicately laced robe she’d worn yesterday. Adam sipped his coffee from a dainty cup that looked lost and imperiled in his big hand, and peered at Carver over the rim. There was a pink flowery design on the cup, traversed by a hairline crack. Carver for some reason remembered vaguely a line from an Auden poem memorized in school, something about a crack in the side of a teacup being a lane to the land of the dead.

  “Guess you had to go there,” Adam said. “I don’t like Emmett involved in family matters, though.”

  “Sometimes it can’t be helped,” Nadine said. “There’s no changing the fact he’s your brother.”

  “Stay out of this,” Adam said casually but with unmistakable authority.

  Carver thought Nadine might snap an answer at her father, but three beautifully pitched, melancholy chimes sounded from nearby. The doorbell. End of this round.

  Nadine glared at Adam, then rose and left the veranda. She was wearing a white tennis outfit with shorts, and her tanned legs were thick but surprisingly shapely. Calf muscles rippled above her soft-soled court shoes, and the firm flesh of her thighs danced with each step. She would probably be strong at sports, Carver thought. Strong at a number of things.

 
Adam said, “I suppose Emmett asked you not to tell me Paul’s been in the habit of driving over to Kissimmee and seeing him.”

  Carver was surprised. His face must have shown it.

  Adam smiled and took another nibble of coffee from the dainty cup. “I won’t put you on the spot and ask if you promised him you wouldn’t mention it. Maybe you traded that promise for some useful information.”

  “I traded it for Emmett’s further cooperation,” Carver said. “If what he says is true—and you seem to confirm it—Paul might well contact him for help. Emmett promised to call me if that happened.”

  “Emmett’s promises are about as solid as that sand,” Adam said, sweeping a backhand motion toward the ocean breaking on the beach below. A large, errant night moth, lost and dazzled by the light, pinged off the screen twice, then flitted away across the bright green lawn toward an uncertain future.

  Elana stood up and smiled at Carver. The smile was out of context, as if she hadn’t been present during Carver and her husband’s conversation. Maybe people looking squarely at death did so from their own intensely personal and narrowed worlds.

  “I’m feeling the heat somewhat, Mr. Carver,” she said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me while I take myself upstairs.”

  Adam stood up hastily, causing his pink napkin to slide from his lap onto the floor. Carver stood with him and they watched Elana walk into the house. She moved with her apparently customary slowness, but so gracefully Carver thought there was a dreamlike quality to her. A breeze rose and the canvas cracked overhead, a reminder of reality.

  “It isn’t the heat,” Adam said. “She gets tired faster now.” There was the slightest catch in his gravelly voice.