IT WAS A LONG WAY up the driveway. Carver couldn’t make out much about the house except that it was large, as it had appeared from the ocean. Only a few windows were lighted in the front part of the house. Oddly enough, he saw or heard no sign of the dogs or any other security measure. Apparently, when Ogden had used the intercom outside the gates, the way had been cleared immediately for them to set foot on the grounds.
Carver was led through a side door. Then, flanked by Ogden and Butcher, he was ushered down a long hall. The walls were sand-colored and rough. The floor appeared to be real marble, a pink-veined gray that reminded Carver of flesh struck lifeless. There was no furniture other than a long, uncomfortable-looking wood bench along one wall, and a potted miniature fruit tree near the far end where the hall either ended or made a right-angle turn. Sparse but stylish.
Ogden stepped ahead and opened a tall door with oversized hinges and knob. Butcher shoved the back of Carver’s head to indicate he should follow Ogden into the room. Carver stumbled forward and almost fell, but he managed to remain upright. Knew he must look like a drunk lurching in a swaying world.
It was a large room, carpeted in deep maroon and with matching floor-to-ceiling drapes of some kind of velvet material. The walls were darkly paneled and covered with arrangements of fox-hunting prints. Red-coated riders on sleek horses leaping hedges and fences. Hounds streaming through fields in frantic chase. Carver noticed that the fox didn’t appear in any of the prints. On a sort of pedestal near a massive stone fireplace was a stuffed fox, head turned, one front paw raised delicately, looking alert and ready to bolt for safety. The taxidermist had done a good job; the stuffed creature probably seemed more alive and aware than had the fox itself when blood coursed through its veins. Almost worth shooting again.
Butcher noticed Carver looking at the fox and said, “You and your furry friend’ll have a lot in common you try any more bullshit.”
Ogden said, “Sit down, Mr. Carver,” and motioned with his hand toward a blue leather sofa.
Carver limped to the sofa and lowered his body into a corner of it. The leather was incredibly soft and he sank deeper than he’d anticipated. It wouldn’t be easy to get up in a hurry if he had to; he propped his cane against the cushion, within easy reach, giving himself another second or two if it became necessary to act.
The door they’d come through opened with a faint brushing sound as it skimmed the carpet, and Carver turned his head to see a tall silver-haired man in his mid-sixties enter. He was long-limbed but thick through the middle, with a pronounced stomach paunch; it made him slightly resemble a spider. He had on pin-striped gray pants, a white shirt, red suspenders. Without speaking, he came around to stand facing Carver. Looked down at him sitting on the sofa and smiled with large yellow teeth. His eyes were pale blue and they weren’t smiling. Something about him. He did look a lot like Bert Renway. The late Bert Renway.
Still smiling, he said, “Mr. Carver, I’m Frank Wesley.”
There was an air of certainty and authority about him that Renway hadn’t had. And a hard quality to the eyes. He filled his space in the world and was very much whatever he was. One look at him and people knew it instantly. Sensed his energy. Wesley was the sort of man who had his private concept of reality and could sell it to others by virtue of his belief in himself. People like him achieved fame or fortune marketing used cars or leading nations into wars. With Wesley it had been hogs. But now it was drugs. More money in drugs. More power.
Carver said, “You’re supposed to be dead.”
Wesley shrugged. “We’re all supposed to be lotsa things we aren’t.” He had a thick Southern accent only hinted at when he’d first spoken. Maybe he could control it. Used it only when he wanted to, for effect. He said, “While I had the chance, I figured I oughta talk to you, explain there’s big things in the wind and you’re not one of ’em. You’re a small thing might just get blown away if you’re not careful.”
“I try to be careful,” Carver said.
“No, sir, I disagree. That’s not your track record. But you are reputed to be a man of good sense, so I’m going to state to you the simple fact that there’s a deal working that involves so much money it’d just be a meaningless figure to you if I said it. You understand, that much money ’bout to flow, we’ll kill you in a minute if it don’t look like you’re of much use to us anymore. You follow that logic?”
“Perfectly. The more money the cheaper the lives.”
Wesley had never stopped smiling, but now the yellowed smile stretched wider. “That’s a fine answer, Mr. Carver. ’Cause it’s true. And that makes your life very cheap indeed.”
Carver noticed Butcher had moved. Was out of sight somewhere behind the sofa. Flesh bunched on the back of Carver’s neck, as if something were crawling there.
Wesley said, “I made my money the hard way, Mr. Carver, and I’ll keep it the hard way if need be.”
Carver said, “Need be. The DEA doesn’t want your drug deal to happen.”
“Well, that’s natural enough, and surely nothing new. They’re sort of an occupational hazard we long ago learned to cope with.” He shook his head in mock concern. “The things ‘n’ people money buys. It might surprise you.”
“No,” Carver said, “it wouldn’t.”
“You might not see it from down where you live, Mr. Carver, but the truth is I’m neither more nor less than a businessman. Doin’ what you’d do under the circumstances, granted you had the grit, know-how, and capital.”
“What about Bert Renway? Was he part of your business?”
“Thing to remember there,” Wesley said, “is it was the DEA and not me who put Renway in that car. Not to mention Renway himself volunteering.”
Carver couldn’t argue with that one. The things and people money buys.
“You’re part of this team now,” Wesley said, “whether you like it or not. Best you don’t stray again. You truly realize that?”
“More or less.”
“Gonna be more,” Wesley said.
He abruptly stopped smiling and turned away. Walked back out the door. Carver had been dismissed from the minds of the self-important that way before. Wesley was finished talking to Carver; on to genuinely important matters.
Ogden was standing motionless with his head slightly cocked to the side, cupping right elbow in left palm, touching his chin lightly with two fingers. Made him look a little like Jack Benny. He was staring oddly at Carver.
That was when Carver detected an acrid medicinal scent. Something familiar, yet he was unable to place it.
Until Butcher, from behind, clamped a rough cloth over his mouth. Yanked back on his head so Carver gave an involuntary gasp. Carver recognized in that instant the stench of chloroform. Then Butcher’s other hand grasped the back of his neck and applied hard pressure so Carver’s head might as well have been locked in a vise.
Carver couldn’t breathe. Gasped the dizzying fumes but couldn’t exhale. He panicked and lashed back with his arms, but strength was draining from them and feeling was leaving his hands. Some of the chloroform dripped onto his chest, chilling him through his shirt. He heard Butcher laugh from a great distance. Felt his heart expand and pound against his rib cage. Saw pinpoints of light. Thrashed mindlessly with his arms and legs, thumping them against the floor and the sofa’s arm and back.
Saw red.
Saw black.
Regained consciousness and didn’t know where he was.
Slouched. Cramped. Leaning with his left shoulder against a hard surface.
He opened his eyes and saw gray vastness. Something dreamlike swaying in the corner of his vision. Recognized the something as a palm frond. He realized he was gazing out through a windshield.
What was the deal here?
He tried to move but his muscles were too stiff to respond. His bad leg was extended over to the passenger side of the car and he was half-sitting, half-leaning against the door. He blinked. Peered again through the windshield and saw that the sky was overcast and dim. Low gray ceiling of lead. It couldn’t be much past dawn.
Something, a car or truck, swished past on the nearby road. He swiveled his head slightly to look. Pain! Stiff neck. He was parked far enough off the road, and among some trees, so that the car must be barely visible to passing motorists. And if anyone did happen to notice a parked car with the driver slumped behind the wheel, they’d probably figure Carver was wisely taking a short nap before traveling on.
Another car flashed past, and the whining retreat of its tires on warming pavement pulled Carver closer to full consciousness. The entire left side of his head was throbbing with pain. Nothing a couple of dozen Tylenols wouldn’t help. More cars passed, and off in the distance a dog barked. The kind of frantic yipping a small dog makes, but it brought last night back to Carver in its entirety.
Rather, up to the time he’d been chloroformed.
He tried to scoot his body up straighter. Didn’t work. The pain in his head flared. It was an odd, numbing kind of pain; Butcher must have pressed a nerve at the side of his neck. He rested his palm on the edge of the vinyl seat to push himself back and up. The heel of his hand encountered something sticky and slipped off the vinyl.
And Carver became aware of the smell in the car. Familiar, atavistic. Frightening and sickening.
Blood.
He felt around on the seat. There was quite a bit of the sticky substance. With a bolt of terror, he wondered if Butcher had gone ahead and cut his throat.
What was this? Was he dead? What was this?
Unable to look, clenching his eyes shut, Carver felt slowly and found that his pants were wet and sticky. His shirt. Oh, God! He felt the same disgusting stickiness on his stomach and chest, gradually and tentatively working his hand upward.
He finally groped at his throat. Felt more coagulating blood. Slid his fingertips through blood.
His blood.
But beneath the slime of it his flesh felt smooth and unbroken. He almost shouted with relief.
Then he remembered his peculiar throbbing headache.
Darted his hand to his left ear. Felt a fierce burning and almost fainted with pain and rage as he yanked the hand away.
Was afraid to touch again where his earlobe had been.