JUST BEFORE NOON, so he could beat the lunch crowd, Carver drove to Poco’s Tacos for lunch. It was a cloudless and balmy day, and many of the pleasure boats usually docked at the marina were out to sea. Carver sat at a table in the shade of its umbrella, took a crunchy bite of taco, and watched sailboats, cabin cruisers, outboard runabouts, and a guy on a Sea-Jeep frolicking in the ocean. The peril-fraught sea of Columbus and Magellan had become a playground.
As he was sipping soda through a straw, he happened to glance toward the street and notice a big black Buick parked at the curb near the marina entrance. The man behind the wheel was watching him through the windshield, which reflected the sun so that Carver couldn’t quite make out his features. Then either the man shifted position or a cloud passed over the sun, blocking or changing the angle of reflection, and for a second it looked as if the driver was a large man wearing black horn-rimmed glasses.
Carver gripped his cane and stood up, ducking his head to avoid bumping it on the umbrella. Carrying his cup of soda in his free hand, he walked toward the Buick.
The car’s door opened and the driver got out and stood tall. He was a broad-shouldered man wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt, and red tie. He had a blond crew cut and was indeed wearing black horn-rimmed glasses. They made him look studious but didn’t keep him from looking dangerous. The WASP. He crossed his arms, leaned back against the car, and put on a waiting smile.
Carver limped toward him faster, feeling fear mixed with elation, weighing the odds. This was a well-traveled street in broad daylight. It was unlikely that the WASP would display a gun or knife. Whatever physical was going to happen would be fast. Fast was fine with Carver. Fast was what he was about, even if he lacked lower-body mobility. He had quickness and reaction time. And he had his cane for a weapon.
When he was a hundred feet from the WASP, he tossed aside his soda cup, litterbug ready for action. More than ready. Carver’s blood was up. The WASP liked to break fingers, let him see if he could break Carver’s.
When Carver was fifty feet away, the WASP unhurriedly climbed back into the Buick.
The engine was idling, but the car didn’t move. He knows I can’t get there in time with the cane, Carver thought. The bastard’s toying with me, reminding me I’m a cripple.
He let Carver limp to within ten feet of the car before driving away. He didn’t wave, didn’t even bother to glance at Carver. It was a nondisplay and it plainly showed disdain, demonstrating who had control.
Carver hadn’t even been able to make out a license plate number. The plate was in a chrome holder with a plastic cover that was conveniently discolored from the sun.
Carver walked back to where he’d flung aside his soda cup and whacked it with his cane, scattering cracked ice. Then he retrieved the mangled cup and dropped it and his half-eaten lunch into a trash receptacle. He was still in fight-or-flight mode, and he’d chosen fight; his blood was racing and his heart continued hammering with anticipation, pumping adrenaline. His mind knew the crisis had passed but his body, processing older and essential signals that urged survival instead of death, hadn’t caught up. It was an effort for him to calm down.
As he looked out again at the day sailers and pleasure yachts and the man on the Sea-Jeep, the ocean didn’t look so blue and innocent. Florida off and on shore wasn’t the playground pictured in glossy chamber of commerce brochures and travel agency ads. Mickey Mouse and Goofy were here. So were sharks and alligators.
Thinking about the direction the black Buick had taken, he decided to drive to the cottage to be with Beth.
Before turning from the coast highway onto the road leading to the cottage, he parked the Olds and walked to the spot from which he could usually see Anderson’s parked car. This time Carver couldn’t find the usual patches of blue metal visible through the thick foliage. Either Anderson wasn’t on duty or he’d decided to observe the cottage from another position.
Lowering himself into the Olds, Carver put the car in drive, eased back onto the highway, and drove toward the turnoff and home.
Beth’s car was parked in its usual spot in the shade. At least she hadn’t decided to go somewhere on her own, making Anderson work harder for his bureau salary. Or maybe it would have been better if she had left the cottage, with or without Anderson following.
Carver parked the Olds next to her car and got out.
He’d taken a few steps toward the cottage when a loud bark made him stop and stand still.
Al shoved open the screen door and ran toward him, fangs bared, ears so flat against his head they were invisible. Another deafening bark. Carver stood dumbfounded. Was this really Al?
Al didn’t slow down. His rear paws kicked up puffs of dust as they dug at the sun-baked ground for traction. The barking became a low, menacing growl. Carver felt a chill of fear and raised his cane.
“Halt, Al!”
Beth’s voice.
Al skidded to a stop, staring at Carver. Then one of his ears shot erect and he cocked his head, seeming to recognize his master, the guy who’d saved him from the pound.
“It’s all right, Al,” Beth said. She was standing on the porch, holding the screen door open behind her, looking tall and coolly beautiful in a long white dress flowing in the sea breeze.
Suddenly she seemed to realize she was letting in mosquitoes. She released the wooden door and it slammed shut with a reverberating noise like an echoing gunshot.
Al trotted over to Carver, who resisted the temptation to crown him with the cane and instead leaned down and ruffled the fur between his ears. Wasn’t this why he’d adopted Al, to guard against intruders and protect Beth?
Sure, but . . .
“C’mon in, boys,” Beth said, opening the door and hip-switching back inside.
Carver and the other boy followed.
Beth had settled down on the sofa. The TV was on and she was watching CNN. An attractive and serious female news anchor Carver hadn’t seen before was talking about where interest rates would be heading and what that would mean for the housing market. Trying to guess where mortgage rates were going was like trying to forecast the weather, she said. So much ambiguity in the world, Carver thought. The weather, interest rates, murder . . .
He sat in the chair at a right angle to the sofa and leaned his cane against its upholstered arm. He decided that Beth didn’t have to know he’d seen the WASP near Poco’s Tacos and been taunted by him. She’d worry. Besides, she’d always warned him that Poco’s was a dangerous place to dine.
“Everything all right here?” he asked.
She looked at him curiously. “Of course. I’ve got Al.”
Al was enthusiastically devouring what looked like bits of meat and gravy stuck to the bottom of his bowl. He raised an eyebrow and glanced with concern from the corner of his eye, as if any second Carver might throw himself to the floor and try to usurp his place at the bowl. His canine expression suggested that Carver had done such a thing before and wasn’t above suspicion. Al was enjoying Bow-Wow-WOW! nuggets, no doubt, covered with rich broth from a can Beth must have found in the back of a cabinet. Carver thought the animal might be putting on weight.
“Dr. Galt called,” Beth said. “I have an appointment this afternoon to go into the hospital and have my remaining stitches removed. He’ll examine me then, tell me I’m up to par.”
“Do you feel up to par?”
“Feel like an eagle on every hole, Fred.”
Al choked, recovered, continued eating.
The news anchor on CNN was talking about the abortion clinic bombing in Del Moray. Carver and Beth watched as a tape of the boarded-up clinic was shown. Mug shots, front and profile, of Adam Norton came on the screen. Norton didn’t look contrite and was in fact smiling with an infuriating smugness. The scene cut to a local newsman interviewing Reverend Freel in front of the Clear Connection. “. . . of course Operation Alive doesn’t endorse violence,” Freel was saying into the microphone thrust toward him. “It’s the violence happening inside those clinics that we object to and cannot—will not—accept. Violence is precisely what we abhor and are demonstrating against.”
“But don’t you think the inflammatory rhetoric of you and your group might lead to more violence?” the newsman asked. He was young, had a mass of wavy hair, and kept a neutral tone and a strict poker face, as if his cheeks had been shot full of Novocain.
“What’s being done to our unborn citizens is what’s creating an atmosphere of violence,” Freel said. “If the government continues to try to justify this kind of mass murder, I’d say it’s almost inevitable that violence will occur.”
“You deny any responsibility for the bombing, but Adam Norton is a member of your congregation as well as Operation Alive.”
“So is Betty Charles.”
“Who?”
“Betty Charles. I use her as an example of someone the media and the public have never heard of because she would never plant a bomb or harm any human being and is a member of both my congregation here at the Clear Connection and of Operation Alive. We simply can’t be responsible for the actions of all our members. If indeed Adam Norton committed this crime, the truth will certainly emerge and society will deal with it.”
“Then you don’t think your previous incendiary remarks—”
“The fire of the Lord ignites weak tissue even as it comforts and heals. If his message is misinterpreted by some, that is as it has always been. In Deuteronomy, God requires burnt sacrifices. We are locked in a battle for the way of the Lord here. Much of what occurs is tragic, of course, but misguided and innocent people have always suffered in the struggle for truth. That is the human tragedy and the human glory and the shining path to redemption.”
“He reminds me of the preacher man who seduced and abandoned my aunt,” Beth said.
“Is Operation Alive going to continue demonstrating and picketing outside abortion clinics?” the newsman asked Freel.
“Certainly. We’ll go wherever the butchers are and make sure they are aware of their sins. And that the way to their salvation and our sick and festering society’s is for them to stop killing our unborn children.”
“Are you afraid of more violence, sir?”
“Yes, I am. If you’re trying to get me to denounce violence, I’m doing so now. I don’t want violence. Operation Alive doesn’t want violence. We abhor violence both inside and outside abortion mills.”
Freel’s image faded from the screen, as did the newsman’s. But the newsman instantly reappeared, standing in front of a low stone wall with a view of palm trees and the ocean beyond it. A split second in time but miles in distance away from the Clear Connection in landlocked Orlando. Technology making the world smaller but more deceptive. No wonder people like Freel could seize and mold confused minds and emotions.
“We attempted to interview Dr. Louis Benedict,” the newsman said. “Dr. Benedict is the other physician who performed abortions at the Women’s Light Clinic. But he refused to be interviewed, for obvious reasons of safety. However, he did tell us he’s continuing to perform abortions and that he’s received numerous death threats since the Women’s Light bombing. Back to you, Julie.”
Julie, the newscaster Carver didn’t recognize, was on screen again seated at the CNN anchor desk. “Thanks, Earl,” she said. “When we come back, we’ll show you how a squirrel can delay a major-league ball game for almost an hour while players and unhappy fans—”
Beth used the remote to switch off the set. “Hypocritical bastard.”
“Reverend Freel or Julie?” Carver asked.
“Why are you playing it so light and loose, Fred? Are you getting afraid of what’s happening and where it might lead?”
“That’s close,” Carver said. He couldn’t hide from her even in the farthest corners of his mind.
She came over and kissed his bald pate. “You’re no hypocrite, anyway. Want some lunch?”
“Had some.”
“I’m going to eat a sandwich, then drive in to the hospital to keep my appointment. Want to come along?”
“I’ll drive you.”
She smiled and opened the refrigerator. “Okay, but that will be the end of it.”
“It?”
“You treating me like a delicate invalid.”
He knew she was anything but delicate. Actually, he’d already decided to go with her to the hospital because Dr. Benedict was probably there, and he wanted to talk to him about the threats the doctor had continued to receive. But he didn’t tell Beth that. He let her think his motive for accompanying her was solely concern for her condition.
Hypocritical of him, maybe, but probably somewhere in the Old Testament he was covered, at least in the Reverend Martin Freel’s interpretation.