The cottage’s front door had been forced open. The lock appeared intact, but the interior mechanism had been sprung and the bolt was sheared, as if someone had rammed his shoulder hard into the door. Carver had assumed Dr. Pauly was sitting on the front porch because he hadn’t been able to get in the cottage, but maybe that was wrong. Or maybe someone other than Dr. Pauly had been inside.
Carver supported himself by leaning on the doorjamb. He ran his fingertips over rough plaster, feeling for the wall switch. He found smooth plastic, worked the switch, and the lamp by the sofa winked on.
A glance around told him things were out of place. Whoever had broken the lock had gone through the cottage, either looking for something in particular or merely making an idle search.
Carver stood as straight as he could, balancing with just his fingertips touching the doorjamb. Then he lurched across the room to the chair where he customarily sat after his morning swims. He clutched the back of the chair, swayed this way and that, but managed to stay standing. Using furniture and the walls for handholds, he made his way to where the umbrella he’d used as a makeshift cane was leaning in the corner, near the pieces of the walnut cane Raffy had snapped in half in Del Moray.
When he’d gripped it by its curved plastic handle he felt immeasurably more secure, but he couldn’t put his entire weight on the umbrella or it would bend. He moved gingerly taking short, uneven steps, being very careful where he placed its slender metal tip.
There hadn’t been much attempt to conceal the fact that the cottage had been searched. Carver made his way behind the folding screen that partitioned off the sleeping area. He saw that the mattress had been lifted so someone could check to see if there was anything concealed between it and the bedsprings. The pillow had been tossed to the side against the wall. None of the dresser drawers had been shut all the way after they’d been rummaged through. It looked like a teenager’s room.
With a sudden foreboding he limped to the dresser and yanked the top drawer open all the way. Rooted through its contents.
The Colt. 38 automatic was gone from beneath his socks.
Carver closed his eyes and pictured Dr. Pauly holding the gun leveled at him waist-high. An automatic. In the darkness he hadn’t recognized it, but it must have been the Colt. One automatic handgun looked much like another. Dr. Pauly had been in the cottage and taken the gun from the drawer before Carver arrived. Not surprising. His life had been in danger, and it figured that a private investigator would keep weapons in the house. His search had paid off.
The doctor wasn’t to be trusted, but he had given sound advice. If Raffy was hyped on drugs and on a homicidal rampage, he’d be just the person to avoid.
Carver tried to remember where he’d last put his flashlight. Wished he were more of a place-for-everything kind of guy. The air conditioner had overloaded the cottage’s wiring last month, and he’d used the flashlight to locate the blown fuse and screw in a replacement. He thought it was in the cabinet beneath the sink.
He wielded the umbrella with vigor and purpose and hobbled toward the kitchen area. He’d use the flashlight to try to find the coil wire Dr. Pauly had hurled into the darkness. Then he could get the Olds started and drive to safety.
His first stop would be Sanderson’s Drugstore on Ocean Drive, where he remembered the rack of aluminum and wooden canes and crutches between the prescription counter and the display of condoms and Ace bandages. He needed mobility more than he cared to admit.
He sat on the floor and used both hands to pull everything out of the cabinet under the sink. Bug spray, dishwashing detergent, spot remover, scrub brush, steel-wool pads.
Everything but a flashlight.
The phone rang. Made Carver drop the spray can of glass cleaner he was holding. The yellow plastic lid popped off, bounced, and wobbled back into the cabinet.
Dragging the unopened umbrella behind him, he crawled to the phone and pulled it down on the floor. Held it in his lap and lifted the receiver. Gave a cautious hello.
A faint voice said, “He’s on his way, Carver.”
Carver’s heart danced against his ribs. “Who’s on his way? Who is this?”
“It’s Dr. Pauly. Raffy’s on his way to your place. Right now. He thought he killed me… maybe he did. I had to warn you. God, the blood! It’ll take him about ten minutes to get there. Understand? Ten minutes!”
“Where are you?” Carver asked levelly.
“It’s not like somebody else’s blood,” Dr. Pauly said weakly. Almost a horrified moan. “Not at all. My own blood. So much of it! It won’t stop. No matter what. Won’t…”
“Where are you?”
“Ten minutes. Ticking away. Save yourself!”
“Listen! Dr. Pauly!”
There was a clatter, then a steady buzzing.
The connection was broken.
Carver sat on the floor gripping the droning phone in both hands and staring down at it, as if it held the fascination toys hold for infants.
Ten minutes!
He knew it would take the police at least fifteen minutes to reach the isolated cottage. And he hadn’t called them yet!
He dialed 911.
“I’m a private detective,” he told the operator. “I’ve just been told someone’s on his way to my home to try to kill me.” He gave the emergency operator his name and address, even directions to the cottage.
“You say you’re a detective?”
“Yes!”
“With what department?”
“Private! I’m a licensed private investigator!”
“Will you give me your full name and your phone number, sir?” She didn’t seem excited. Other people’s desperation was routine. Death threats were all in a night’s work.
“He’ll be here in ten minutes!” Carver said.
“I need your name and phone number, sir. Then I’ll call you back and get more information concerning the emergency. It won’t take long.”
Christ! She thought this might be a hoax. Didn’t she know what it was to be terrified?
Ten minutes! And he was bogged down in bureaucracy land! Fear stuck like a jagged lump of metal in his throat-he could taste it.
Carver pressed down the cradle button and punched out the number of the sheriff’s office.
Better luck there. He told a switchboard operator what the problem was and she assured him a car was on the way.
“On the way” might not be good enough. Carver thought about the fire station on the coast highway. He knew the fire department could reach the cottage in about fifteen minutes, maybe in slightly less time if the highway wasn’t congested. It could take them longer if there was traffic.
He called in and reported that the cottage was on fire.
Then he sat sweating and staring at the phone, wondering how to defend himself against Raffy Ortiz. If he simply tried to crawl into the night and hide, Raffy would easily track him, perhaps with a flashlight, and kill him. If he called someone near enough to arrive before Raffy, he might only be providing Raffy with another victim. Besides, this was a comparatively desolate area of the coast, and there might not be anyone near enough to beat Raffy to the cottage. An enraged tiger on drugs, Dr. Pauly had said. Dr. Pauly, who was himself probably dead or dying because of Raffy.
Carver glanced around the cottage from his seated position on the floor. A different, lower perspective that lent a disturbing strangeness to familiar surroundings.
He stood up slowly and carefully with the umbrella and lurched into the kitchen.
From the clutter in the sink drawer he lifted a carving knife, then he hurried to the front door. Cicadas were trilling and the moon’s reflection lay like a sad smile on the sea. He used the knife to cut the wire mesh from the screen door, running its blade at an angle along the wooden edges of the frame.
Half a minute later he switched off the light and hobbled outside.