there with her mouth open. On any other woman it wouldn’t have been attractive.
As the elevator dropped, he wondered why she was more interested than she should be about his talk with Dr. Wynn.
11
T HE TEMPERATURE WAS OVER ninety by the time Carver got back to the Warm Sands Motel. As he parked the Olds, he noticed the little artificial beach down by the lake was crowded, and there were about a dozen preteen children splashing around in the swimming pool while their parents watched.
Heat from the pavement radiated through the thin soles of his moccasins as he limped to his room. He was perspiring by the time he closed the door behind him.
It felt cool in the room. The drapes were still closed, muffling the voices of the kids in the pool. His grip was slippery with perspiration on the crook of his cane, and his shirt was still plastered to his back from sitting in the car. He made his way into the bathroom, leaned over the washbasin, and ran cold water. After splashing some on his face, he held his wrists beneath the cool stream that twisted shimmering from spigot to drain. He felt better when he limped back into the room.
Until he saw someone standing near the bed.
Carver stood still, tightening his hold on the cane. He knew how to use it as a weapon.
“Startle you?” the man by the bed asked. He was conservatively dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, dark tie with diagonal stripes. His straight, dark hair was short and neatly combed with a part on the side, and he had the kind of clean-shaven, squarish face that prompted the description “clean cut.” His eyes were calm behind black horn-rimmed glasses that lent him a bookish air. The well-tailored suit was a fooler; Carver noticed that beneath the slimming effect of artfully draped material, the man’s shoulders, chest, and arms were immense.
“I’m not used to walking out of the bathroom and finding Clark Kent,” Carver said.
The man smiled. He might have been the muscular host of a TV game show, approving of Carver’s cleverness. Or maybe he’d been told before he’d make a great Clark Kent and knew he was really Superman.
“How’d you get in?” Carver asked.
The big man nodded toward the door. “I simply applied pressure. Anyone watching outside would think the door was unlocked and I just walked in.”
Carver stared at the sprung latch. He hadn’t heard the lock give over the running water in the bathroom with the door closed. It must have taken phenomenal strength to force entry into the room. Superman for sure.
“There must be a reason for your visit,” Carver said.
The big man crossed his arms, straining good tropical-blend wool. His hands were large, with thick, blunt fingers and squared-off, clean nails. He wasn’t sweating despite the suit coat and tie. He said, “I’ll get to the point, which is that I’m here to discourage you from continuing with the Jerome Evans investigation.”
“If you’re here,” Carver said, “there must be something to investigate.”
“Obviously.”
“Which means I’ll only be encouraged to continue.”
“Oh, not at all. The fact that my presence suggests information beyond your present knowledge does provide incentive, but that will be far outweighed by the conversation we’re about to have.”
“What kind of conversation?”
“Animated,” the man said.
He stepped toward Carver, moving smoothly for all his bulk. There was no doubt what he had in mind.
Therapeutic swimming, and the very act of locomoting with the cane, had given Carver a powerful upper body. He thought he could handle this guy, even without kryptonite.
But then, that was just the way he thought.
He waited, perfectly still, so he’d surprise the big man all the more with his sudden motion. The distance between them was closing.
Carver swiftly raised the cane and rammed its tip into the man’s sternum, inches beneath the heart. He was skilled in using the cane as a jabbing weapon, and he’d taken down some
As the elevator dropped, he wondered why she was more interested than she should be about his talk with Dr. Wynn.
11
T HE TEMPERATURE WAS OVER ninety by the time Carver got back to the Warm Sands Motel. As he parked the Olds, he noticed the little artificial beach down by the lake was crowded, and there were about a dozen preteen children splashing around in the swimming pool while their parents watched.
Heat from the pavement radiated through the thin soles of his moccasins as he limped to his room. He was perspiring by the time he closed the door behind him.
It felt cool in the room. The drapes were still closed, muffling the voices of the kids in the pool. His grip was slippery with perspiration on the crook of his cane, and his shirt was still plastered to his back from sitting in the car. He made his way into the bathroom, leaned over the washbasin, and ran cold water. After splashing some on his face, he held his wrists beneath the cool stream that twisted shimmering from spigot to drain. He felt better when he limped back into the room.
Until he saw someone standing near the bed.
Carver stood still, tightening his hold on the cane. He knew how to use it as a weapon.
“Startle you?” the man by the bed asked. He was conservatively dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, dark tie with diagonal stripes. His straight, dark hair was short and neatly combed with a part on the side, and he had the kind of clean-shaven, squarish face that prompted the description “clean cut.” His eyes were calm behind black horn-rimmed glasses that lent him a bookish air. The well-tailored suit was a fooler; Carver noticed that beneath the slimming effect of artfully draped material, the man’s shoulders, chest, and arms were immense.
“I’m not used to walking out of the bathroom and finding Clark Kent,” Carver said.
The man smiled. He might have been the muscular host of a TV game show, approving of Carver’s cleverness. Or maybe he’d been told before he’d make a great Clark Kent and knew he was really Superman.
“How’d you get in?” Carver asked.
The big man nodded toward the door. “I simply applied pressure. Anyone watching outside would think the door was unlocked and I just walked in.”
Carver stared at the sprung latch. He hadn’t heard the lock give over the running water in the bathroom with the door closed. It must have taken phenomenal strength to force entry into the room. Superman for sure.
“There must be a reason for your visit,” Carver said.
The big man crossed his arms, straining good tropical-blend wool. His hands were large, with thick, blunt fingers and squared-off, clean nails. He wasn’t sweating despite the suit coat and tie. He said, “I’ll get to the point, which is that I’m here to discourage you from continuing with the Jerome Evans investigation.”
“If you’re here,” Carver said, “there must be something to investigate.”
“Obviously.”
“Which means I’ll only be encouraged to continue.”
“Oh, not at all. The fact that my presence suggests information beyond your present knowledge does provide incentive, but that will be far outweighed by the conversation we’re about to have.”
“What kind of conversation?”
“Animated,” the man said.
He stepped toward Carver, moving smoothly for all his bulk. There was no doubt what he had in mind.
Therapeutic swimming, and the very act of locomoting with the cane, had given Carver a powerful upper body. He thought he could handle this guy, even without kryptonite.
But then, that was just the way he thought.
He waited, perfectly still, so he’d surprise the big man all the more with his sudden motion. The distance between them was closing.
Carver swiftly raised the cane and rammed its tip into the man’s sternum, inches beneath the heart. He was skilled in using the cane as a jabbing weapon, and he’d taken down some
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