Scorcher by John Lutz Page B

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.
    Carver wondered if Adam realized Emmett knew about Elana’s illness. Or did it matter? “How did you find out about Paul going to see Emmett?” he asked.
    “Played detective,” Adam said in a self-congratulatory tone, sitting back down. He poured some more coffee for himself and then held out the elegant silver-and-glass carafe toward Carver, who had also sat down again. “Sure you don’t want some?”
    “I’m sure,” Carver said.
    Adam placed the carafe back in its stand, above a wavering candle flame. “Last year, somebody I know in Kissimmee mentioned seeing Paul’s car in Emmett’s neighborhood. That old Lincoln’s pretty distinctive, so I thought there might be something to it, even though Paul lied and told me he was someplace else when I asked him about driving to Kissimmee. So what I did was drive to Emmett’s house and back, keeping track of the mileage. And now and then I’d check the odometer in Paul’s Lincoln after he’d been gone awhile. Several times the mileage on his odometer matched exactly the mileage to Emmett’s house and back here, sometimes down to the tenth of a mile.”
    No wonder Paul felt constricted, Carver thought. It wouldn’t be difficult to become paranoid with a father like Adam Kave.
    Nadine came back onto the veranda, flanked by two men. The one on her right had his arm