Flame Read Free

go on not knowin’ and not doin’ a thing about this.” He snubbed out his cigarette in the seashell ashtray he’d been holding, then placed the pink-and-blue-tinged shell on a corner of the desk. A thin wisp of gray smoke continued to curl from it. Caught the draft from the air conditioner and dissipated.
    He said, “Thanks, Carver. See you about two o’clock, okay?”
    Carver said two was fine. Watched Renway walk from the office in his stiff, slow gait that said he was a senior citizen and taking it easy. No rush to be anywhere or do anything. Time was running out and he was going to be selfish and enjoy what was left. Only trouble was, he needed money and had to bend a little to get it. Like getting involved in something he didn’t understand.
    Life kept demanding compromises, Carver mused. Never stopped.
    He heard the Cadillac’s powerful engine turn over and roar.
    His ears popped, as if he were in a plane climbing through changing air pressure. That was odd, but he didn’t have time to think about it.
    The blast blew in the window and knocked him out of his chair.

Chapter 3
    H E WAS DANCING, WHIRLING on two good legs. The woman he was with was wearing heady perfume. A scent he couldn’t place. Diamonds shot sparks off her black velvet gown.
    Carver opened his eyes wider.
    There was no woman. He wasn’t dancing. The diamonds were fragments of glass. The velvet wasn’t a gown, wasn’t black, and wasn’t even velvet; it was the blue carpet in his office.
    He was disappointed.
    Why was he lying on the floor? Staring at a thousand glittering glass shards and wondering where the hell was his cane? A curl of blackness broken by light washed over him, then receded. Like a dark surf rushing in, rushing out. He tried to gather his senses.
    What’s going on here?
    Not sure.
    You fully conscious, Carver? Reasoning straight?
    Dumb question. How would I know? But yeah, I think so.
    Where was his cane?
    Stretched out on his stomach, he propped himself up on his elbows and looked around.
    Whoa! The office was some mess. All the papers that had been on his desk were spread over the floor and up against the far wall, like leaves tossed by the wind. Nothing was left on the desk, not even the ashtray or the incredibly complicated Japanese-made combination answering machine, telephone, recorder, and Dictaphone Edwina had talked him into buying. The drapes hung limply at the window and were so shredded they admitted narrow sunbeams that dappled the floor and caused the broken glass to glitter. Diamond, diamond.
    Carver saw his cane lying on the floor near the desk. He started to drag himself toward it, then felt a shard of glass penetrate the heel of his hand and stopped and lay still.
    The sharp pain cleared his mind. Gingerly, he pulled the splinter of glass out with his thumb and forefinger and dropped it off to the side.
    Then he moved more carefully, picking glass out of the carpet before him. Like a fastidious maid removing dangerous lint.
    He reached the cane and gripped it tightly, feeling the hard walnut warm to his grasp. But he didn’t try to stand up. The way he felt, that could wait a minute or two. Instead he worked his way to a sitting position and leaned his back against the wall, his stiff leg angled out in front of him, and wondered what had put him here, what had happened.
    He heard the singsong wail of a siren, way off in the distance, yet red and blue light danced off the glass fragments remaining in the window frame. Roofbar lights. Odd. A police car had turned into the lot and was parking out front, but the siren seemed miles away. Sound and sight didn’t coincide. Didn’t make sense.
    Then he realized there was something wrong with his hearing. And there was a high, steady buzzing in his ears, hardly noticeable because it was so monotonous it seemed part of normal background noise. He’d been ignoring it the way people ignore crickets screaming.
    Then the sky outside the window darkened, lightened,