Spark by John Lutz

maybe more. You hinting there might be a serial killer operating in Solartown?”
    Val didn’t seem taken aback by the idea. “Well, I never considered it, but it’s possible. Generally, though, they use knives or guns, don’t they?”
    “Generally. But there are ways to induce heart attacks. The Russians have done it chemically for years. Maybe even the C.I.A. Any former C.I.A. operatives living in Solartown?”
    “Not as I know of. But then, they wouldn’t put up a sign in their yards to that effect, would they? Listen, Carver, why would a serial killer pick on us old folks? I mean, what’d be the motive?”
    That was the question, all right. “Inheritance, maybe,” Carver said, hoping he wouldn’t have to explain that.
    “Rathawk Two, you read me?” the CB radio suddenly blared.
    “ ’Scuse me,” Val told Carver. He undipped the microphone and held it an inch in front of his mouth. “Rathawk Two here, Louella.”
    “Woman over on O Street, number five twenty-two, says grandkids visiting next door won’t stop playing the stereo too loud. Same songs over and over, Gloria Estefan records are driving her bananas. Wanna check that one out? Over.”
    Val pressed his mike button. “Ten-four, Louella. Out.”
    Val clipped the mike back to the dash. “Sometimes we handle that kinda thing,” he explained. “Save the police a trip out here when they need to be chasing crooks and crack addicts.”
    “Logical,” Carver said.
    “I can drop you back at your car. Another couple bars of Gloria Estefan ain’t gonna make much difference.”
    Carver was a Gloria Estefan fan, but he didn’t mention that to Val.
    When Val had braked the Dodge next to the parked Olds, he said, “You get lonely, come ride with me again. Maybe I’ll buy the doughnuts.”
    “Too much cholesterol,” Carver said. “Bad for the heart.”
    “Like Russian metal,” Val said, depressing the clutch and jamming the gearshift lever into low.
    “Russian metal” was the irradiated material KGB espionage agents used to induce seemingly natural death in their victims.
    As he watched the Dodge round the corner at a leisurely pace to respond to the audio assault call on O Street, Carver wondered where Rathawk Two had learned such a thing.

10
    C ARVER KNEW HE’D BE dealing with a medical doctor, and he wasn’t being operated on, so after breakfast the next morning at the Seagrill Cafe, he sipped coffee until almost ten o’clock before driving over to the medical center.
    The same pleasant redhead was at the fourth-floor receptionist’s desk, but she didn’t seem to recognize Carver. Dr. Wynn was in, she told him, and like yesterday she invited him to have a seat and wait.
    He settled down on a hard little sofa for what he figured would be a long time, resting his cane against one of the cushions. From hidden speakers, an FM station that boasted of playing “soft rock” sent out waves of neutered sound from the sixties. It was cool in here, anyway. He might as well relax and listen to violins play Jefferson Airplane.
    Only seconds after he’d turned the first page of a tattered two-month-old Newsweek , he was aware of someone standing near him.
    He looked up and saw a fortyish woman who surely at some point in her life had won a beauty contest. Her white uniform couldn’t mute the effect of her long, shapely legs, lean waist, high and full breasts. Shoulder-length, artfully tousled auburn hair framed a face with high cheekbones, luminous gray eyes, and a narrow, perfect nose. The only break in the symmetry was a slight overbite and pouty lower lip, but that only added to her appeal. It was a mouth made for uninhibited love.
    She knew why he was staring at her and smiled, used to men’s eyes and what went on behind them. “Mr. Carver?”
    He nodded and laid down the Newsweek.
    “If you’ll follow me, I’ll lead you to Dr. Wynn’s office.”
    She’d noticed his cane without seeming to, and she walked ahead of him at a slower than