The Hidden

by Bill Pronzini

  “Don’t you?”

  “At least it was warm in there.”

  “Don’t tell me you liked that bunch?”

  “I didn’t say that. No.”

  “I wish you hadn’t agreed to drink with them.”

  “One drink, which I needed. The fire, too.”

  “I was uncomfortable the whole damn time.”

  Of course you were, Shelby thought. All kinds of people made him uncomfortable, strangers in particular. He hadn’t always been like that. Once he’d been a people person, or tried to be even if he hadn’t always been successful. Now he shied away at every opportunity, made excuses to avoid contact with anyone except old friends like Ben Coulter. Afraid of being hurt, which in her mind translated to being afraid of living. She was just the opposite. She liked people for the most part. Found even the odd ones like the Lomaxes and the Deckers interesting, not that she’d want to spend any more time in their company. It had gotten a little unpleasant in there toward the last.

  Jay was backing out of the driveway onto the lane. “The way they kept sniping at each other,” he said. “You could’ve cut the tension with a knife.”

  “The storm, strangers showing up. Too much to drink and getting on each other’s nerves.”

  “And Lomax with that gun. Who did he think we were, home invaders?”

  “He didn’t threaten us with it, did he?”

  “You know how I feel about guns.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I know.”

  “The only half normal one was Claire,” he said. “But she didn’t really give a damn about getting to know us. Buffers. That’s why she invited us to stay.”

  “Buffers?”

  “Afraid something ugly, maybe violent was going to happen and us being there would diffuse it.”

  “You’re exaggerating, Jay.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “All right. Whatever.”

  He eased the car along the rainswept lane. The wiper on the passenger’s side of the windshield seemed to have gone out of whack; it arced in little stuttering jerks, smearing more than clearing the glass. Another thing to be fixed, Shelby thought, another drain on their finances. Like the dryer that was about to give out, and the sink drain that kept clogging up, and the automatic garage door opener that no longer worked, and all the other little things that kept going wrong.

  Their situation wouldn’t have gotten so bad if Jay had been able to find work. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried; it was the lousy economy and the fact that he was either overqualified for this job or underqualified for that one. Worst time of year to be looking, too; even the minimum-wage jobs were taken. His unemployment insurance would run out in another six months or so, and then what would they do? She made a decent salary, but she was already putting in maximum overtime, working the graveyard shift whenever she could for the extra pay. It was enough to keep them afloat, but without some additional income …

  Jay said musingly, “I wonder what Paula meant.”

  “Meant about what?”

  “After we sat down. She said something about wackos on the loose inside and out. Inside, yes, but why ‘out’?”

  “Smart-ass remark. She and her husband made a lot of them.”

  “Didn’t sound like wisecracking to me.”

  “Well, she wasn’t being cryptic, either, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Not cryptic, just … I don’t know. It seemed funny, that’s all.”

  Sometimes he could be exasperating, the way he kept picking at things. First the deputy sheriff earlier and now the Lomaxes and the Deckers. “Why does it bother you so much?”

  “Part of the tension in there.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant why does the way the four of them acted bother you so much?”

  “I don’t know, it just does.”

  Well, she knew why. And so did he, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Being confronted with other people’s marital conflicts had sharpened his awareness of the conflicts in their marriage. Hit too close to home. She’d felt it, too, but she had the capacity to keep it in perspective.

  She said, “Will you please just forget about it? We’ll probably never see any of them again.”

  “What if they invite us to spend New Year’s Eve with them?”

  “They won’t.”

  “Damn well say no if they do.”

  Back at the cottage now, turning in under the carport. The power was still out—naturally. Inside, the damp and the chill had taken over again; in the darkness, the dank, musty smell had a subterranean quality, like the inside of a sea cave. Quickly, guided by the flashlight, Shelby rounded up half a dozen candles from the supply closet and lit the wicks. Jay took the matches and got the fire going while she distributed the candles to each of the rooms.

  Most of the ice in the martini pitcher was unmelted; that was how cold it was in there. She hesitated, looking into the pitcher. Enough for another glass. Usually two was her limit, but tonight, after that godawful four-hour drive and the bizarre twenty minutes or so at the Lomax place, she decided she was entitled to a little overindulgence.

  The old Dorothy Parker quatrain popped into her head as she was pouring her glass full.

  I like to have a martini,

  Two at the very most.

  After three I’m under the table,

  After four I’m under my host.

  Uh-uh, she thought, not tonight. Not under the table, and definitely not under Jay. Three martinis spaced out over an hour and a half weren’t going to get her hammered or make her amorous. Still, she’d better eat something after she finished this one. It had been more than seven hours since the light, late lunch they’d had before leaving home.

  Jay had the fire blazing now, the flames painting the darkness with a flickering red-orange glow. He said as he came over to her, “Better go easy. That’s three on an empty stomach.”

  “I know how many I’ve had.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. Just making a comment.”

  The comment being that she was drinking too much lately. Well, he was right, she was. And until he’d suddenly slacked off before Christmas, so was he. Another indication that the marriage was in trouble—their mutual reliance on alcohol to get them through their evenings alone together. Maybe that was why he’d mostly quit after all: subtle pressure to get her to do the same. His noncommunicative way of trying to shore up the crumbling foundation of their relationship.

  Sorry, sweetie, she thought, it’s not working.

  He said, “Let’s get warm and then I’ll make us something to eat.”

  “The good-cold casserole we brought with us?”

  “Well, I had to tell them something to get us out of there,” he said defensively. “No way we were going to eat with those people.”

  She’d meant the casserole comment as a mild joke, and he’d taken it as a rebuke for lying. As she’d taken his reminder about three martinis on an empty stomach as implied criticism. Each of them guilty of misreading the other, something that hadn’t happened in the days when the foundation had been solid, that happened all too often now.

  Was there any real chance of saving the marriage, bringing back the closeness they’d once shared? He might want to save it, but did she? Sometimes she thought yes, sometimes no, and sometimes she wondered if saving it was worth the effort. She still cared for him, but how much of that caring was love and a genuine need to be with him, and how much simple compassion, habit, inertia? She didn’t know, couldn’t make up her mind. One thing she did know: the degrees of separation between them were widening into an unbridgeable chasm. If the marriage did have a chance to survive, something major had to change—direction, communication, something. And soon, very soon.

  No question a split would be difficult. She’d miss Jay; you couldn’t love and live with a man for twelve years and not be left with an unfilled hole. But she’d get along all right. With or without Dr. Douglas Booth or any other male. She was resilient, mor
e than capable of taking care of herself. She’d been taking care of people all her life. Mom, after Dad all of a sudden decided he preferred the bosom of somebody else’s family to his own—first because of Mom’s drinking, then full-time when the breast cancer was diagnosed, forcing her to quit school and alter her plans for a career as a health care worker. Jay the past few years. All the victims she’d had brief contact with on her job. And she’d come through all of that without too many scars, too many neuroses. Oh, yes, she was very good at taking care of people, herself included most of the time.

  But Jay wasn’t; he had to have somebody to count on, lean on. Somebody strong. Well, if they did go their separate ways, he wouldn’t have too much trouble finding a suitable replacement … Yes, he would, why try to kid herself? A beaten-down man with low self-esteem wasn’t exactly an ideal catch for any woman except a controlling or maternal one, neither of which was the type he needed.

  Face it, Shelby, she thought. The woman he needs is you. And the crux of the problem is, you’re tired of the burden and the responsibility.

  She sat with her drink in a chair drawn up close to the fire while Jay put together a meal in the kitchen. The spreading heat took away some of the damp mustiness and, along with the effects of the gin, warmed her again. Outside the wind had risen, buffeting the cottage with angry gusts, but in here, with the fire and the candlelight, it was almost cozy. Almost. Three martinis on an empty stomach could make any surroundings seem tolerable, as long as there was enough light to keep the darkness at bay.

  They ate sandwiches and stewed tomatoes in front of the fire, neither of them saying much. That had always been one of the good things about their relationship, the ability to sit together in companionable silence. Even when they argued or fought, they seldom raised their voices. Nor had they ever indulged in public bickering and name-calling, like the Lomaxes and the Deckers; that kind of open hostility was foreign to both their natures. A little private sniping now and then, sure, but what couple didn’t do that? Jay had his faults, but basically he was a quiet, gentle man. A good man. If only he wasn’t so infuriatingly introverted. And withdrawing deeper into himself every day. That, too, as much as the string of failures and setbacks, as much as the burden and responsibility of looking out for him, was what was slowly killing the marriage.

  Bedtime. She took two lighted candles into the master bedroom, went back to get a third. The fire’s warmth didn’t reach in there, but the bed, at least, was covered with two blankets and a thick down comforter.

  The adjoining bathroom was small and chilly. She took one of the candles in there and made short work of changing and of using the toilet. When she came out, Jay was already in bed with the comforter pulled up to his chin. She said as she got in beside him, “Whoever buys the toilet paper for this place has a sadistic streak.”

  “Poor quality?”

  “Like sandpaper.”

  “Probably Ben. He didn’t have much money when we were in college. Thrifty about everything in those days.”

  “Nobody should be thrifty when it comes to their asses.”

  Jay burst out laughing. She gave him a look, and then realized how indignant she’d sounded and laughed with him. Echo of the good early days, when they’d laughed often together.

  There was a sag in the middle of the mattress, so that when she turned on her side he slipped down against her back. The bed was too small to move away; she lay still, feeling the heat from his body, hoping he wouldn’t turn and try to arouse her. He didn’t. Within minutes his breathing told her he was asleep.

  But he was restless tonight; his arms and legs kept twitching. Often enough that was a sign that he would have his nightmare. The same nightmare over and over—that was all he’d ever say about it. Whatever it was, it must be terrifying. He’d wake himself and her up with moans, little whimpers, then outcries that were close to screams. And he’d be soaked in sweat, shaky, his pulse rate so accelerated he had trouble catching his breath. She hoped it wouldn’t happen tonight. The pain sounds he made and the sudden wrenching from sleep were bad enough, but the way his heart beat so rapidly for so long afterward was cause for alarm. So was the little hitch every few beats even when he was at rest.

  Shelby could hear the hitch now as he slept. It was probably nothing but simple arrhythmia, as his shortness of breath was probably nothing but the result of being out of shape. But they and the too-rapid pulse rate could also be symptoms of angina or some other form of heart disease.

  The first time she’d noticed the hitch, she’d suggested he see his doctor for a checkup and an EKG. He’d said he would, but as far as she knew he hadn’t done it. She’d have to prod him again. Abnormalities were nothing to slough off, even in a man of thirty-five. She’d seen and treated too many coronary victims; watched three die on the way to the hospital ER, one of them a man in his late twenties.

  One more thing to worry about …

  F I V E

  THE STORM BLEW ITSELF out sometime during the night. The wind was still yammering but there was no rain when Macklin got up and looked out through the bedroom window blinds. Heavy overcast, and a light fog swirling in among the pines and other trees that separated the cottage from the big estate to the south. Shelby was still asleep. He put on his new robe—her Christmas present to him this year—and went into the bathroom to use the toilet and splash his face with cold water. He hadn’t slept well; he felt logy and tight all over, as if his skin had somehow shrunk during the night. At least what sleep he’d had had been dreamless.

  He padded into the kitchen to see if the power had come back on. It had—a relief. He found coffee, set the pot brewing, then turned on the baseboard heater and raised the blinds over the mullioned windows that faced seaward. The ocean’s surface was strewn with deer-tail whitecaps and huge fans of kelp. Below the unkempt lawn that sloped down to the bluff edge, part of the cove below was visible—spume geysering over a collection of offshore rocks each time one of the incoming waves broke. Ben had told him there was a rock-and-sand beach that ran the full length of the inlet, flanked by rocky headlands, accessible only to the three cliffside homes. Maybe later, if the weather held, he and Shelby would go down there and check it out. One thing they had in common was the beachcomber gene.

  In the kitchen again, he took out the breakfast fixings they’d brought with them, put together a Florentine omelette, readied six strips of bacon for broiling in the oven, sliced English muffins. Cooking was a source of pleasure for him, always had been, and he was good at it. For a time, after college, he’d thought about enrolling in one of the better culinary academies, learning how to be a quality chef, but he’d never followed through. Maybe if he had …

  No, hell, he’d known back then that he wasn’t cut out to be a chef. Restaurant owner was more suited to his abilities, or so he’d believed. He understood well-prepared food, he had managerial skills, all he’d lacked was the capital. Five years of dull work in the restaurant supply business, with every extra penny of his and Shelby’s incomes saved, plus the cash from an affordable mortgage on the house Shel had inherited from her mother, and they’d taken the plunge.

  Macklin’s Grotto. Fine Seafood Specialties. A prime location in Morgan Hill, small but with an intimate atmosphere; a well-regarded chef trained in one of the better Manhattan restaurants, a menu that featured fresh fish and shellfish dishes, and the best cioppino he’d ever tasted. How could it miss being successful?

  Except that it had. Oh, not in the beginning; business had been good the first year, with plenty of repeat customers and new ones brought in by word-of-mouth recommendation. But then the economy had begun to sag and people were less inclined to spend their money eating out. Arturo, the chef, had quit to take a better-paying job in San Francisco, and the best replacement Macklin could find for him hadn’t been nearly as accomplished or creative. Empty tables even on the weekends, cash reserves running out and bills piling up. And then the death kiss—the woman customer who’d slipped on a piece of
salmon in cream sauce dropped by a careless waiter and cracked a bone in her wrist. Their insurance company had paid the medical and settlement bills, dropped them cold immediately afterward. And there was no way he could get another policy without paying an unaffordable high-risk premium.

  Three years of living his dream, only one of them really good. Then back into the restaurant supply business as a glorified office manager at Conray Foods—a mediocre job, but one that paid reasonably well. And then after a year and a half, with no warning, out on his ass and into line at the unemployment office.

  And once the unemployment insurance maxed out at seventy-nine weeks, or more likely, was suspended sometime after the first of the year? It wouldn’t make much difference in the short haul. But in the long haul … then what? Wasn’t likely to be any kind of decent job for a man his age, with his limited skills and experience and health issues. He’d be lucky to get minimum-wage dregs: busboy at Burger King, grocery bagger at Safeway, newspaper deliveryman if there were still newspapers to be delivered. Some future. Some hope to offer Shelby.

  What was that line from Body Heat? Something about the shit coming down so heavy sometimes you feel like wearing a hat. Right. Only with him, it’d have to be a ten-gallon Texas Stetson—

  Feeling sorry for himself again. Knock it off, Macklin. Your life is what it is—period. Nobody to blame but the gods or whoever runs the universe, if anybody or anything does. Accept it. Be a man.

  Grow up, be a man.

  Pop’s voice, echoing in his memory. Harold P. Macklin—always Harold, never Harry or Hal. Sporting goods salesman and habitual gambler who’d lost far more than he won at poker, horse races, blackjack, and the sports books in Tahoe and Reno. Cold, distant, domineering. Lousy husband, lousy father. Ruled Ma and his two sons with an iron fist and an acid tongue.

  Stop acting like a goddamn baby, Jayson. Grow up, be a man.

  I’m sick and tired of answering your stupid questions. What do I look like, an encyclopedia?

  Cooking? That’s woman’s work. What are you, a faggot?