Shelby was there with him before he went into surgery, and at his bedside when he came out of the anaesthetic in ICU, but not when he woke again later, more or less clearheaded, in a private room. That was because his surgeon and a nurse were there instead; she was waiting outside. They’d let her come in as soon as they were done checking him and the tubes and monitors he was hooked up to.
How was he feeling? Like I just lost a long race with a turtle, Macklin thought. But all he said was, “Okay.” The surgeon had told him in ICU that the operation had gone well, but in case the patient had been too groggy to understand he repeated it again now. All his vital signs were good. Barring any unforeseen complications, he should fully recover and be able to lead a normal life.
Normal. Meaning average, ordinary, reasonably sane and moderately productive. He’d settle for that, all right; he’d hang on to it with both hands and never let go.
They left finally and let Shelby come in.
So pale and tired looking … but she was smiling, and for him the smile was as much life support as the tubes and monitors. There was so much he wanted to say to her, but the first words that came out were inane: “I guess I’m still lucky, huh?”
“So far so good.” She drew a chair over close to the bed and sat down. “You look a lot better than you did Wednesday night.”
“Didn’t think I was going to make it?”
“On the contrary. I knew you would.”
Little white lie, so he told one to match. “Me too.”
“The doctor said ten minutes, then you need to rest.”
“Ten minutes … How’s Ferguson?”
“Severe concussion, but he’ll be all right.”
“Claire?”
“They found her hiding in the woodshed at the cottage. Pretty badly frightened but otherwise okay. As far as I know she’s still in custody, but I don’t think they’ll bring charges against her.”
“Better not. It was all Lomax’s doing—he deserved what he got.”
“That seems to be the general consensus.”
“They find out who the blond guy is?”
“Joseph Marshall. Army corporal, served two tours in Iraq. Halfway through the second he had a stress-related break. Spent time in a combat stress clinic, then was given a medical discharge. I guess the army doctors didn’t realize how seriously disturbed he was or he’d never have been released.”
“Another casualty of that fucking war.”
“And five collateral casualties—six if you count Lomax. Marshall hasn’t confessed to any of the shootings yet; he’s not talking to anybody. Name, rank, and serial number.”
Macklin’s eyelids were growing heavy from the painkillers and other drugs they were pumping into him. “Getting sleepy already,” he said. “There’s something you have to know and I better get it said while I’m still coherent.”
“It can wait until later—”
“No, it can’t. Too important. I’m not the same person I was before we went up to Ben’s cottage.”
“Neither of us is,” Shelby said.
“Not at all in my case. I know why I’ve been so closed off most of my life, why I kept shutting you out. It’s all explained in that nightmare I kept having. My subconscious finally puked it up after the heart attack.”
He told her about the nightmare, in detail, and the words came easily. “It always embarrassed me,” he said, “one reason I could never talk about it. Kid’s fantasy monster. Only it wasn’t a fantasy. Distortion of something that actually happened when I was a little kid, six or seven.”
“Repressed childhood trauma?”
“That’s it. My mother and Tom were away visiting my aunt; I had a cold so I was left home with my father. Loud night noises woke me up and I went down the hall to see what they were. My old man … he was in bed with a woman he must’ve sneaked into the house after I was asleep. One-night stand, or somebody he’d been cheating on my mother with all along … no way I’ll ever know. They were screwing, but I had no idea that’s what I was seeing. In my kid’s mind it got twisted into something a lot more horrible.”
Shelby said, “A monster feeding on something still alive.”
“Right. I must’ve made a noise because he saw me, reared up off the woman, and started yelling. I ran and he chased me, caught me trying to hide in my bedroom closet, dragged me up by one arm—must’ve felt like the arm was being torn off. I was so scared I peed all over myself. What he was screaming at me … my subconscious turned it into whispers because the words were too terrifying. Something like ‘Forget what you saw tonight. You ever tell your mother or anybody else I’ll rip your fucking head off, I’ll chew you up like hamburger.’ ”
“My God. Six years old … no wonder you repressed it.”
He was starting to lose focus, to drift and fade. He said quickly, “The fear he put into me built a mental block: Don’t ever confide anything to anyone, keep it all locked away inside. But the block’s gone now, I’m done hiding.”
Shelby didn’t say anything. Still skeptical.
“Give me the chance,” he said, “I’ll prove it to you. Will you?”
The nurse picked that moment to come in and call for an end to the visit.
Shelby got to her feet.
Macklin gave her a pleading look. “Will you?”
“Heart melter,” she said softly.
“What?”
“Never mind. I’ll think about it.”
“… I love you, Shel.”
Almost under now, his eyelids so heavy they wouldn’t stay open. He didn’t see her face when he heard her say, “Yes, I know.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m indebted to Sam Parsons, former EMT, South Coast VFD, for sharing his expertise.
Thanks also to George Gibson of Walker & Company and my agent, Dominick Abel, for their ongoing support. And to Marcia, for all the usual reasons.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Bill Pronzini is the author of more than seventy novels, including three in collaboration with his wife, the novelist Marcia Muller, and is the creator of the popular Nameless Detective series. A six-time nominee for the Edgar Allan Poe Award (most recently for A Wasteland of Strangers), and two-time nominee for the International Association of Crime Writers’ best novel of the year, Pronzini is also the recipient of three Shamus Awards and the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Private Eye Writers of America. He lives in northern California.
Also by Bill Pronzini
Blue Lonesome
A Wasteland of Strangers
Nothing But the Night
In an Evil Time
Step to the Graveyard Easy
The Alias Man
The Crimes of Jordan Wise
The Other Side of Silence
Copyright © 2010 by Bill Pronzini
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Walker & Company, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Published by Walker Publishing Company, Inc., New York
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA HAS BEEN APPLIED FOR.
ISBN: 978-0-8027-1800-6 (hardcover)
First published by Walker Publishing Company in 2010
This e-book edition published in 2010
E-book ISBN: 978-0-8027-7836-9
Visit Walker & Company’s Web site at www.walkerbooks.com
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