Schemers: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels)

by Bill Pronzini

  He unlocked the rear doors first, not hurrying, he had plenty of time; keyed the driver’s door open and leaned inside. From the glove compartment he transferred the roll of duct tape to his left jacket pocket, then the gun he’d bought to the right one. A .45 automatic, lightweight on an aluminum frame but bulky—it made a bulge in the pocket. That was why he’d kept it in the van until now. Careful.

  He left the van unlocked, walked back into the lobby to the long front desk—keeping his right hand in his pocket, around the gun, to minimize the bulge. From there he could see that Henderson’s team was done bowling. Chattering among themselves now while they changed their shoes and bagged their balls. The first time he’d come here, before the cemetery burning, Henderson and his teammates had had drinks together in the bar. The other two times, aware that he was being stalked, Henderson had left immediately and gone home. That was what he’d do tonight. Creature of habit. Couldn’t give up his twiceweekly league bowling, the only recreation he indulged in regularly. He was cautious, wary, but that wouldn’t matter. Surprise, Cliff—surprise!

  Henderson putting his jacket on was the signal to move. Devries turned away from the desk, walking casually, and went outside again and down the row in the front lot to where Henderson’s pickup was slotted. An SUV stood next to it. A man getting into his car two rows away was the only person in sight.

  Devries moved around to the side of the SUV, to where he had a clear vantage point. Unzipped the jacket pocket, got a tight grip on the gun. All set.

  He watched the entrance. Brightly lit, gradations of grainy black on both sides, pole lights throwing glints of light off metal and glass. Perfect composition for a night study. Too bad he didn’t have time to set up a shot with his Nikkormat or even the Kodak digital. But there’d be plenty of time to create other mementos, much better ones, later on.

  After two minutes Henderson came out alone, lugging his bowling bag. Devries ducked down out of sight. Footsteps in the cold darkness, coming close. The sound of the heavy bag thumping into the back of the pickup. He was moving by then, soundlessly, the gun out and ready. Timed it perfectly. Henderson was unlocking the driver’s door, his back turned. Heard him coming but not soon enough to react.

  Devries used his body to crowd Henderson against the door, jabbing the automatic hard into his rib cage, saying in a low voice close to his ear, “This is a gun. Move and I’ll shoot you dead. Promise.”

  He could feel the sudden tension in Henderson’s body, the tight coiling of muscles. Heard him say, “You,” in a voice that sounded more angry than scared. Well, that would change. Oh, yes, it would.

  “Start walking, Cliff.”

  “You bastard, you won’t get away with this—”

  Devries dug the barrel into his ribs, hard enough to make him grunt. “Walk, I said. Or you’ll never walk again.”

  “ … Where?”

  “North side of the building. Cut through the rows away from the lights. If anybody comes out before we get there, don’t stop or slow down. We’re just a couple of buddies on the move.”

  “What’re you going to do?” Still angry, but scared enough of the gun not to try any heroics.

  “You’ll find out. Walk!”

  Henderson walked. Jerkily, at first, then at a more even pace. Devries stayed in close, holding on to the sleeve of Henderson’s jacket with his left hand so he could keep the automatic’s muzzle tight against the ribs. Nobody showed before they reached the corner, went ahead into the shadows.

  At the rear of the van he jerked Henderson to a stop. “Listen. Step ahead a couple of paces. Don’t turn around.”

  Henderson obeyed. In the cold stillness, the sound of his breathing was loud, raspy. Vapor came out of his mouth in hard little puffs, like tobacco smoke.

  Devries started to open the rear door. Voices stopped him—two bowlers with bags, yakking to each other, heading around the corner toward them. He said, quick and low, “Move or make a sound, I’ll kill you.” Henderson looked over his shoulder, but that was all he did.

  Devries shifted position so he could watch the two men and Henderson at the same time. Neither bowler paid any attention to them. They deposited their bags in the backseat of a car parked up near the front of the lot, got in. The engine rumbled, exhaust spumed out, backup lights flashed. If they came this way … But they didn’t. The driver backed around sharply, so that the headlights splashed out in the other direction, and the car rattled off through the main lot.

  Quickly Devries opened the van’s rear door. Dark inside; he’d unscrewed the bulb. “Back up two steps,” he said to Henderson. “Then get in and lie on your belly, head toward the front.”

  “You son of a bitch, I’m not going to—”

  “Inside.”

  “Whatever you’re planning, you won’t get away with it. The police know who you are.”

  “Shut up and get inside. Last time I’ll say it. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you and put you in dead. Don’t think I don’t mean it.”

  Henderson made a low, growling sound, but he backed up, hunched a little now, and turned sideways and looked into the dark interior as if he were looking into a pit. The sound came out of him again.

  “Hurry up! Facedown, feet together, hands behind you.”

  Henderson did as he was told. Squirmed on the mat, breathing heavily as he brought both arms around behind him.

  “Where’re you taking me?” Voice muffled against the carpet mat.

  Devries said, “You’ll find out,” and went to work with the roll of duct tape.

  24

  I dreamed the answer to the locked-room trick.

  Feed your subconscious enough data and set it to work on a problem before you go to sleep, and sometimes you’ll wake up with the solution. That had happened to me before, but this was the first time my subconscious had kicked one up in a jumble of sleep images and metaphor.

  In my dream I was in Gregory Pollexfen’s brightly lit library. Others were there, too, Pollexfen and his wife and Jeremy Cullrane, and I seemed to be watching them from an elevated position, as if from the top of one of the bookshelf ladders. At first I couldn’t tell what was going on, but the longer I stared down the clearer the scene became. Then there was a sudden flash and a burst of silent noise, like you sometimes get in a dream, and all at once I was out of it and sitting up in bed wide awake, the images still clear and sharp.

  I must have done some thrashing around or made an involuntary sound because Kerry woke up and rolled over and said with groggy alarm, “What? What is it, what’s the matter?”

  “Got it,” I said. “I know how it was done.”

  “How what was done?”

  “The murder. How Pollexfen worked it—the only way it could’ve been done. Drugging the two of them, that’s the key. Ingenious, simple—and as nasty as it gets. A sick new way of killing somebody. He can even pretend there’s no blood on his hands because technically it’s not a homicide at all.”

  “What’re you talking about? How can a homicide not be a homicide?”

  “When it’s murder by suicide.”

  25

  JAKE RUNYON

  He was awake as soon as the bedside phone rang. Alert, with the receiver in his hand before a second ring. Product of self-training when he was on the Seattle PD, so any late-night calls wouldn’t disturb Colleen.

  The digital clock on the nightstand read 2:29. He registered that before he said, “Runyon.”

  “I know it’s late, Mr. Runyon, I’m sorry to be calling so late, but I’ve been half out of my mind.” Woman’s voice, distraught, breathless. Tracy Henderson. “The police, Lieutenant St. John, they don’t seem able to do anything and I thought you might have some idea—”

  “Slow down, Mrs. Henderson. What’s happened?”

  “It’s Cliff. He … oh God, he went to bowl in his league tonight like he does every Thursday. I begged him not to, I begged him to stay home, but he said he’d be with people, friends, nothing could happen—”
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  “Slow,” Runyon said again.

  Stuttery inhale, whistling exhale. “He didn’t come home. I called the police when he wasn’t here by eleven and they … his truck was still at the lanes but they can’t find him anywhere.”

  “Last seen when?”

  “Right after he finished bowling. He told his teammates he was going straight home.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Quarter of ten.”

  “Was there anything wrong with the truck?” Acid, he was thinking, but he didn’t want to use the word.

  “No, it was just parked there, unlocked. Cliff wouldn’t have left it like that, he always locks it, always. His bag and ball were in the back.”

  Caught by surprise as he was about to get into the pickup. Hurt in some way? Possibly, but not with any weapon that would cause noise, bring attention.

  “I don’t understand,” Mrs. Henderson said. Sobs in her voice; she was on the ragged edge of hysteria. “All those other terrible things that madman Devries did, the attack on Damon, and now this …”

  Escalation, sure, but not the expected kind. Kidnapping instead of hit-and-run assault. Change in Devries’s pattern. Why?

  He said, “The police know about Devries, the kind of vehicle he drives—”

  “A white Dodge van, yes, Cliff told me. Lieutenant St. John said he already knew about it from you.”

  “Did he put out an APB on Devries and the van?”

  “APB? I don’t …”

  “All points bulletin. To police agencies statewide.”

  “I don’t know, he didn’t say anything about that.”

  Maybe St. John had, maybe he hadn’t. He was the extra-cautious type. Even if Henderson’s sudden disappearance had convinced him that Devries was the perp, it might be too late.

  “I asked him what they were doing,” she said, “but all he’d say was everything possible, everything possible. What does that mean?”

  It didn’t mean anything. Copspeak. Synonym for frustration and lack of clear direction. Whatever Runyon could say would be more of the same, so he left her question unanswered.

  “Why would Devries kidnap Cliff? Where would he take him?”

  The cemetery was one possibility. Put the son down with the father, burn him the way he’d burned Lloyd Henderson’s ashes. But Cliff was only one son. Devries was after both.

  Runyon said, “Have you talked to Damon?”

  “Yes, before the lieutenant came and again afterward.”

  “He and his family all right? No trouble at their home?”

  “No, they’re fine. Cliff … only Cliff …”

  One at a time, then, rather than both brothers together. The cemetery was definitely out. Besides, St. John would have had the same line of thought, ordered the cemetery checked out first thing; he was cautious and defensive and hard to convince, but he was no dummy.

  “Where?” Mrs. Henderson said again. “Why? What does he want with Cliff?”

  To kill him. Maybe torture him with acid first. It had reached that point. Psychos were unpredictable for the most part, but an escalation of a monomaniacal psychosis like Devries’s was something you could calculate with reasonable certainty.

  “I don’t know,” he lied.

  “Is there anything you can do, Mr. Runyon? You’ve done so much for us already, I hate to ask any more of you, but I feel so helpless … .”

  What could he do? Talk to St. John, and if an APB hadn’t been put out on Devries and the Dodge van, try again to persuade him? St. John wouldn’t like that. Further infringement on his territory. It was even possible he’d dislike the interference enough to make trouble with the state licensing board.

  “Anything? Please?”

  Begging him now. He couldn’t say no. Couldn’t put her off, either. The hell with St. John and the possible consequences.

  Right back in it, like it or not.

  “I’ll drive up,” he said, “talk to St. John.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as I can.” He wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore, and he couldn’t lie in bed or rattle around the apartment until dawn waiting for news. The restlessness, the need for movement, was already sharp in him. “If you have any word about your husband before I contact you, call me on my cell phone.”

  “Yes, I will. Thank you, Mr. Runyon. Thank you!”

  For nothing, probably. Except wasted effort.

  He put the teakettle on, showered in cold water to get the grit out of his eyes and sharpen his mind. Two quick cups of tea helped, too. He’d never needed much sleep. Four hours, which was about what he’d gotten tonight, was enough for him to function normally.

  Out of the apartment, through the mostly empty late-night streets, across the fog-cloaked span of the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Why the change in Devries’s pattern? Acid in all the other attacks except for the one on Damon Henderson, but the blows with the tire iron had been the result of circumstance, not planning. What was he up to this time?

  Through the MacArthur tunnel, down the winding expanse of Waldo Grade.

  Where would he take Henderson? Not somewhere in or close to Los Alegres, that didn’t fit Devries’s profile or motives.

  Where?

  26

  TUCKER DEVRIES

  He adjusted the focus on his Nikkormat, checked the light meter, made another adjustment. The dawn light coming through the broken window and open door was just right—kind of pearly, like an oyster shell. But it wasn’t strong enough yet—he’d still have to use the Vivitar flash. Better try to make these last few snaps as perfect as he could.

  This was the second roll of film he’d shot. The first roll, last night after they got here, had been all handheld with little or no light—a dozen pix in and out of the van, the rest in here. No way to know how well they’d turn out until he developed them, but he was good at estimating distances and exposure needs under those conditions; he had a feeling they’d be pretty good. This second roll he knew would be good. As soon as it was daylight he’d carried the tripod in and set the Nikkormat up on it. Every shot since had been calculated, meticulously framed and lighted.

  One more adjustment. Okay, ready. No, not just yet. When he squinted through the viewfinder, his vision was a little smeary. Lack of sleep. Twenty-four hours without it now and he was bone-tired. But there was still a lot to do. He’d sleep when he was done. He’d sleep real good then.

  He wiped his eye on his jacket sleeve. It still felt sticky with mucus. Henderson was watching him. Well, let him watch, let him wait, he wasn’t going anywhere with two rolls of duct tape around him and the big wooden chair.

  Devries went outside into the chill morning hush, then around the cabin to the stream that ran murmuring along the edge of the woods. The water was so cold it made him shudder, numbed his hands and cheeks. But clean, sweet, free of pollutants. So much better than city water. His vision was clear when he finished, and his skin tingled.

  Inside the cabin again, he dried off on the towel from the van. Now he was ready. He rechecked the light meter, took another squint through the viewfinder. Henderson was framed in the exact center. Red eyes, cracked lips, gray-flecked beard stubble, animal scowl. Perfect.

  “Smile,” he said.

  “Fuck you.”

  Henderson had said that before, at least a dozen times since he’d dragged him in here from the van. Didn’t bother Devries. He’d expected whining, begging, but all he’d gotten so far was anger and abuse. Give the devil’s spawn his due. Henderson had plenty of guts. He wouldn’t die screaming, the way Mother must have. The way Lloyd Henderson should have.

  Okay, set up another shot. Use the timer this time, so he could be in it, too. He’d taken a few of those two-shots before, but one more wouldn’t hurt. The gun to Henderson’s head again? The closed jar of acid tilted above his face? No, something different. Maybe open the jar, dribble a little of the acid on Henderson’s leg, capture the vapor from sizzling flesh and what was sure to be a
n openmouthed yell of pain? No, the pain would make him thrash around and spoil the shot. Save the acid for later, when Henderson was dead. Burn what was left of him, the way he’d burned the father’s ashes.

  Make it the gun again, then, only from another perspective. Kneel down behind him, tuck the muzzle up under his throat. Good! The composition would be just right.

  The automatic was on the table by the door, with his camera bag and briefcase. When he had the camera ready, he went and got the gun and thumbed off the safety. Henderson watched him with his hard, fearless eyes.

  “You going to finish it now?”

  “No. Sit still.”

  Devries set the timer for twenty seconds, went around behind Henderson and into the pose he’d decided on, smiling a little, not too much—a grim executioner’s smile. Henderson moved his head and his eyes, the only parts of his body he could move, trussed up the way he was. It was so quiet inside and outside that the sound of the shutter tripping was like the pop of a small pistol.

  “Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with?”

  Henderson had said that before, too. Devries gave back the same answer as he got to his feet: “Not yet.”

  “Sadistic son of a bitch.”

  “I’m not sadistic.”

  “Hell you’re not. All those pictures, keeping me wrapped up like a goddamn mummy, torturing me.”

  “Torture? I haven’t hurt you, have I?”

  “Making me wait before you kill me. Like a fucking terrorist.”

  “No! Executioner.”

  “Bullshit, man. How many times do I have to tell you my father didn’t kill your mother?”

  “The evidence says he did. Evidence doesn’t lie.”

  “Evidence. Christ.”

  “Her own words, her own testimony.”

  “I don’t care what she wrote in her diary or whatever it is. He didn’t kill her. He never hurt anyone in his life.”

  “You want me to read it to you again? All the evidence?”

  “No.”