In an Evil Time

by Bill Pronzini

After he was gone, Hollis trudged back to the patio. Weary, shuffling steps. You can’t take care of Angela anymore. Damn Pierce! Damn him because he was right.

  15

  Friday Afternoon

  THE second note came in Friday’s mail.

  He didn’t see it until almost four o’clock. It had been one of his better days; no queasiness or discomfort when he woke up, mental faculties in sharper focus, some of his old energy. As long as he didn’t think about it too much, he could pretend that he was just another reasonably healthy, forty-six-year-old man. He left the house when Cassie did, surprised Gloria by showing up at the office at his usual time, surprised himself by putting in better than six hours of work on the site plan and conceptual designs for the Dry Creek Valley project. It was three o’clock before fatigue and a dull headache caught up with him. He considered pushing it another hour, decided that would be foolish, and left for home at three-thirty.

  The envelope was the top one in the box. Same type, no return address. He was neither surprised nor upset when he saw it; he’d expected that there would be more. There was a sense of fatalism in him, of things going and already gone irreparably wrong. Buried under sublimating layers of hope and evasion most of the time, now up and crawling close to the surface again.

  One thing to be grateful for, he told himself as he took the mail into the house: he’d gotten home before Cassie. She would not have opened a piece of mail addressed only to him—respect of privacy was part of their mutual respect for each other—but she’d have wondered and probably asked him about it, and then he’d have had to lie to her again.

  In the kitchen he opened a bottle of Sierra Nevada, emptied half of it in two swallows. Then he tore the envelope open.

  YOU WON’T GET AWAY WITH IT. YOU’LL SUFFER FOR WHAT YOU DID.

  He sat at the dinette table. Drank more ale, made a face and set the bottle down; it tasted foul now, as if by some alchemy it had been changed into dog piss. He peered at the postmark on the envelope. Smeared, as sometimes happened when the post office machines were freshly inked. It might have been North Bay again, but he couldn’t be sure.

  He forced himself to think clearly, logically. Would Eric have sent a message like this one? It didn’t read like a plea for help; it seemed to be both accusation and threat. No sane reason for Eric to threaten him … no sane reason. Or maybe it wasn’t meant to be a threat. There was another way to interpret it. If Eric was too guilt-ridden to admit the truth outright, he might conceivably switch pronouns, substitute “you” for “we.” We won’t get away with it. We’ll suffer for what we did. Accusing himself as well as his father; threatening himself, if anyone, because at some visceral level he sought punishment and expiation.

  And maybe, Hollis thought, that’s what I want, too. Punishment and expiation for my sin.

  But not like this. Not by Eric, and not by party or parties unknown.

  Bad enough if Eric was responsible, but in that case at least he understood the reasons behind it—he could find some way to help him. Worse if it were someone else, because it was like fighting blind. Even Rakubian had been a known quantity; it had been clear what needed to be done in order to protect his family and himself. How do you stop, what safeguards do you take, against a phantom?

  Friday Evening

  The doorbell rang a few minutes past five.

  Hollis was in the living room, hiding himself and his bleak thoughts behind the Examiner; Cassie, home just fifteen minutes, had gone upstairs to shower and change clothes. He put the paper aside as the bell sounded again. It rang twice more as he crossed to the hall, an urgent summons that quickened his steps. He pulled the door open without checking through the peephole.

  Angela stood there.

  He blinked at her; she had a key, she didn’t need to ring the bell. Then he saw her, really saw her. White-faced, eyes slick-bright, one hand on the doorjamb as if for support, the other clutching her purse against her chest. He felt an inner twisting, a spurt of fear.

  “Daddy,” she said, almost moaning it.

  She was alone, he realized. “Kenny? Is he—”

  “He’s all right, I haven’t picked him up yet. I drove straight here. I couldn’t … I had to …”

  He looped an arm around her shoulders, felt the quivering tension in her, and drew her inside. There was a creaking and thumping on the stairs as he shut the door: Cassie had heard them and was coming down. He maneuvered Angela into the living room, sat her down on the couch. Sat beside her with his arm still around her shoulders. Before he could say anything, Cassie came hurrying in.

  “What’s going on? Honey, what—”

  “He’s back,” she said.

  “Back? Who’s back?”

  “David. He’s alive and he’s back.”

  Hollis heard Cassie’s breath suck in. He didn’t, couldn’t look at her. He knew then what had happened, what was coming, and with the knowledge the feeling of fatalism returned, stronger, darker, like a black hole opening in his mind.

  “My God,” Cassie said, “you mean you saw him?” She sat heavily on Angela’s other side. “He showed up at school or your apartment—”

  “No, but he knows where I’m living.”

  “How could he know?”

  “He knows, Mom. He’s after me again.”

  “Did he call you, is that it?”

  Angela shook her head, fumbled at the catches on her purse and rummaged inside. The taste of ashes was in Hollis’s mouth as he watched the crumpled sheet of paper materialize in her hand.

  “This was in my mailbox when I got home.”

  He snatched it from her, uncrumpled it. Same paper, same typeface. Two lines, identical to the ones on the note he’d received today. You won’t get away with it. You’ll suffer for what you did.

  Cassie reached for the paper. He couldn’t prevent her from reading it; he let her take it without protest. She scanned the lines, kept staring at them as though trying to digest their meaning.

  “I almost believed he was gone for good,” Angela said dully. The hunted look had returned to her eyes; her face was bloodless. She’d come so far, almost all the way back, and now this. “It seemed he must be after so much time. But he’s not, he’s somewhere close by, and he wants me to suffer.…”

  “No,” Hollis said.

  “Hurt me, hurt Kenny …”

  “No! Rakubian didn’t send that note.”

  The words were out before he realized what he’d said. Angela and Cassie were both looking at him, their gazes like a pressure against his face; he still could not meet either one.

  “Who else could it be?” From Cassie.

  “I don’t know. Somebody’s sick idea of a joke …”

  “It’s not a joke,” Angela said, “it’s David, you know it is.”

  “It doesn’t sound like him,” he said lamely. “Two lines, no mention of your name, no signature … it’s too impersonal. Why would he send an anonymous note instead of calling, making the same demands as before?”

  “He doesn’t want me anymore. All he wants is for me to suffer.”

  “Why two months of silence? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Yes it does. It’s his way of torturing me. He won’t do anything right away. There’ll be more notes, phone calls, God knows what else.” Her voice had begun to rise. “Oh God, I can’t go through all that again, I can’t!”

  Cassie gathered her close, murmured to her and stroked her hair. All the while she looked at Hollis over the top of her head, a steady, unreadable look.

  He sat with his hands between his knees. Limp, useless lumps of flesh—like what was left of his manhood hanging higher up. Voices muttered in his head. One said, “It’s not Eric, he loves Angela, he’d never do anything to hurt her.” Another said, “You don’t know him or what he’s capable of, you’ve never really known him.” A third, the loudest, said, “You’re not the only target now … Angela, maybe Cassie … it’s just like it was when Rakubian was alive.”

&nbs
p; Cassie, with little help from him, calmed Angela down; tried to convince her to spend the night there, let Hollis go pick up Kenny. She wouldn’t agree to it. She kept saving, “I feel like such a little girl, always running home—I have to stop being a little girl.” Cassie finally talked her into a partial compromise: the two of them would fetch Kenny together. Hollis understood that she wanted some time alone with Angela, and that was all right with him. He needed to be by himself for a while.

  When they were gone he sat in his study, staring blankly at the architectural prints on the walls while he tried to order his thoughts, shape them as he would one of his designs into a logical, substantive pattern. He hated the feeling of impotence; it was the way Pop had made him feel as a kid, weak, ineffectual, and until now he’d refused to let himself be crippled that way as an adult. He had dealt with all the other crises in his life, he’d dealt with Rakubian, or tried to, the best way he knew how. All right, he’d deal with this new crisis, too.

  One thing for sure: He could no longer afford to wait for something else to happen. He had to act, and quickly. And he had to stop shouldering the entire burden himself, no matter who was responsible for those notes or why.

  In the kitchen later, picking at a cold dinner neither he nor Cassie wanted:

  “I wish you’d been able to talk her into staying with us tonight,” he said. “I don’t like the idea of her and Kenny alone in that apartment.”

  “I don’t think they’ll be alone.”

  “What do you—Oh. Pierce.”

  “She said she was going to call him.”

  “I suppose he spends a lot of nights over there now.”

  “Some, probably.”

  “Terrific.”

  “He wants to marry her again,” Cassie said.

  Hollis frowned. He hadn’t told her about Pierce’s visit yesterday. “She tell you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “So he’s already asked her.”

  “Not in so many words. But he’s made it plain enough that he intends to.”

  “She’s not going to say yes?”

  “She says she isn’t ready for another commitment.”

  “She has some sense left, then. If she means it.”

  “Anyhow,” Cassie said, “it’s a good thing she’s letting him stay there, isn’t it? Now?”

  “You think so? My guess is he’d run at the first sign of trouble.”

  “You’re wrong. Ryan’s not like that anymore.”

  “Right, the big change. Now he’s got you believing it.”

  “I have eyes. You’d see it, too, if you opened yours.”

  He let that pass. “It’s not just her safety that’s worrying me. It’s her mental state.”

  “She’ll be okay. She was when I left her. I wanted to stay until Ryan came, but she’d had enough mothering.”

  “For tonight. What about tomorrow and the days after that? Suppose there’s another note? She’s liable to take it into her head to run away again.”

  “I asked her about that. She said no, it’d take a lot more than a note or two to send her back into hiding. But she’s been through so much … I doubt she can stand much more.”

  I doubt any of us can.

  “If she does decide to take Kenny someplace safe, I can’t honestly blame her. I don’t think you can, either.”

  “Not if Rakubian really is back,” he said.

  “Why do you keep saying ‘if’? I don’t see who or why anyone else would send a note like that.”

  “Neither do I. I want it to be somebody else, that’s all. A crank, somebody harmless.”

  “We have to be realistic,” Cassie said.

  “Two months, don’t forget that. I just can’t see Rakubian staying away and keeping silent that long.”

  “He’s crazy and unpredictable. After all the things he’s done already, I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

  Except resurrection from the dead, he thought.

  Bitterly he said, “Rakubian or whoever, if there’s any real danger, running away isn’t going to keep her and Kenny safe. Neither is Pierce, if she stays. And neither am I with this goddamn cancer.”

  “Don’t start feeling sorry for yourself. You’re not Superdad, and nobody expects you to be but you. The job isn’t yours or mine or Ryan’s anyway, it’s the police’s.”

  “What the hell can they do? They couldn’t find a trace of Rakubian in two months. The note isn’t conclusive proof she’s in danger from him or anybody else—it could be the work of a crank. If we go to the cops they’ll make sympathetic noises and tell us not to worry. No. That’s not the answer.”

  “Neither is doing nothing. Maybe we should hire a private investigator.”

  “To do what, act as a bodyguard? Camp on Angela’s doorstep, follow her around wherever she goes?”

  “I didn’t mean as a bodyguard. I meant to try to track down Rakubian.”

  “If the police couldn’t find him, how is a private detective going to manage it after two months? They’re not miracle workers, that’s a lot of fictional crap.”

  Strained silence.

  At length Cassie said, “This isn’t doing either of us any good.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “I’d give anything if he’d stayed missing, if he really was dead. In my mind I had him dead and buried somewhere for good. Didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Hollis said. “Dead and buried for good.”

  Saturday Morning

  Eric said, “Oh, it’s you, Dad. Jeez, you woke me up.” He sounded sleep-fogged and grumpy; he’d never been much of a morning person. “You know what time it is?”

  “Seven-fifteen,” Hollis said. “I wanted to be sure to catch you home. I tried to call twice last night.”

  “Date I told you about. I left straight from work, got home late. I didn’t get much sleep.” A woman’s voice rose querulously in the background, close by. “That’s why. And she’s not what I thought she might be. Ms., not missus—”

  “I need to see you.”

  “See me? When?”

  “Right away. We have to talk.”

  “About what?’

  “When I see you, not on the phone.”

  “Something wrong?” Eric sounded more awake.

  “Yes. I want you to fly up to SFO this afternoon.”

  The line hummed.

  “I called United,” Hollis said. “There’s a flight out of Santa Barbara at one-twenty, gets in at two-thirty. I’ll pick you up at Arrivals. Reservation’s already made in your name and paid for. Round-trip—you can fly back tonight at five-fifty.”

  Again the line hummed emptily for a few seconds. Hollis tried to imagine the expression on his son’s face, what might be going through his mind. And couldn’t.

  “Okay, if it’s that urgent.” Calm acceptance, in a voice that betrayed nothing of his feelings. “You sure you want to drive all the way to the airport? I can rent a car, come up there.…”

  “I’ll manage. One thing: This is just between you and me.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “I’ll see you at two-thirty. Don’t miss the flight.”

  “I won’t,” Eric said. “Whatever this is about, you can count on me.”

  We’ll see about that. We’ll find out a lot of things this afternoon.

  16

  Saturday Afternoon

  SAN Francisco International, like so many things to him these days, seemed different, strange. It had been nearly two years since the last time he’d been there, and the ongoing airport construction had altered both its shape and its access; the entrance and exit ramps had been moved, the entrance lanes now ran through an underpass beneath one of the new terminal buildings. New signs pointed him to Arrivals, but the Saturday congestion made it difficult to get around to the United terminal. And when he did get there, ten minutes after the scheduled arrival time of the Santa Barbara flight, Eric was nowhere to be seen among the crush of waiting passengers. He tried to squeeze the Lex
us into a parking space between a taxi and a limo; an airport security cop waved him off. He had no choice then but to loop all the way back through the maze of lanes and construction for another pass, fighting aggressive and reckless drivers like a participant in a stock car race.

  He had to make four passes, better than half an hour’s wasted time, before he finally saw Eric—Cal Poly sweatshirt that clashed with his old maroon-and-white windbreaker—waving at him from the curb. He jammed on the brakes, cut in front of a stretch limo, and stayed put through a series of angry horn blasts until Eric piled into the car.

  “Jeez, I’m sorry, Dad,” he said. “Plane was thirty minutes late taking off.”

  “Not your fault.”

  Neither of them spoke again until they had cleared Arrivals and were in one of the airport exit lanes. Then Eric asked tentatively, “Where’re we going?”

  “Someplace quiet where we can talk.”

  They rode in heavy silence after that. Hollis took the north ramp that led to Airport Boulevard, where there were a number of large travelers’ hotels. He swung into the parking lot of the first one he saw, slotted the car near the entrance. His shoulder muscles were tight and he had a vague headache; otherwise he felt well enough, too keyed up to be particularly tired yet. Later, after he was done with Eric and the long drive home, he knew he’d be exhausted.

  In the hotel lobby he asked, “You hungry?” and Eric shook his head. They bypassed the restaurant, entered the bar lounge. Dark, quiet except for a TV tuned low to a baseball game, only half a dozen patrons lining the bar. Hollis led the way to a back-corner booth. He ordered coffee for both of them, waited until it was served before he opened the discussion.

  “We’ll start with this,” he said. “Have you received any unsigned mail in the past few days? At your office or your apartment, either one.”

  Eric frowned. “Snail mail?”

  “Any kind of mail.”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Have you sent me or your sister anonymous notes?”

  “Have I—Why would I do a thing like that?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Of course not. What kind of anonymous notes?”