A Wasteland of Strangers

by Bill Pronzini

  The gray-haired man was gone.

  I fumbled the door open again, still clutching the overnight case, and stuck my head out. The parking lot seemed deserted. I ran to the Buick, dropped my keys twice before I got the trunk open. I threw the case inside, ran back into the room, caught up three of the garbage bags and hauled them out, stuffed them into the trunk, and then ran back for the others. Dripping sweat when I finished. Legs aching as if I’d run ten miles. I slammed the trunk lid, started around to the driver’s door.

  Christ, there he was again, hurrying toward me from the motel office. Still scowling. Gesturing. Calling out, “Hey! You, Mr. Smith. You just wait a minute—”

  I lunged in under the wheel, locked the door. It took three tries to slot the key into the ignition.

  He was close now. I saw his mouth move again, but I couldn’t hear him over the roar of the engine. I jammed the gearshift lever into Drive, bore down too hard on the gas pedal, and almost lost control as the car surged ahead. At the exit then, out onto the business road paralleling Highway 80. The freeway entrance ramp was a short ways ahead; a red stoplight at the intersection turned green just in time. And I was on the ramp, on the highway, and in the mirror I could no longer see the motel lot or any sign of pursuit.

  The words the gray-haired man had mouthed back there … something about signs, backing in? Can’t you read a sign? You’re not supposed to back in. Was that all it was about? Motel employee or self-righteous guest annoyed because of the way I’d parked my car?

  I laughed. But it had a wild sound and I cut it off. I wasn’t certain that was what he’d been saying; I couldn’t be positive. It might’ve been something else. He might have been something else.

  Suppose his car had been close by and he’d gotten to it in time to keep me in sight? Suppose he was back there right now, following me?

  Eyes on the mirror again. Heavy traffic clogged all three lanes; too many other cars traveling at the same speed I was and none of them familiar. I goosed it up to seventy, seventy-five. Still couldn’t tell. Too dangerous to drive so fast; highway patrol kept a close watch for speeders along 80. I slowed down to the legal limit and held it there.

  All the way into Nevada I kept watching the mirror. Watching and wondering and struggling to regain the feeling of tight control.

  Richard Novak

  THAYER WADDLED INTO my office trailing smoke from one of his fifty-cent panatelas. He didn’t stand or sit; instead he leaned his fat rump against the table under the window. “You look like hell, Novak,” he said. “Why don’t you go home, get some rest, before you fall apart?”

  I knew how I looked. And I felt worse, but I wasn’t about to admit that to Thayer. “You find Faith yet?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’re you doing here?”

  “Came to tell you I called off the boat search. Sent Abrams and the launch back to Southlake.”

  “What!” Without thinking I jerked forward, slapped the desk with the flat of my hand. The sudden movement stoked the pain in my broken nose; it felt as though the middle of my face was on fire. “What’d you do that for?”

  “Wasted effort, fuel, and manpower, that’s why. Abrams was up and down the shoreline half a dozen times, a mile in both directions. If the body was on the surface anywhere, he’d have spotted it.”

  “What about Barrelhouse and the other sloughs?”

  “What about them? Body couldn’t have drifted that far.”

  “I’m not thinking about a dead body.”

  “Faith couldn’t have swum that far either. Why the hell would he, even if he’d been able to?”

  “You forget the Cutoff bridge?”

  “No, I didn’t forget the bridge. Deputies up there all night, you know that. Deputies in boats in the sloughs at dawn, too. Nothing. He’s not in the marshes, dead or alive. Body’s snagged somewhere along the shore, or on the bottom, farther out, weighted down by what he was wearing. Either way it’ll come up sooner or later. There’s nothing more any of us can do right now. And that’s not just my opinion, it’s Burt Seeley’s, too.”

  “Goddamn it, why do you and Seeley and everybody else automatically assume Faith’s dead?”

  “You know better, huh?”

  “I’ve got a feeling he’s still alive.”

  “A feeling. That and a quarter’ll buy you a pack of gum.”

  I had nothing to say to that.

  “Where’s this feeling tell you he is?” Thayer said. “No reports of stolen vehicles, so he’d have to be somewhere in the area.”

  “Holed up.”

  “Yeah, only there haven’t been any reports of sightings or break-ins either. And the shore search teams checked every possible hiding place.”

  “You think so? There’s always one or two that get overlooked, no matter how fine an area is combed.”

  Thayer made a derisive sound. “You say you put a bullet in him before he went into the lake. You sure about that?”

  “I’m sure.” I’d replayed the fight and chase a dozen times in my memory; every time, I saw Faith stagger after I fired the second round. No mistake: That slug hadn’t missed. “Somewhere in the upper body. Too dark to tell just where.”

  “Okay. So you add shock, an open wound, and loss of blood to the temperature of the water. Man, I’d be surprised if he lasted more than ten minutes out there. The odds of him getting far enough to find an overlooked hidey-hole must be, what, a few thousand to one?”

  “I don’t care about the odds.”

  “Right. You got a feeling.” Thayer sucked in smoke, blew it out in thin little spurts. He wasn’t quite smiling, but I could tell he was enjoying himself—almost as much as he had with the media earlier. He didn’t like me any more than I liked him. “Seasoned cop has a hunch biting his ass, he’s right and everybody else is wrong. Hunches never lie.”

  “Up yours, Leo.”

  That almost made him mad. He settled for nasty instead. “What’s the bottom line here, Novak? You want Faith to be alive so you can get your paws on him, pay him back personally for the busted nose and what he did to your bimbo?”

  I pushed up out of my chair. The pain rush brought tears to my eyes. “Back off,” I said.

  “Hell, everybody in the county knows you were screwing her—”

  “I said, back off!”

  “Or else what? You’re in no shape to get tough with me.”

  “Keep baiting me and we’ll find out.”

  He started to say something more, thought better of it, and fixed me with a glare that looked hot on the surface but was lukewarm underneath. He didn’t want any trouble with me, even as banged up as I was. There was no sand or steel in the man; just lard, bluster, and hot air. He was a piss-poor sheriff and a piss-poor excuse for a human being.

  Say the same about yourself, Novak, after last night.

  “You through talking, Leo? If so, get the hell out of my office.”

  He said, “Faith’s dead. Rest of it is just bullshit,” and stomped out and slammed the door behind him.

  My nose was bleeding again; I could feel the dribbles through the packing. I sat down, tilted my chair and my head back. Focused on the pain, wrapped myself in it. As bad as it was, it was more tolerable than the hurt I felt inside. Storm, John Faith, Dick Novak … all of us bound together in one poisonous sack of blame and guilt. But Faith, damn him, was the magnet of my hate. A malignant force, like a plague carrier, ever since his arrival in Pomo; if he hadn’t come here, none of it would have happened. And he was still out there somewhere, still alive, still malignant. I didn’t just feel it, I knew it, the way you know that if you survive the dark of night you’ll see daylight again. Until he was found there’d be no daylight for me—no ending, no closure, no new beginning. Faith dead or in custody wouldn’t bring Storm back or make last night any easier to live with, but at least then I could go on.

  Another knock on the door. This time it was Della Feldman who stepped inside.

  “Somebody else
to see you, Chief.”

  “If it’s the mayor again—”

  “Audrey Sixkiller.”

  “Audrey? Tell her I’m busy. I don’t need my hand held.”

  “That’s not why she came. Something important to tell you, she says.”

  “What is it?”

  “Tell you, nobody else,” Della said.

  “… All right. Send her in.”

  I was back on my feet when Audrey entered. She winced when she saw the bandage, the swelling and discoloration, but all she said was, “Dick, I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too. But the damage isn’t permanent.” Not on the outside, anyway.

  She took a step toward me, as if she had it in her mind to touch or embrace me. It must’ve been my expression that stopped her, caused her to bite down on her lower lip. Poor Audrey. She was twice the woman Storm had been, probably twice the woman Eva was; but I didn’t want her close to me, not now. Empty inside, scooped out. Nothing left for her or anybody else.

  I asked her if she wanted to sit down and she said no. Then she said, “Dick, how certain are you John Faith is guilty of Storm’s murder?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “Something happened a while ago that makes me wonder. Is there any chance he’s innocent?”

  “Not as far as I’m concerned. What happened?”

  “A phone call. As I was leaving to feed Mack.”

  “From?”

  “The man who tried to break into my house.”

  “The man who—!”

  “He as much as said so.”

  “… What else did he say?”

  She took a breath. “That I’d be dead soon. That he’d make me as dead as Storm Carey. It didn’t sound like an idle threat.”

  My face throbbed and burned. This, now, on top of everything else. “His voice … familiar?”

  “No. Muffled, disguised.”

  “Faith,” I said. “It could’ve been Faith.”

  “But he’s dead, drowned …”

  “Is he? I’m not so sure of that.”

  “Even so, it couldn’t be him. Where would he go to make a phone call? Why would he?”

  I shook my head. I wanted it to be Faith; simplify things, give me another reason to hate him. “Okay, maybe not. But it still could’ve been Faith in that ski mask the other night.”

  “How could it be? The caller—”

  “Sicko taking advantage of the situation, playing games to scare you.”

  “No, Dick. The only people who know about the prowler are you and me and Verne. It’s the same man in both cases—I’m sure of it. On the phone … he said my gun wouldn’t stop him the next time. He couldn’t know I shot at the prowler unless—”

  “All right,” I said. “Same man, and he’s not Faith.”

  “His threat to make me as dead as Storm … couldn’t that mean he’s the one who killed her?”

  “No. Her house wasn’t broken into and she wasn’t raped. She knew the man who did it. She let him in.”

  “She knew John Faith?”

  “Yeah. She invited him there last night.”

  “Then … why would he kill her?”

  “An argument, he lost his head and picked up that paperweight … Christ, Audrey, stop questioning me on this! Faith did it, nobody else. And the bastard who’s stalking you—I’ll find out who he is and I’ll get him, too. I promise you that. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  “I know you won’t.”

  “I mean it. One woman dead—”

  I couldn’t make myself say the rest of it. But Audrey understood. More than I’d thought she did. She said, “I’m sorry about Storm, Dick. I want you to know that. I really am sorry.”

  The words, the sympathy and compassion in her eyes, built a sudden sharp impulse to pull her close after all, let her comfort me, find some strength in her strength. But I couldn’t do it. It was like there was a wall of glass between us. I kept my distance, hurting inside and out, feeding on the hurt. And all I could think to say was, “I’ll put an end to it, one way or another. I’ll get them—I’ll get them both.”

  Trisha Marx

  MS. SIXKILLER’S HOUSE was locked up tight. I hunted around in the backyard and found a rock and took it to the bathroom window on the north side. I kept thinking that this was crazy, that I was gonna get myself in some serious trouble here. But I couldn’t just leave John Faith lying there in the boat, cold and wet and wounded, after what he’d done for me on the Bluffs. Nobody’d help him if I didn’t. And suppose the wrong person found him next time, a cop or somebody who wanted to play Rambo?

  The window breaking made a lot of noise, but there wasn’t anybody around to hear it; the houses on both sides were empty. I reached inside and flipped the catch and then shoved the sash up far enough so I could wiggle through. A sliver of glass pricked my finger as I swung down off the toilet, but I hardly even felt it. My heart was pounding worse than the first night the bunch of us broke into Nucooee Point Lodge to party.

  First thing I did was open the medicine cabinet. There was a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, some adhesive tape, and gauze pads. I grabbed all of those and took them with me.

  In our house there’s a linen closet that opens off the upstairs hall, but the hall here didn’t have one. So I had to look around for a couple of minutes before I found Ms. Sixkiller’s extra sheets and blankets in the closet in her bedroom. One blanket was heavy, made of wool; another was the all-weather thermal kind that keeps in heat and keeps out cold. I tucked both under my arm and then hurried through the kitchen to the back porch. I figured it’d be easier to go out that way, instead of back through the bathroom window, and it was. The screen door wasn’t hooked, and the lock on the outer door was the push-button kind.

  The police launch was still way up shore; I made sure of that before I ran out onto the dock. I climbed down the ladder one-handed—lifted the tarp again and pushed the blankets and stuff inside the boat, then climbed the hoist frame and dropped down next to where John Faith was lying. The way he’d been shaking when I left him, I was afraid I’d find him dead. But he was still breathing, hard and raspy. I touched the side of his face. His skin was cold and hot at the same time, and all puckered and sort of gray. Was that how you looked and felt when you had pneumonia?

  Fumble-fingered, I unfolded the wool blanket and shook it out. But then I thought: It won’t do him any good with those wet clothes plastered to his body. He wasn’t wearing much, just a shirt and a pair of Levi’s and socks, no shoes. The shirt had two bloody holes in it under the left shoulder, a small one in back and a bigger one in front. Two wounds. Shot twice, or maybe only once with the bullet going in one side and coming out the other.

  The thing to do was to get everything off. Well? It wasn’t like I’d never undressed a guy before. I managed to unbutton the shirt, but parts of it were stuck to the wounds and I was afraid to pull the fabric loose. Instead, I undid his belt and the top button of his Levi’s. Unzipping the fly took longer on account of it stuck partway down. Then I took hold of the belt loops on either side, started to work the soaked pants down around his hips—

  His eyes popped open.

  I mean they just flew open, boing!, and all at once he was staring right at me—a wild and crazy stare, like Freddy Krueger before one of his slice-and-dice rampages.

  It scared me so much I recoiled back against the gunwale and cracked my elbow. “Shit!” The boat wobbled a little, kept wobbling as he twisted over onto one hip and tried to sit up. He didn’t have enough strength; he made the groaning sound in his throat and sank back, supporting himself with one hand flat on the deck. When he looked at me again, the craziness was gone. His eyes were still glazed, but in a hurt and confused way.

  He said “Trisha?” as if he didn’t believe it was me. His voice sounded like one of the frogs in the Budweiser commercials.

  “Yeah.” I wasn’t afraid anymore. He wouldn’t hurt me. I don’t know how I could be so totally sure of
that, but I was. I straightened up on my knees, rubbing my elbow. “I was trying to get those wet clothes off, you know? You were shivering so hard …”

  “Cold,” he said. He blinked a few times, ran his other hand over the dark stubble on his cheeks. “Where are we?”

  “Boat shed.”

  “Whose?”

  “Ms. Sixkiller’s. This is her boat.”

  “Sixkiller … Audrey?”

  “Yeah. You know her?”

  “Met her. How’d you find me?”

  “I was up on the dock and I heard you moaning.”

  “Just you? Alone?”

  “Just me.”

  He tried to sit up again, but something hurt him this time; he grimaced and sucked in his breath. I could see part of the wound in front where the open shirt pulled away. Black and red-brown and scabby. It was bleeding again, too—little pimples of bright red.

  I said, “I never saw bullet wounds before,” because it was what I was thinking.

  “Better hope they’re the last you ever see.”

  “That one looks … man!”

  “Feels that way, too.” He was probing at it with two fingers, unsticking the rest of his shirt and wincing when it tore away a scab of blood. “Could’ve been worse. Bullet went straight through, didn’t hit bone or bust me up inside.”

  “Lucky.”

  “Oh yeah. Mr. Lucky.”

  “I brought some peroxide,” I said. I leaned over for the bottle and showed it to him. “I got it from Ms. Sixkiller’s bathroom. It’ll help, won’t it?”

  “Help a lot. Thanks.”

  “I also got some blankets.”

  “Help me sit up. Don’t think I can manage by myself.”

  I scooted over, got behind him on my knees, and lifted on his good side until he was sitting up. Then between us we were able to drag the shirt back down over his arms and all the way off. He poured peroxide on and it, like, actually hissed on the open wounds, bubbled up white and frothy in a way that nearly made me gag. The pain must’ve been terrific; he jerked and twisted and tears leaked out of his eyes and he half-strangled on a yell to keep it from coming out loud.