A Wasteland of Strangers

by Bill Pronzini

  He kept it up for another minute or so after I told him, then let go and got slowly to his feet. Light from the flash caught his face and upper body; red smears stained the bandage on his chest.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “Wounds tore open again during the fight.”

  “Bullet wounds?”

  “Oh yeah. Good old Chief Novak. His aim was a little off.”

  “You broke his nose.”

  “Did I? Good.”

  “He believes you’re guilty. Really believes it.”

  “Sure he does.” John Faith switched off the other torch, sat wearily at the far end of the couch; the beam from his flash lay at an oblique angle between us. “Pomo’s a hell of a deceptive place,” he said then.

  “Deceptive?”

  “Looks nice and peaceful, but underneath it’s a snake pit. I’ve been in wide-open boomtowns that weren’t as hostile.”

  “It isn’t that bad.”

  “Wasn’t until I got here, you mean.”

  I didn’t answer, and he misunderstood my silence.

  “Yeah. Right,” he said. “What the hell, you might as well blame me for what Munoz tried to do to you.”

  “I don’t blame you. You’re not one of his kind.”

  “What kind is that?”

  “The ones who hate and fear women, who use sex as a weapon.”

  “That the only reason he went after you? Or was it something personal?”

  “Well, I was responsible for him being expelled from school two years ago. Another teacher and I caught him using cocaine in an empty classroom. The other teacher wanted to let him off with a warning. I thought it was too serious for that.”

  “Two years is a long time to nurse a grudge.”

  “Not for a boy who suddenly decides he’s a man.”

  “There was an attempted rape the other night,” John Faith said. “Novak questioned me about it. Guy wearing a ski mask, he said. Was that Munoz after you?”

  “Yes. He tried to break into my house.”

  “Maybe you’re not his first victim. Maybe he’s the one …” He let the rest of the sentence trail off.

  “The one who killed Storm Carey. Is that what you were going to say?”

  He nodded. “Didn’t look like she’d been raped, though. Was she?”

  “No.”

  “But she could’ve fought him and he killed her before he had a chance to do anything else. He’s the kind who’d panic in a situation like that. And then run in a hurry, like he did tonight.”

  “He’ll keep on running,” I said. “He must know we saw his face.”

  “He knows it, all right.”

  “Then we have to notify the authorities right away. Before he can get too far—”

  “I let you go and you notify them, and then I give myself up. That’s what you mean.”

  “It’s the only way.”

  “For me to get off the hook? Uh-uh. If there was any proof Munoz killed the Carey woman, then, yeah, I’d take the chance. But there isn’t any proof. Novak and the rest aren’t looking any further than me.”

  “They can make him confess when they catch him—”

  “If they catch him. If he’s guilty. No guarantees any way you look at it. Besides, the law’s already got me for assaulting a police officer and unlawful flight, among other things. I’d still go to prison.”

  “Extenuating circumstances. The charges would be dropped—”

  “Would they? I doubt it. How’re your hands?”

  “… My hands?”

  “Feeling back in them yet?”

  “Yes.” Pins and needles now. “My ankles …”

  “We’ll leave them taped. Don’t try to take it off.”

  “You’re not letting me go?”

  “Not tonight. Neither of us is going anywhere tonight.”

  “But Mateo Munoz …”

  “Never mind him for now.” John Faith stood again, grimacing. “I have to change these bandages. You stay put.”

  He walked away, his light picking out another abandoned couch at an angle across from the one I was on. Candles in tin holders sat on a pair of folding chairs at either end; he struck a match and lit one candle, then the other. He brought the second over and set it on the chair near me, positioning the chair so I would be visible in the flickering glow.

  Several items were piled on the other couch: blankets, clothing, food, medical supplies. I watched him sit among them, wedge his torch between two cushions so its beam was fixed on his chest, and then peel off the bloody bandage and apply some sort of ointment to the wound. Now and then he glanced up to make sure I hadn’t moved. When he was done taping a fresh bandage in place he repeated the process, with greater difficulty, with another wound in back, under his arm.

  Sweat oiled his bare skin when he’d finished. He shut off the flashlight, I suppose to conserve its batteries; took a long drink of bottled water. For a time he sat limply, resting. Then he stood again, brought the bottle to me.

  “Thirsty?”

  I nodded.

  “Use your hands all right now?”

  “Yes.”

  He let me have the water. And another, smaller bottle: aspirin for my sore throat and the pulsing ache in my temples. Swallowing the water was painful enough; getting four aspirin down, one at a time, hurt even more. The skin was so tender around my Adam’s apple it felt as if a layer of it had been scraped away.

  When I could speak again I asked him, “How did you get here, John Faith?”

  “Half the name’s enough. Take your choice.”

  “How, John? All the way to Nucooee Point?”

  “Same way I managed not to drown last night. Strong survival skills.”

  “You couldn’t have made it here by yourself. Someone helped you. Brought you over in a boat.”

  “Wrong. I brought myself.”

  “Trisha Marx. In my boat.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The food and medical supplies—she got those for you, too.”

  “You think so? Is this Trisha a doctor or a nurse?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You saw the bandages I had on before. Much more professional than the ones I put on myself, right?”

  “Are you saying someone else besides Trisha helped you?”

  “Someone else, period. Doctor, man you don’t know.”

  “I don’t believe that,” I said. “There isn’t a doctor in Pomo County who would give aid and comfort to a fugitive.”

  “Don’t be too sure about that.”

  “Trisha can get in a lot of trouble, you must know that.”

  “Not if you don’t start throwing her name around. Tell the cops about Munoz, tell them about me, tell them I had help if you want to, but don’t mention Trisha Marx’s name. Give the kid a break.”

  “How do you know she’s a kid unless—”

  “I met her last night, on the Bluffs. Gave her a ride home before I went out to Storm Carey’s place. Her old man knows about it, among others.” He paused. “You going to keep her out of it?”

  “Yes. But you have to let me go.”

  “I will. Just not yet.”

  “When?”

  “In the morning. Before noon, when I leave.”

  “Hours from now. We just sit here until then?”

  “Sit, talk, sleep—whatever. You’ll be comfortable enough.”

  “Is Trisha coming for you? With a car?”

  “No. That’s enough about her. My ride out of here has nothing to do with Trisha Marx, I swear that to you. All right?”

  I believed him. He was too vehement, too fiercely protective of her. He’d let Trisha help him once, at considerable risk to both of them, because he’d had no other choice. But it hadn’t set well with him. The second person … I didn’t understand that, or have a clue as to who it might be. Not a doctor; that part I didn’t believe.

  He said, “You won’t see who it is. And you won’t see
me leave.”

  “Tape my hands again? Blindfold me?”

  “Tape your hands, but in front where you can get at them with your teeth. It’ll take a while for you to get loose and flag down a car on the highway. By the time you make it to a phone I’ll be long gone.”

  “Gone where? A man wanted for murder … there’s no place that’s safe.”

  “I know it. But it’s better than rotting in jail.” He laughed, a humorless bark. “Me and Richard Kimble.”

  “You’ll never have a minute’s peace. Have you thought about that?”

  “I’ve thought about it.”

  “And it doesn’t bother you?”

  “More of the same, that’s all. I’m used to it.”

  “Used to what?”

  “Running,” John Faith said. “I been doing it, one form or another, most of my life.”

  Anthony Munoz

  FINGERS ON YOUR window in the middle of the night, man, it can’t be nothing good. Rap, rap, rap, and I was off the bed and rubbing my eyes. But I couldn’t see nothing at the window, just rain patterns on the glass and the black night beyond. I got hold of my aluminum Little League bat and drifted over there slow in the dark.

  Rap, rap, rap. Then he must’ve seen my shape, because the fingers quit and he called out, “About time, Anthony. Open up, for Chrissake. Lemme in.”

  Mateo. What the hell, man?

  I flipped the catch and hauled the window up. Rain and cold blew in. I backed off as Mateo climbed over the sill, laid the bat on the card table I use for a desk, and then flicked on the lamp there.

  “Shut that freakin’ light off!”

  I snapped the room dark again, quick, but not before I got a straighton look at him. It bugged my eyes. Clothes all wet and torn, whole left side of his face a piece of raw meat. Scraped, swelled up, bloody. And half his ear torn away, rest of it hanging there dripping red. And his eyes … wild, man, half bugfuck. Scared. That was the worst thing of all, the thing that chilled my guts. I’d never seen Mateo scared before. Never.

  “Man, what happened to you?”

  “No time for that. Listen, get your—”

  “Fight, man? Some dudes jump you?”

  “I said there ain’t no time!” The scare was in his voice, too. It shook like an old woman’s. “Get your shit together, make it fast. We got to move.”

  “Mateo, what’re you talkin’ about?”

  “Clothes, cash, whatever else you need.”

  “Need for what?”

  “Travelin’, man. Don’t be thick.”

  “Where to?”

  “What’d we talk about this morning, huh? L.A.”

  “Now? Just pick up and split in the middle of—”

  “Yeah, now, yeah. Haul ass.”

  “You in trouble, man?”

  “Keep your voice down! Wake up the old man and old lady, for Chrissake?”

  “You got to tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t have to tell you squat. You comin’ or not?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Don’t know, don’t know, that’s all you know how to say.”

  “I’m just tryin’ to find out—”

  “You with me or what?”

  “Always with you, man. But give me a clue what’s goin’ down here. Cops? Heat on you?”

  “Yeah, all right, I’ll be hot as hell pretty soon. The bitch saw my face, man. Her and the dude busted me up like this.”

  “What bitch? What dude? Jesus, Mateo, what’d you do?”

  “iCagon de mierdas! Quit asking stupid questions!”

  “Hey, man, don’t dis me. You’re the one—”

  “I got no more time to waste with you, Anthony. Comin’ or not? Yes or no, spit it out.”

  It was in me to say yes. He was my brother, man, I looked up to him all my life. But he done something real raw this time—the way he was beat up said so, the scare in his eyes said so, my chilled guts said so. Cops after him … I didn’t want a piece of that. I’m no outlaw. I never saw nothing cool in being an outlaw.

  “I’m no outlaw, man,” I says.

  “It ain’t gonna be like that.”

  “Yeah it is. I wouldn’t be no good at—”

  “How much cash you holding?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. How much you got stashed?”

  “Not sure, man. Fifty, sixty bucks …”

  “Give it to me. The whole wad and no more crap.”

  I went and got my stash from behind the loose board in my closet. When I gave it to him, up close like that, I could smell him, and he stank. He stank of the fear that was crawling in him.

  “Last chance, bro. You gonna go to L.A. with me or stay here and rot in this hole?”

  I flashed on Trisha, the kid she had in the oven—my kid. My brother, man! Yeah, but he’d crossed the line, done something raw this time, turned outlaw, and I couldn’t get past the stink of his fear. I couldn’t get past it, man.

  “I can’t do it,” I says. “You’re my brother, I’d do anything for you, you know that, but this—”

  “You ain’t my brother. I ain’t got a brother no more.”

  “Hey, Mateo—”

  “Fuck you, Anthony,” he says. “Vaya a la chingada,” and he went out fast through the window into the rain and dark.

  But he left the stink of his fear behind. I couldn’t chase it even with the window up and the cold wetness blowing in. It hung there, heavy, and I kept smelling it, and the more I smelled it, the sicker I felt. It wasn’t like the stink of a brother, not anymore. It was like the stink of somebody I didn’t even know.

  Audrey Sixkiller

  TIME PASSED IN a seemingly endless series of ticks and slow sweeps and frozen moments. For long periods it was as if I could hear the passage of each second—now like the faint pulsing of a clock just outside the range of hearing, now like the slow, steady beat of a heart. Then it would seem suddenly to stop. Then it would start again, lurch along, and then settle into the same methodical tempo as before.

  William Sixkiller: “Patience is the great virtue of cats and Indians.” Yes, but I had lost that virtue tonight. In its place was a restless need to be gone from this place, a frustrated sense of urgency even though Mateo Munoz was far away by now. Patience disappears from cats and Indians both when they are held against their wills.

  Now and then John Faith would get up from the other couch and pace for a while, back and forth, back and forth. Once when he did that I complained that my legs were growing numb, and he did me the favor of unwinding the tape, rubbing circulation into the ankles, helping me stand and letting me walk awhile. I thought then of trying to run from him, hiding in the trees once I was outside, but it was a hollow scheme. Even if I could get my hands on one flashlight, he still had the other; and I didn’t know the way out of the lodge and he must know it. I thought, too, of telling him I had to relieve myself and asking for privacy and taking advantage of that. But then I would not even have a chance at the flashlight and I couldn’t hope to escape by blundering around in the dark. Besides, at some point I really would need to relieve myself and it would be an embarrassment to both of us if I forced him to stand watch over me when that time came.

  When my ankles were taped again he returned to the other couch and I drew the wool blanket he’d given me to my chin. It was still raining steadily, the dampness intensifying the cold in there. For the third or fourth time, upstairs, there were faint chittering cries and leathery flutterings. Bats. They didn’t like the wet weather any more than I did; it made hunting difficult for them.

  Except for the rain and the night sounds, we sat in a monotony of silence. We had said all there was to say on the subjects of Mateo Munoz and Storm Carey and the fugitive status of John Faith, and there was little else to talk about. But when the silence began to drag intolerably—

  “John, there’s something I’d like to know.”

  “… What’s that?”

  “Earlier you said
you’ve been running most of your life. What did you mean?”

  “Nothing. Another bad choice of words.”

  “They sounded true to me.”

  Silence.

  “Has the law been after you before?”

  “Once or twice. Minor violations, if it matters.”

  “Who else?”

  Silence again.

  “John? Please talk to me.”

  “People like you,” he said.

  “Like me? I don’t understand.”

  “Ordinary people. Average.”

  “You think I’m average? A Native American woman?”

  “You are as far as I’m concerned.”

  “I still don’t understand,” I said. “Why would you run from ordinary, average people?”

  “I don’t run from them. That’s the wrong word, run—makes me sound like a coward. I don’t back down from anybody. And I don’t run unless I’ve got no other choice.”

  “Like last night.”

  “Like last night. I suppose Novak said I was running away when he showed up, but it wasn’t because I’m guilty. I would’ve reported what I found. Anonymously, yeah, because I knew what’d happen if I called from the house and identified myself. Exactly what did happen—I got blamed.”

  “You only made things worse by assaulting him, trying to escape.”

  “Maybe. But I wasn’t thinking too clearly at the time. You get pushed around enough, backed into enough corners, you figure your only chance is to push back.”

  “Has it really been that bad for you?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you how bad. Pomo’s the worst by far, but there’ve been other times, other places …” He shook his head, as if shaking away memories. “The hell with it,” he said.

  “So that’s why you shy away from people.”

  “Shy away? Let’s say I’m better off with my own company.”

  “Isn’t there anyone you’re close to? Someone in your family—”

  “I don’t have a family.”

  “Friends?”

  “No friends, either. And no woman, if that’s your next question. I made the mistake of getting married once. I won’t make it again.”

  “What happened? Or don’t you want to talk about it?”

  “No, I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s just say she decided big and ugly wasn’t as exciting as she thought it’d be.”