Double

by Bill Pronzini

  The piece of metal struck him beside the left knee with enough force to knock him off his feet. He cried out, came down hard on his shoulder, and started to roll over. I swung the strap iron again and this time it connected with the side of his head, made a dull crunching noise and came loose from my grip and flew away to one side. But that didn’t matter; I didn’t need it anymore. Nyland had quit moving and was lying on his back with a bloody gash across one temple, his eyes half open and part of the whites showing.

  I crawled closer to him, felt his neck: he was still alive. Not that I gave a good goddamn about that at the moment. The way his eyes looked, I’d hit him hard enough to give him a concussion. He wasn’t going to be any more trouble.

  Wobbling a little, I got up on my feet and went to where he’d thrown the gun and picked it up on the move, put it into my pocket. The lowering sun was right in my eyes as I ran out past the shed to where McCone lay; the harsh glare of it half blinded me, so that I couldn’t see her clearly until I was just a few feet from her.

  She was moving. Making little groaning noises and clawing at the sandy earth, trying to get up.

  My knees went weak with relief; I sank down at her side. There wasn’t as much blood on her as I’d imagined from a distance, and I could make out the wound where she’d been shot. It wasn’t in a vital area. Her jeans and blouse were torn in a dozen other places, her skin was scratched, her face and arms were burned raw by the sun, and her lips were split and blood-caked. A feeling of tenderness moved through me; I took hold of her, to help her sit up.

  Her body went rigid at my touch. She made an animal sound in her throat and tried to pull away. I said, “Sharon, it’s me, it’s Wolf,” and her head twisted and her eyes focused on me and she said, “Oh my God, Wolf,” in a cracked voice that had disbelief in it, as if she couldn’t quite assimilate the fact that I was actually beside her. She went limp. I hoisted her up onto her left side, held her clinging against me.

  After a few seconds she said, “Nyland ...”

  “Don’t worry about him. He’s out of it now.”

  She pulled back from me a little, wincing. “I think he shot me,” she said. “Part of my right side’s numb.”

  “He shot you, all right. But it doesn’t look too bad.”

  “Where did he—?” She felt herself, clenching her teeth against the pain, and a look of indignant horror spread over her face. “The dirty son of a bitch!” she said.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “He shot me in the ass!”

  I couldn’t help it—I burst out laughing. It was a release of tension more than anything else, and once I got started I couldn’t stop. McCone dug her nails into my arm—and then she started to laugh too, painfully but just as crazily.

  It was a good thing nobody but Nyland was around. Hanging on to each other the way we were, yukking it up like a couple of deranged hyenas, we must have been some sight to behold.

  43: McCONE

  I was lying on my parents’ living-room couch wearing a long green caftan—the only garment I had with me that was loose enough to be comfortable and still be what my mother deemed “suitable to be seen by a gentleman caller.” I had to rest on my left side because the bullet wound in my right hip hurt like hell, even though it was superficial. My face was gunked up with burn cream and there was red antiseptic smeared on my cuts and scratches. I must have been a sight.

  Wolf didn’t seem to mind, however. He sat across from me in my father’s favorite armchair and smiled. “What’s that smell coming from the kitchen?” he asked.

  “Crab cioppino. It’s being made in your honor.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Well, it is, isn’t it?” The words came out grumpily, and Wolf looked surprised. I grinned to show I wasn’t annoyed with him—a painful smile because my mouth hurt every time I moved it.

  I was annoyed with my mother. She’d already come in twice, foisting beers off on Wolf and fluttering and smiling. I knew what was going through her head. She was sizing him up as prospective-husband material, the way she’d been sizing up practically every man I’d so much as spoken to for years. And I was getting sick of it.

  I certainly couldn’t feel any annoyance at Wolf, though. He’d saved my life and then had taken charge—getting me to the emergency hospital in Borrego Springs, dealing with the law both there and in San Diego, and when I’d flatly refused to spend the night in the hospital, he’d got me home with a minimum of hassle. When he’d arrived here today, half an hour ago, he’d brought the news that Henry Nyland had confessed to Karyn Sugarman’s murder.

  The way Nyland told it, my visit to him at campaign headquarters had started him thinking that Elaine might have been murdered. And since he felt Jim Lauterbach’s file on Elaine was rightfully his property, he’d used his extensive contacts in city administration to obtain copies of both the file and the photographs of the house in the desert. Those photographs had immediately meant more to Nyland than they had to Wolf, because he’d met Karyn Sugarman a few times at Elaine’s house and knew what kind of car Sugarman drove—the Datsun that, in the photos, was parked among the others in front of Les Club.

  On Monday night, Nyland had called Sugarman to ask about the house. Sugarman had denied knowing of it or ever having been there. This made Nyland all the more suspicious and he decided to check it out on Tuesday. He’d driven out to Borrego Springs in the morning and shown the photos to some of the residents. Because the old Matthews place was known to old-timers, one of them had readily identified it.

  When Nyland arrived, he found Sugarman packing her things. Wolf and I speculated that Nyland’s call to Sugarman the night before had panicked her and sent her out there to remove all traces of her presence. But whatever the reason, she was there, and it hadn’t taken Nyland long to figure out what kind of place it was—and what Sugarman’s and Elaine’s connection with it had been.

  Nyland had flown into a rage, and Sugarman had tried to calm him down. Doubtless she had used counseling techniques and psychological jargon—but her kind of counseling only inflamed him more. He went on a rampage, storming through the house, and they finally ended up in the dungeon. The sight of it totally unhinged him; he attacked Sugarman, slapping her until she admitted she had killed Elaine. Her reason, as she’d told it to Nyland, was much the same as I’d worked out that night in the dungeon room.

  Originally, Nyland’s rage at Sugarman had been because she’d introduced Elaine to Les Club. But once he found out she’d also killed Elaine, he went wild and strangled her. And then he’d tied her to the cross, out of some warped religious fervor.

  Nyland had then gone back to the living room, had a couple of stiff drinks, and left. But after driving several miles, he’d calmed down enough to remember Sugarman’s car. And he also knew he’d left clear evidence of his presence, in the form of fingerprints on the glass and Scotch bottle. He turned back, and in the meantime I’d arrived.

  After he’d locked me in the room with Sugarman’s body, Nyland went to work packing the rest of her possessions, putting them and her purse in her car, and then driving the car into a hidden part of the desert. He walked back, got rid of my car—it had since been returned to me—walked back again, and then sat down to decide what to do with me. He had an automatic along, one that he always carried in his glove compartment; killing me would be a simple thing. Fortunately for me, guilt drove him back to the bottle and eventually he passed out and slept well into the next day, when he heard me trying to start his Cadillac. After I escaped into the desert, he waited near the house, watching for me with his binoculars, so he could kill me if the desert didn’t.

  Last night at the emergency hospital, Wolf had also told me how he’d figured out Rich Woodall had killed Jim Lauterbach. Now I asked, “Did the police finally arrest Woodall?”

  “Late last night, at his house. He’d been down in Mexico all day, apparently. At a jai-alai game, he said, but Knowles figured he was down there making arrangements to sell of
f those animals of his.”

  “Did he confess to Lauterbach’s murder?”

  “No, he’s stonewalling on that and on the animal-selling too.”

  I nodded. That seemed consistent with what I knew of the man.

  “But the D.A. doesn’t need a confession to convict him,” Wolf added. “Knowles found Lauterbach’s tape recorder in the trunk of his car. Apparently, Woodall got rid of the murder gun, but the damned fool hung on to the recorder.”

  “What was on it?”

  “A lot of stuff you wouldn’t want to hear. Evidently, Lauterbach not only took those photographs of the outside of Les Club, but also got inside the house and bugged it. Woodall’s voice is on the tape. So are a lot of other members’, including Elaine’s.”

  “Why do you think Lauterbach broke into Woodall’s yard?”

  “Looking for more blackmail evidence, probably. And he found it when he saw those animals. He must have demanded a big payoff from Woodall to keep both his activities in Les Club and his animal-dealing quiet. Instead he bought himself four bullets.”

  “I wonder if Woodall planned the murder or not.”

  “I’d say not. Maybe he went down to Lauterbach’s office Sunday and tried to scare him off. If my reading on Lauterbach is right, he wasn’t the type to scare—he probably ignored Woodall.”

  “And if there’s one thing that’ll send that type into a rage, it’s being ignored.”

  “Right. He either followed Lauterbach down to the john right then or went out, got himself worked up, and then came back and found Lauterbach in the stall.”

  “What about Beddoes and Ibarcena?” I asked. “Does Knowles think Beddoes really did kill himself?”

  “There doesn’t seem to be any question of that. He just couldn’t stand the idea of shame and prison, I guess. As for Ibarcena, you called that right. He’s skipped town, taking his young boyfriend with him. Back to Mexico, probably. As far as I’m concerned, he can stay disappeared. If the authorities don’t find him, I doubt if Timmy Ferguson’s mother will be able to trace the boy, reward or no reward. That part of this mess will have a happy ending, at least.”

  “At least. One last thing, Wolf—what about Les Club? Who really owned that house?”

  “Darrow and his wife. State records show them as officers of the corporation. They probably incorporated for tax reasons and then charged the other members dues.”

  “Tax reasons. Good Lord. I’m glad I never met the Darrows.”

  “Me too.”

  I was silent for a moment. “You know,” I finally said, “everything was like a chain reaction, with one catalyst setting off three separate but connected personal explosions.”

  “The murders.”

  “Yes. The catalyst could have been Elaine’s death, but actually I think it goes back further than that, to the night Sugarman fell in love with Elaine and let things get out of hand.”

  “Or even further, to when Sugarman introduced Elaine to the club.”

  “You’re right. The club probably would have gone along as usual if it hadn’t been for Elaine joining. But because she did, Sugarman couldn’t handle her emotions, and that explosion ended in Elaine’s death.”

  “And Woodall blew up at Lauterbach—who wouldn’t have known anything about Les Club, much less Woodall’s animal farm, if Nyland hadn’t hired him to find out about the ‘bizarre thing’ Elaine was involved in,” Wolf said. “And chances are Nyland never would have killed anyone if he hadn’t found out Sugarman had brought Elaine into the club and then killed her.”

  “It makes me think of that old saw about evil begetting evil,” I said. “And more evil than just what was going on at Les Club. All these people with all their little scams that they didn’t want exposed—like a lot of people these days, I guess. Beddoes and Ibarcena had their fugitive-smuggling operation. Lauterbach was a blackmailer. Woodall had his illegal animal sales. Even Henry Nyland had a scam.”

  Wolf looked at me with interest. “How do you figure that?”

  “Reactionary politics. In a way, it’s the most dangerous scam of them all.”

  My mother came into the room, smiling. “Cioppino’s almost done,” she said cheerfully. “But before we eat, your brother John wants to talk to you, Sharon. I’ll just take your friend into the kitchen for a nice little chat of our own.”

  “John wants to talk to me?”

  “Yes, he’s in the canyon—”

  “Huh. He probably plans to murder me out there and leave me for the coyotes to eat.”

  “Sharon!”

  “Well, face it, Ma, I’m not John’s favorite person today.”

  “You were awfully hard on him last night.”

  “I couldn’t help it.”

  “Well, go see him anyway. He asked me to tell you—”

  “I’ll go! I’ll go!” I got up slowly and reached for the cane I’d been using. It was my father’s, bought when he’d sprained his ankle dancing the polka—of all things—at a friend’s daughter’s wedding a few years ago.

  My mother looked at the cane and frowned. “I don’t know why John can’t talk in the house. Are you sure you’ll be all right, climbing down those steps?”

  “Yes!” I left them and went outside. Pa was humming loudly as he repotted plants under the grape arbor; I waved to him and made my way across to the canyon.

  I had been rough on John last night, but I’d been half out of my head with exhaustion and pain, and when he’d come into my bedroom—ostensibly to see how I was doing—and started whining about his troubles, I’d let him have it. I’d told him about Timmy Ferguson and the whip marks Wolf had seen on his back. I’d told him about Elaine’s handyman—the guy down at the beach with the two little boys and the pizza crusts on the kitchen counter. I’d told him how difficult it was to be a single parent if you weren’t prepared; how anger and frustration can lead to child abuse; how he’d better be damned sure he could handle custody before he went out and tried to get it. And then I’d told him to grow up.

  What made me feel so damned high and mighty? I wondered as I climbed down the canyon steps, holding up my caftan so I wouldn’t trip, going slowly in deference to my sore rear. I wasn’t a parent, hadn’t the slightest idea what it was like. But maybe one didn’t have to be. Maybe all it took was common sense....

  I spotted John, sitting on his usual log. He turned and looked at me. And then he smiled.

  Surprised and somewhat encouraged, I kept going. “You wanted to see me, John?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got something to tell you. I went to see the kids’ mother this morning.”

  The kids’ mother, I noted, not “that bitch.” John’s ex-wife was coming up in the world. “And?”

  “And I told her all the things you said last night. She agreed. She said she’s been having trouble being a single parent herself. She got mad and slapped Johnny the other day.”

  “So what do you intend to do?”

  “Well, we talked it over and we decided on joint custody—they’ll spend half the time with each of us. It’s easier that way. Only we’re not going to drag them back and forth and disrupt their lives.”

  “How do you plan to accomplish that?”

  “The kids will stay in the house. When it’s her turn to have custody, she’ll live there with them. When it’s mine, I’ll live there. We’ll both keep small places of our own for the time when we don’t have the kids.” He paused to open a beer, then added, “It’s kind of a new concept, but it’s been written up a lot lately, and it seems to work. And it’s better for the kids. They’re who counts, you know.”

  “I know.” I felt a rush of pride and affection for my big brother, who just might grow up after all. “Listen, Ma says the cioppino’s almost ready. Are you coming up for some?”

  “Nope. I’ll stay here and drink. It’s my last chance—tomorrow I look for a job.”

  I thought of Charley Valdene, the private-eye enthusiast Wolf had been staying with. Valdene was also a painting c
ontractor, Wolf had told me. “I may have a lead on a job for you,” I said. “Talk to me when you’re sober.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  I grinned and started up the steps, thinking about how funny male-female relationships could be sometimes. Now that they were divorced, John and his wife would probably end up being better friends than when they were married. And then there was Don and me....

  He’d called last night after he’d heard about me on the news—the hourly broadcast after his talk show, no less. Ma hadn’t let him talk to me, though, so I’d called him back this morning. Don had been anxious, solicitous, and had offered to fly right down. I said no, he shouldn’t; I didn’t want him to see me in this condition. Then I remembered unfinished business and said, “Besides, how can you leave Laura?”

  “Who?”

  “Laura. Your cousin.”

  There was a long silence. “Oh, that. Babe, I’ve got a confession to make.”

  I waited.

  “I don’t have a cousin Laura.”

  “I know. So who was that on the phone the other day?”

  “Well ... promise you won’t get mad?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “I know how you disapprove of this kind of thing. I know you think a man should be self-sufficient and all that. You’ve always said you would never need anyone to—”

  “Don, get to the point.”

  “Well, I waited until you were out of town and then sneaked out and did it. I’m not proud of that. I—I hired a cleaning woman.”

  “You what?”

  “I know I should be able to take care of a one-bedroom apartment by myself, but it had gotten to be such a pit.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you were in the shower while she was there.”

  “That’s the worst part of it.”

  “Go on.”

  “Laura isn’t a very good cleaning woman. She couldn’t get the hang of scooping the ashes out of the fireplace, so I had to show her. And I got all dirty.”