Nothing but the Night

by Bill Pronzini

  “Get out, Cameron,” she said without looking at him. “Go home to your wife and family. Leave me the fuck alone.”

  There was no anger left in her voice. Nor any left in him, he realized. Nothing filled the hole where it had been, a hole like an open wound. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “For what? Coming here and screwing up my Saturday?”

  “For trying to hurt you. Why do we always end up hurting each other?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “We used to be close. Now—”

  “Now we’d both be better off if we never saw each other again.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Well, I do.” She stood ponderously, still not looking at him, the fresh cigarette dangling from one corner of her mouth. “Just don’t ever say another word to me about selling Ma’s house,” she said, and went out of the room, left him standing there by himself in the rubble of her life.

  15

  Caitlin Koski. 547 Applewood Lane, Sebastopol. Son, Theodore, fourteen or fifteen. Divorced, living with a mechanic who worked for North Analy Auto Body.

  Inside the Mazda again, Nick wrote the information in the little notebook he’d bought. Neighbor watering his lawn up the block didn’t know the mechanic’s name and didn’t know Gallagher. Wasn’t familiar with the silver BMW, either.

  Gallagher was still in the house across the street. Alone with the Koski woman, far as he knew, now that the punked-up kid was gone. Mechanic worked half a day Saturdays, neighbor’d said. Morning matinee with another bimbo? No surprise, if that was what it was. Just because she lived with somebody didn’t mean she wasn’t playing around on the side. And just because Gallagher had a wife in Los Alegres and a classy bitch in Paloma didn’t mean he wasn’t banging some downscale babe in Sebastopol.

  That kind of crap made him sick. When you had somebody you loved, why would you want anyone else? He’d never cheated on Annalisa, would never hurt her like that. Same went for her. Soul mates. Phrase you heard tossed around, usually brought a snicker or a smart-ass remark, but he believed in it, knew it for a fact. He and Annalisa were soul mates. Put on this earth to be together, be there for each other no matter what.

  Bugger over there, what was he put on the earth for? Rich, pampered types like that went around trampling on other people’s lives, good people like Annalisa, they didn’t give a pig’s ass what happened to anybody but themselves. Men like that… disease carriers, like rats and roaches. Men like that—

  Gallagher was coming out of the house. Alone, walking fast. Pretty short matinee, but some guys were like that. Rabbits. Gallagher figured to be a guy that operated on a time budget, too. Fifteen minutes for this meeting, twenty minutes for that one, five minutes to take a dump, half an hour for lunch, twenty-three minutes for a Saturday-morning screw. Looking at his watch as he came down the steps. Right. Time for him to move on to whatever was next up on his schedule.

  Nick waited until the BMW pulled away from the curb. Then he fired up the Mazda and eased out a block behind.

  16

  Cam was on Highway 116, halfway to Forestville, before he realized—or admitted to himself—where he was heading. He almost veered off and turned around. Almost. Something kept him from doing it. Perversity, Caitlin’s accusations, a kind of morbid curiosity—he wasn’t sure just what was motivating him.

  In Forestville he took the cutoff that wound through thick pine and redwood forest to Guerneville. The river, he saw as he crossed the new flood bridge, seemed even lower than usual for this time of year—a slender, silt-brown, twisting thing whose main segment was more than a hundred miles long, stretching from its headwaters near Potter Valley to its ocean mouth at Jenner, fifteen miles to the west. The Native American name for it was Shabakai. “Long snake.” Sleeping snake in the summer and fall, lying placid under the early-November sun; it didn’t look dangerous at all. But it could be as deadly as any rattler when it grew bloated enough with winter rains to exceed its thirty-two-foot flood stage. The last time that had happened, three years ago, the river had crested at forty-six feet and three people had died, the entire populations of Guerneville and its smaller neighbors, Rio Nido and Monte Rio, had had to be evacuated, and scores of low-lying summer homes and year-round residences had been swamped with water or mud or both.

  Most of the people kept coming back. Repairing, rebuilding, replacing lost possessions. River dwellers, those who lived along the Russian River year-round, were a special breed. Modern-day pioneer stock. The harder they were battered, the greater their losses, the more determined they became.

  His grandfather, Cameron Gallagher the First, had been like that. He’d built the river house in the thirties, as a summer place, and when he’d retired from his law practice after World War II, it had become his permanent residence for the last dozen years of his life. Grandpa Cameron had been the first to die there, of natural causes. His only male offspring, Paul, had inherited the house but none of Grandpa’s hardiness or spirit. A weak man, Paul Gallagher. And a lousy attorney because he’d had no passion for the law, had taken it for a profession because it was what Grandpa Cameron wanted; his burning ambition had been to own an antiquarian bookshop. Pa, the bookish wimp. A quiet introvert driven to booze by a hot-pants wife he couldn’t handle and to violence when he’d had Rose’s infidelities shoved in his face once too often. He’d deserved better than he got. Not that what he’d done to her and himself and by extension to his son and daughter was forgivable, but he wasn’t the monster Caitlin tried to make him out to be.

  Cam could feel depression moving in on him as he drove west out of Guerneville. First Caitlin and now this unwise decision to revisit the dark center of his past—another wallow in the same old mental sewer. His headache had worsened, too. Please, Jesus, not a migraine, he needed to be able to drive home. But it didn’t feel that bad. No thrusts of pain down through his sinus cavities and into his eyes, no nausea or dizziness or gathering weakness in his limbs. Tension, nothing more.

  Better turn around anyway, head home. But he didn’t do it. The compulsion to see the river house again was still on him. Beloit had suggested he do it at one of their sessions, he remembered. “Often, Mr. Gallagher, the wisest course is to confront the creatures that inhabit one’s nightmares. They are seldom so terrifying when faced directly in the light.” Psychobabble with a core of truth. He’d told Beloit he’d do it, but he hadn’t. It had been too easy to find excuses not to follow through.

  Well, he was following through now. Up to a point, anyway.

  Monte Rio. Moscow Road. And finally Crackerbox Road near Duncans Mills. A little enclave strung out along its mile-and-a-half, dead-end length, mostly on high grassy banks crowded with pine and rock maple and wild grape. A jumble of architectural styles and sizes, from country cottage to rough-log cabin to rustic homes on large lots. And a third of the way west of the Duncans Mills bridge, across the road from a steep and heavily wooded slope—

  The river house.

  Cameron Gallagher I’s pride. Paul Gallagher’s folly. Cameron Gallagher II’s bane.

  He swung off the narrow road onto the grassy verge in front. God, yes, the place was run-down, much worse than Caitlin’s property in Sebastopol. Tall grass and shrubs and tangles of blackberry vines choked the once neat front yard. One of the tall old pines on the riverbank had come down in a past storm; most of it had been chopped up for firewood, evidently, but its heavy, root-webbed base had been left to rot in and out of the hole where it had stood. Near it were scattered bits of branches and sprays of chain-saw dust and chips that made him think of the carcass leavings of predators. The open-fronted garage on the other side of the house looked as though it might not survive another winter, even if the house did; in any case it wouldn’t be long before it collapsed into a jumble of rotting boards like the gardening shed beyond it. A handyman hired by Riverbank Realty in Guerneville came in once a month, but even if he was competent, there was only so much one man could do in seven or eight ho
urs every thirty days. And the last tenants, an unreconstructed hippie and his brood, obviously hadn’t cared enough about their surroundings to bother with even minimal upkeep.

  Cam rubbed at the ache above the bridge of his nose and behind his eyes, drew a deep breath before he left the car, and walked over to what was left of the front fence. Slats missing, picket tips broken off, inward sags here and there, the gate hanging from one hinge … Christ. From there he stood looking at the house itself.

  Scabrous. That was the first word that crossed his mind. A once handsome two-story modified Victorian that had been allowed to deteriorate into something resembling an Addams Family summer home. Or a haunted house out of an Edwardian ghost story. Off-white paint faded, peeling, worn off in spots and splotched with mildew and water stains in others; shingles gone from the roof, pieces of trim dangling loose or gone completely, a section of the porch railing ripped away. Grandpa Cameron would’ve been appalled. But then, Grandpa Cameron would have been appalled at most of what had gone on in this place over the past three decades.

  The window in the near attic dormer drew his eyes; he could not quite make himself turn away without looking at it. The glass was streaked and dirty and had a jagged crack in it. The streaks made him think of tear stains, the dirt of dried blood, and in spite of the day’s warmth he felt a faint chill. A corner of his memory lifted and let him see the interior of the attic the way it had been that night twenty-five years ago, the shapes massed and crouching in the gloom, the huddled figure on the mattress. Violently he shook his head, yanked the memory flap closed again.

  I shouldn’t have come here, he thought. Why the hell did I come here?

  He got back into the car. Thinking then that what he ought to do was hire somebody to torch the place, give the insurance money to Caitlin, and be done with it that way. Or do the job himself, some dark night when he could screw up enough nerve. Just jerking himself around: He wouldn’t do either one. Not made that way. Cam Gallagher, law-abiding citizen. Cam Gallagher, gutless wonder, like his old man.

  He swung into a quick U-turn, headed back toward the intersection with Moscow Road. He hadn’t gone far when he passed a dark blue Mazda drawn off onto one of the narrow turnouts. A man sat hunched behind the wheel, his face averted as Cam drove past.

  When he glanced into the rearview mirror and saw the Mazda pulling out behind him, he didn’t think anything of it. But the blue car was still there when he crossed the bridge and turned onto Highway 116 east, still there through Monte Rio and Guerneville, still there—maintaining the same speed and distance behind—all the way to Santa Rosa. He was feeling vague stirrings of apprehension by then, and they grew sharper when the car trailed him onto Highway 101 south and matched his speed there, too, changing lanes whenever he did.

  Coincidence. He kept telling himself that. But his stomach was knotted and his palms were moist when the Mazda followed him onto the Los Alegres turnout, then into town. What if it followed him home? If that happened—

  But it didn’t happen. He turned right on D Street, and the blue car kept going straight down Los Alegres Boulevard.

  The relief he felt was out of proportion to the incident. Better watch out, Gallagher. You’re getting paranoid on top of everything else. No one’s following you. Of course not.

  Why would anyone want to stalk Cameron Gallagher?

  17

  Sunday, Nov. 1

  Dear Annalisa,

  I’m writing this from a place called Los Alegres, California. A little town north of San Francisco.

  Are you sitting down? Better sit down if you’re not because I’ve got BIG NEWS. The news we’ve both been waiting for so long.

  I found him, baby.

  I FOUND HIM!

  No mistake. It’s him, it’s really him. I knew it as soon as I saw him two days ago. It was like he’d stepped right out of the sketch.

  His name is Cameron Gallagher. Big shot in the Paloma Valley wine business. He could’ve been in Denver that night on a business trip, or maybe he was there with a woman who wasn’t his wife. He was with somebody like that the first time I saw him. Wouldn’t you know he’d be that kind?

  He lives here, in a big fancy house in the hills. I found out some other things about him today. I think he has ANOTHER woman he’s cheating with in ANOTHER town nearby. But I need to know for sure about that and a lot of other things about him before I decide what I’m going to do.

  One thing I already decided. I’m not going to do it quick like I thought I would when I found him. That’d be too easy. I want him to suffer like you have suffered and I have suffered. I know that doesn’t sound like me but I’m not the same man I used to be, honey, not after what he did to you. He’s going to suffer. And I’ll make sure he knows why before I’m finished with him.

  Rest easy, baby. It’ll be over soon and then I’ll be back with you again. If you were better now and could put your arms around me and tell me you love me too I’d do it quick and come right home to you. But I know it’s going to take a lot more time for you to get well, so there’s no hurry and I’ll stay here and do it right. That’s the best gift I can give you besides all my love, always.

  Your devoted husband,

  Nick

  PART II

  Stalk

  18

  “You have no clear idea of why you are compelled to sleep with this woman?” Dr. Beloit asked.

  “No. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Would you say she is unusually attractive?”

  “Not unusually, no. Sexy. Very sexy.”

  “As attractive as your wife?”

  “Yes, but not in the same way.”

  “As sexy as your wife?”

  “Same answer.”

  “Does your wife satisfy you sexually?”

  “… Yes.”

  “Why did you hesitate?”

  “I don’t feel comfortable answering questions like that.”

  “Perfectly understandable,” Beloit said. “Do you love her?”

  “My wife? Yes, very much.”

  “So naturally you don’t wish to see her hurt.”

  “Naturally. No.”

  “Or your daughters hurt.”

  “No.”

  “Yet a sexual liaison with Jenna Bailey could hurt them. You understand that.”

  Sexual liaison. Cute. “If they found out. I wouldn’t let that happen.”

  “Are you certain you could prevent it from happening?”

  “No. I’m not certain of anything right now.”

  “How would you characterize your feelings for Ms. Bailey?”

  “Lust, I suppose. Animal magnetism.”

  “Nothing more than that?”

  “You mean love? No.”

  “How do you suppose she feels toward you?”

  “Pretty much the same.”

  “A mutual desire for conquest and gratification.”

  “Not conquest, not on my part.”

  “Have you ever had an extramarital affair?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Do you think that could have a bearing on Ms. Bailey’s interest in you?”

  “That I’m married? Or that I’ve never had an affair?”

  “Either or both. Have you discussed it with her?”

  “No. But anyone who knows me knows I don’t cheat. She could have found out easily enough.”

  “Some women find the seduction of a faithful husband to be an appealing challenge.”

  “I don’t believe Jenna’s like that.”

  “Could an affair be advantageous to her business relationship with you?”

  “No. She’s not like that, either. And neither am I. Her motives are probably pretty simple, doctor. She’s horny, and she thinks we might be good together in bed.”

  Not a flicker of a smile from Beloit. “But it is not that simple for you, is it?”

  “I don’t know, maybe it is. I wonder how it’d be. Any man would.”

  “Do you expect she might pro
vide something lacking in your relations with your wife?”

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  “Some sort of sexual activity you covet.”

  “You mean something kinky? No.”

  “How would you define kinky?”

  “How would you define it, doctor?”

  “We are not discussing my sex life,” Beloit said. “We are discussing yours.”

  Smug, Cam thought. He moved uncomfortably in the big padded armchair. Did Beloit even have a sex life? He was a little man in his fifties, not much over five feet tall, with a blob of a head and a pushed-in face and bushy eyebrows and a hooked nose and stary eyes behind thicklensed glasses. Mr. Potato Head. One made of punched and poorly molded Silly Putty. He was married, though. Wore a wedding ring, and on his desk was a framed photograph of a woman and two young men. Cam had never gotten close enough to examine the photo, and glancing at it now he felt a sudden urge to stand and reach over and pick it up, find out just what sort of woman would marry a Potato Head and what their progeny looked like.

  Cruel, petty, and unfair. He knew it, told himself such thoughts were unworthy of him, and tried to blank his mind to all but the issue at hand.

  “It has nothing to do with particular bed games,” he said, “kinky or otherwise. It’s just—an unfocused need, a compulsion that I can’t make go away.”

  “There are many different types of compulsions,” Beloit said. “Would you say yours falls into the category of a fatal attraction?”

  “I don’t… fatal? What do you mean, fatal?”

  “As in negative reinforcement, a repressed desire for punishment.”

  “What? You think I want her to hurt me?”

  “What I think isn’t relevant. What do you think?”

  “I’m not into pain, doctor. Physical or mental. Besides, Jenna is hardly the acid-throwing or bunny-boiling type.”

  Beloit looked at him steadily and blankly.

  “I guess you didn’t see the movie,” Cam said.