Nothing but the Night

by Bill Pronzini

  The party ebbed and flowed around him. He circulated, wearing a happy face like a mummer’s mask, listening, talking little. The main topics of conversation, predictably, were El Niño and Jenna Bailey.

  “They’re predicting a chain of storms through most of next week. Heavy rain, high winds.”

  “Just listen to it whacking down out there right now. Whole state’s in for heavy flooding. Rivers and lakes are already brimful.”

  “You believe that big slide down in Pacifica the other day? Three houses, wham, right off a cliffside into the ocean.”

  “That hill back of Rio Nido is liable to take out a few more houses the mud didn’t get last time. Whole slope is liquefied, they say.”

  “U.S. Geological Survey estimates losses from slides alone at a billion dollars again this year. Add another billion for general flood damage. You know what that means. Somebody’s got to pay for all the federal and state disaster relief, and that means us, the poor taxpayers.”

  “Remember when they said the ’eighty-six flood was the flood of the century on the Russian and Napa Rivers? How many have there been since? Four in the last thirteen years, right? At least two of ’em with higher crests than in ’eighty-six.”

  “Weather Service guy said on TV the other night there’s a chance of worse winter weather next century, all across the world. Longer storm chains, floods, slides, coastal erosion, you name it.”

  “Bad enough right now, here. We might as well be living in Oregon or Washington State.”

  “Global warming, that’s the reason. More and more scientists agree on that. What they can’t agree on is what to do about it.”

  “Well, I can give them one answer. Start building a fleet of arks.”

  Laughter. The kind with a hollow core and a tiny wiggling undercurrent of fear.

  “Anybody hear anything new on the Jenna Bailey kidnapping?”

  “How do you know it was a kidnapping? It’s possible she went with some guy voluntarily.”

  “And left behind everything she owned and a job that must pay close to six figures a year? You ask me, some sexual predator got her. One of those wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time things.”

  “Either that, or it was some guy she knew—one of her lovers past or present. Papers keep hinting she was hot stuff. You knew her pretty well, didn’t you, Cam? Was she hot stuff?”

  “One of the county CID investigators is a friend of mine. He says they found a shell casing near where her car was abandoned. Ejected from a thirty-two automatic. She had a thirty-two registered in her name.”

  “What do they think it means, Lloyd? She took a shot at the guy who grabbed her?”

  “Most likely scenario, since it was her gun.”

  “Any chance she hit him?”

  “They didn’t find any blood at the scene. But they’re not ruling out the possibility.”

  “What else hasn’t the sheriff’s department released to the media, Lloyd?”

  “Nothing, except there were two other handguns in her house. A twenty-two in the kitchen and a three-five-seven Magnum in her bedroom nightstand.”

  “That’s a lot of firepower for one woman. What was she, a gun nut?”

  “Well, she lived by herself. And she’d been raped once before, don’t forget that.”

  “That’s right. Five or six years ago, wasn’t it?”

  “Six. On the Silverado Trail where she used to work.”

  “They catch the guy? Maybe it was the same one this time.”

  “No, it wasn’t. They caught him, all right. Convicted on serial rape charges—she was his third or fourth victim. He’s still in San Quentin.”

  “Guns aren’t the answer. All of hers didn’t do her any good, did they.”

  “Her own fault, if it was somebody she knew. Women who sleep around like that are just asking for trouble.”

  “Oh, you men. You think being friendly is an invitation to some jerk to commit rape.”

  “We’re not talking friendly here, we’re talking promiscuous. Women with hot pants send out signals that give the wrong guys the wrong ideas.”

  “Crap. Rape is hardly ever the woman’s fault. And it isn’t a sex crime, it’s a crime of violence against women. Some sicko’s idea of a power trip.”

  “A sicko with a deep-seated sense of inadequacy, probably. It’s a well-known fact that most rapists have an average chubby of two and a half inches.”

  “Ha ha. You’re disgusting, you know that, Walter?”

  Cam moved away from the group, feeling sickened. Disgusting was the word, all right, not just for Walter but for all of them. Talking about Jenna as if she were a piece of meat, an inanimate object created for their amusement, instead of a flesh-and-blood human being with good and bad qualities, hopes, dreams—a soul—like everybody else. Alive or dead, she deserved better than this. Empathy and compassion, for God’s sake, if nothing else.

  He found himself standing in front of the liquor buffet. But just looking at the stuff set up a reaction in his stomach; he poured another glass of ginger ale instead. Hallie was talking to Janet Edmonds, he noticed, and from the glass in her hand, he realized she was also drinking ginger ale. It occurred to him that she’d been watching him and following his lead. And that led to a sudden sharp insight: Not just tonight—on most social occasions, and even when it was the two of them alone—she drank when he drank. When he couldn’t stand himself and drank too much as a blotter, she couldn’t stand him, either, and drank too much in self-defense and to blot out what he was blotting out. His pain was her pain, his release was her release. It should have worked the other way as well: her pain his, her release his. But it hadn’t, not often enough. Selfish. All their married life he’d been selfish, and so whenever he tried not to hurt her, he’d only hurt her more.

  The insight gave him something more than understanding; it gave him strength. He asked her to dance as an excuse to talk to her alone.

  “Do you mind if we leave before midnight?” he asked.

  “Not having a good time?”

  “No, but that isn’t the reason. I … need to talk to you. It’s important, Hallie.”

  “All right.” No hesitation, no questions. “I’ll make an excuse to Janet, and we can leave right away.”

  They were silent in the car. At home he made quick work of paying the sitter, then sat Hallie down in the living room and told her everything except how close he’d come to having an affair with Jenna. The first few words were difficult, but once they were free, it was like removing an obstruction in a reservoir valve: the rest spilled out in a rush until the tank was dry.

  She listened without interruption. And when she finally did speak, it was in quiet tones without anger or censure.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this right away?”

  “I was afraid to. Afraid of what you might think.”

  “About you and Jenna.”

  “Yes. I didn’t have an affair with her, Hallie. I’ve slept with exactly one woman the past thirteen years—you.”

  “I believe you. I can take anything, go through anything with you, except that. Another woman would destroy us.”

  “I know that,” he said. “And there’ll never be one, I swear that to you.” The promise was as devout as a prayer.

  “Then you never have to be afraid with me, darling. Not about anything, ever.”

  57

  New Year’s Eve.

  Sebastopol. Alone with Caitlin, Theodore away somewhere for the night. Cat happy, dressed up nice with her hair combed and makeup on, bustling around the kitchen like Annalisa used to do, eyes all bright and shiny when he gave her the package with the earrings. Dinner—ham and sweet potatoes. Wine—only a couple of sips for him, three or four glasses for her. Music, not too loud. Sitting together on the couch, her head on his shoulder, her fingers playing with one of the earrings that she’d gone and put on right away, chattering and laughing about nothing much. Something else Annalisa used to do.

  Midnight. On TV they wat
ched the ball drop in Times Square in New York City, and she wanted to kiss him and he let her, New Year’s Eve after all, just the one little kiss, even though he could see she wanted more. Another glass of wine for her, and she begged him to hold her the way he had that other time. In the bedroom where it was more comfortable. He wouldn’t’ve done it except that he felt like being held, too, tonight.

  Lying in there with her, all their clothes on but their shoes, holding her in the dark. Not enjoying it much at first, letting it go on to please her. Liking it better after a while. Warm, sleepy, relaxed.

  Until her hand moved, brushed his thigh, moved again and settled gently between his legs.

  Her voice, wine-thick: “It must’ve been a long time for you. Such a long time.”

  Didn’t answer. Didn’t feel anything except suddenly all bunched up inside. Lifted her hand, pushed it away.

  “Can’t I do something for you, Nickie?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “We don’t have to make love. I can use my hand—”

  “No.”

  “Or give you head. Would you like that?”

  “No.” Pulled away from her, sat up and swung his legs off the bed.

  “Nick? I’m sorry, I only wanted to—”

  “I have to go,” he said.

  “Go? You mean leave?”

  “Right now.”

  “No, please don’t, please stay with me.”

  Slid his feet into his loafers, walked out into the front room. Picked up his jacket from one of the chairs.

  Behind him: “Don’t go, Nick. I said I was sorry, it won’t happen again, I swear it won’t.”

  Didn’t look at her. Zipped up his jacket and headed for the door. He needed to drive now. Wrap the night and the Mazda tight around himself.

  “Nick! I only wanted to do something nice for you!”

  Something nice for him. She didn’t understand. Nobody understood, not even Mom and Pop Foster. Nobody knew how alone he was, what he needed, what really mattered to him. Nobody in the whole world except Annalisa.

  “You’re no better than your brother,” he said to the woman, and went out and slammed the door behind him.

  58

  The call came a few minutes before ten on Monday morning.

  He’d just gotten off the phone with Lloyd Edmonds. Making an appointment to see Lloyd at his office at one this afternoon. That was the first thing he and Hallie had decided he should do, consult with an attorney to determine his exact legal position. It could wait until today, they’d decided; the Edmondses had left on New Year’s morning for Placerville, to spend the weekend with Janet’s parents, and it hadn’t seemed necessary to upset their holiday plans. Enough time had passed already that an extra couple of days wouldn’t make any difference.

  If Lloyd’s advice was that he should go to Lieutenant Dudley, as it probably would be, then that was what he’d have to do. Hallie’s opinion was that he wasn’t guilty of anything, really, except poor judgment. Lloyd would also likely advise him to offer up Nick Hendryx’s name, hold nothing back, and so he’d have to do that, too, in spite of Caitlin. All or nothing—that was the only way out of the box.

  He was thinking this when Gretchen buzzed and told him he had a personal call. Important, the man had said. He said all right and picked up.

  “Nick Hendryx, Mr. Gallagher.”

  He was so surprised, all he could say was, “Yes?”

  “I think it’s time we had a talk.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “Don’t you know? I think you do.”

  “If you mean Caitlin—”

  “How about I come by your place of business about four-thirty? I’ve got a delivery over your way, and I should be done by then.”

  “I wasn’t planning to be here this afternoon.”

  “Be a good idea if you changed your plans. I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

  “If you’ll tell me what it’s about—”

  “You never having to worry about me again in a few days. Or about your sister and me.”

  “… Are you going somewhere?”

  “That’s right. Going home pretty soon.”

  “Why the sudden decision? Something to do with your wife?”

  “Everything to do with her.”

  “Is she better?”

  “She will be. Four-thirty, Mr. Gallagher. See you then.”

  Cam put the receiver down, frowning. Hendryx’s words had had the odd undercurrent again, as if there were hidden meanings in what he’d said. If so, he couldn’t decipher them. Should he meet with Hendryx? Lloyd might urge him to talk to Lieutenant Dudley immediately … but shouldn’t he find out what Hendryx was up to before he did that? If he was going to tell Dudley about him? The lieutenant would certainly want to know what the man’s plans were and why.

  Besides, what harm could there be in meeting Hendryx here at PWS and giving him a chance to explain himself?

  59

  Late Monday afternoon. Almost time.

  Watching and waiting, Mazda parked on Blackwell Road under the trees near the closed-up animal shelter. Excitement building in him, hot and cold at the same time. Rain pounding down and smearing the windshield so that he had to keep the window open in order to see out.

  Five-ten by his watch.

  Clear look from here at Paloma Wine Systems inside its chain-link fence. Lights on in the office wing, pole lights reflecting off puddles in the lot in front. Only two cars left there now, Gallagher’s BMW and a little foreign job. Everybody else had cut out right at five.

  Five-fifteen. Woman came out through the office door, umbrella fanning open. Foreign job belonged to her. She fired up the engine, exhaust smoke pumping out white and thick, headlights jabbing on, car gliding through the gate and out onto Blackwell and past where he was and gone.

  Five-twenty.

  Five-twenty-five.

  Sweating over there, Gallagher? Wondering if I’m coming or not? Wondering if I’m really planning to let you off the hook? You’ll find out pretty soon. You’re all mine now. Now you start to pay for what you did.

  Five-thirty.

  Last of the office lights went out. Gallagher’d had enough of sitting and sweating. Almost time. Nick got the Mazda’s engine humming, switched the wipers on but left the headlamps dark.

  Office door opened, Gallagher walked out. Stood hunched there, big black bird shape, wind flapping the tails of his coat. Locking up.

  Nick put the tranny in gear, the headlights on. Rolling when Gallagher turned away from the door and half ran for the BMW. Rolling through the gate, the Mazda’s high beams stabbing Wineman, pinning him tight against the driver’s side of his car. Sliding to a stop, close but not too close, angled so the lights still held him in a freeze. Hit the trunk release. Hit the door handle. And Nick was out and moving, not too fast.

  “Hendryx. I’d about given up on you …”

  Didn’t answer. Kept going, away from Gallagher and along the Mazda to the rear. Lifted the trunk lid all the way up. Reached in and caught up the tire iron, hoisted the Bailey woman’s automatic out of his coat pocket at the same time, turned around with the gun and the iron where Gallagher could see them. Still moving, cutting the distance between them in half.

  Gallagher said, “Oh my God.” Scared now. Knew he’d been suckered, but not why yet.

  Nick said, “Come here. Get in the trunk.”

  “What? Hendryx, for God’s sake—”

  “Get in the trunk.”

  “I don’t … what’re you …”

  “In the trunk. Last time I’ll say it.”

  “No. What’s the idea? I won’t—”

  “Yeah, you will. By yourself, or I’ll shoot you and put you in. Or bust your kneecap with this iron and put you in.”

  Gallagher made a sound like a moan. Eyes bulgy and glistening slimy-white in the light, like raw oysters. Plenty scared now, all right. Piss-in-his-pants scared.

  “Three sec
onds. One. Two …”

  Gallagher moved. Slow and jerky, bent forward a little, guy walking into a stiff wind that wasn’t there. Stopped and stared into the trunk.

  Headlight beams on Blackwell Road. Nick said, “Hold it. Stand still.”

  Stood still himself, body turned sideways to shield his hands from the road. Beams swam past without slowing.

  “Now take off your coat. Throw it inside.”

  Gallagher did it.

  “Get in. Facedown, feet together, hands together behind your back.”

  Did it. Not much room in there, had to twist and curl his body to bring both arms around behind him.

  “What’re you going to do?” Voice muffled against the carpet mat. “Where’re you taking me?”

  Nick put the gun away, the tire iron down. Then he said, “To death row,” and went to work with the roll of duct tape.

  60

  He wasn’t afraid.

  Stunned, dismayed, desolate, but not afraid. In a way that was the most shocking thing of all, the utter absence of terror. He had just looked at death again, felt and smelled and tasted it, different face, different circumstances, but with the same awed disbelief as that night twenty-five years ago—and yet, except for the first minute or two after Hendryx’s arrival, he was quite calm. His own death staring back at him, looming in the dark that surrounded him, and all he felt was a kind of drugged numbness inside and out, as if he’d been given a massive shot of novocaine.

  He lay cold and cramped, the car moving, stopping, moving, jouncing. He could hear the tires making serpent hisses on the wet pavement, the hum and rumble of other cars passing. The rough carpet abraded the side of his face; he lifted his head, wiggled his body until he was lying with his weight against his bound hands and his face upturned. The tape Hendryx had pressed across his mouth made breathing difficult. His nostrils twitched with the odors of dust, carpet fiber, grease, and oily metal; the combined smells seemed to act as a clog, so that he was unable to draw enough air through his nasal passages.