Nothing but the Night

by Bill Pronzini

  Suffocate in here.

  The thought came and went. Leaving nothing in its wake.

  His hands and arms began to go as numb as his mind. He maneuvered his body again, just enough to take the weight off his arms. He flexed his fingers, tried to catch hold of a tape edge to peel it loose. Couldn’t manage it; Hendryx had bound his wrists crosswise and too high up for his fingers to find purchase. He went through another painful shift, until he was once more in a facedown position, then tried to work the tape off his mouth by rubbing it back and forth across the matting. All the effort earned him was another abrasion. The tape was stuck tight, more than one strip that stretched around under both ears.

  A brief surge of anger and desperation prodded him into heaving, twisting contortions—a futile attempt to free his hands and legs that left him as tightly bound and more cramped. Then he was calm again, as empty of emotion as before. He lay motionless, the skin prickling between his shoulder blades.

  After a while the constant uneven motion of the car made him sick to his stomach. He tasted bile, felt it in the back of his throat, and thought: Keep it down—puke, and I’ll strangle. He shut his eyes, formed a vise grip with his teeth, locked the muscles in his throat. Lay like that, fighting the nausea. And even then, at the worst internal roilings, what he felt was an empty detachment, as though he were witness to an experiment involving somebody else.

  The nausea passed, but the ride went on and on. No more stopping and starting; moving smoothly and steadily, not fast, not slow. Going where? Wherever Hendryx took Jenna? He took her, all right.

  Took her and killed her.

  Kill me, too. Last words before he shut the trunk … wind tore up the second, but the first was death.

  Hallie … the girls … Caitlin? Dear God, no.

  Must’ve been planning this all along. And I let him get away with it, walked right into it. Damn stupid fool.

  Other thoughts came and went. Some more than once. But none lingered or produced much of a reaction in him except where his family was concerned. Then there were no thoughts, his mind as barren as a wasteland. He vegetated in the cold clotted black, shifting now and then, flexing his fingers to keep the circulation going as much as he could. Listened to the rain, the hissing passage of other cars, the steady throb of his pulse.

  Waiting.

  Two more thoughts came to him at wide intervals, like wanderers in the wasteland that appeared, passed by, and were gone again.

  One: This must be what it’s like to be buried alive.

  And the other: Pretty soon, when we get to where we’re going, when the numbness wears off, I’ll find out what kind of man I really am.

  61

  Something going on. Nick knew it even before he saw the flashing lights of the roadblock.

  Hard, driving rain, howling wind gusts strong enough to shake the Mazda. Almost no traffic on the river highway, standing water in low places that forced him to slow down to thirty or less. Nearly all the houses and stores beyond the big Korbel Winery complex dark and closed up. River swollen to a level where it covered low-lying vineyards and fields, turned trees into black jutting shapes like the ones you saw in swamps. So when the cop cars swam into view, their flasher bars making yellow and red smears, he knew they weren’t there for him. An accident, maybe—something to do with the weather.

  They were setup on both sides of the bridge that led across the river to Rio Nido, two cruisers on this side blocking the westbound lane. Reflector cones came up blurry in his headlights, then a cop wearing a yellow rain hat and slicker and waving a six-cell flashlight. Nick slowed to a crawl. Thinking: Gallagher makes any noise back there and they make me open the trunk, I’ll shoot him soon as I raise the lid. What happens to me doesn’t matter, long as he dies.

  He braked to a stop, and the cop followed his flash beam around on the driver’s side. Nick put on a little smile, slid the window down. Wind whipped icy rain against his face as the cop bent to look in at him. Didn’t shine the flash in his face, just held the beam on the door so enough light reflected up between them to let him see. No, none of this was for him. Or for anybody in particular.

  “Are you a resident of this area, sir?”

  “Sure am.”

  “Evacuation orders came through a little while ago. River’s rising fast—flood stage before noon tomorrow and more storms on the way. No one allowed in or out except emergency vehicles after nine A.M. at the latest. What’s your location?”

  Nick strained to hear before he answered. Nothing from the trunk. Gallagher must be passed out or too scared and confused to know what was going on. Or maybe the rain was making too much racket; Nick could barely hear the cop. Any reason Gallagher was quiet, okay, except him lying dead in there like the Bailey woman.

  “Crackerbox Road near Duncans Mills,” he said.

  Cop said, “High risk of road closure in that area. I’d advise you to evacuate as soon as possible, before dawn to be safe.”

  “Thanks, officer.”

  “Better leave to the west, as long as you can get across the bridge over there. Highway should be open to Jenner all night, and One south should be okay, too. Drive carefully.”

  Nick nodded, put the window up, eased out around the cruisers and across the bridge past the cops and cars and light swirls on that side. Then he was alone again, traveling again, sealed off from the wet outside.

  Evacuation orders, floods. He’d heard people talking about it, noted the rain and the river rising halfway up the bank behind the house, but it hadn’t meant much to him. Never seen a flood before. Hadn’t figured it’d happen so soon—too focused on Gallagher. Didn’t bother him, though, any of what the cop had said. Shame people had to leave their homes, lose possessions, but things like that happened, floods and hurricanes, all kinds of natural disasters. Wasn’t anything you could do except get through it in one piece if you could. No, he wasn’t worried. Would’ve been if tomorrow was January 4, because then he’d’ve had to change everything around at the last minute. But the fourth was today, and the only thing that was important about today was that he had Gallagher.

  Everything ready and waiting at the river house. Be there pretty soon, and that was where he’d stay, evacuation orders or not. They couldn’t force him to leave unless they knew about Gallagher, and he’d make sure that didn’t happen.

  No reprieves for the condemned prisoner. Place and time of the execution was set, and come hell or high water, Cameron Gallagher was going to die right on schedule.

  62

  Cam was suspended between consciousness and unconsciousness when the car stopped again, with enough of a sliding lurch to rouse him. He might have been riding in the trunk for minutes or hours—he had lost all track of time. His body, his limbs, had a frozen feel. Shivers racked him; he had almost no feeling in his hands and feet. His head ached from the exhaust fumes and the hot-oil stench. Breath whistled in his nose, rattled in his throat, ached rawly in his lungs.

  All of that, and still his emotions remained as frozen as his skin.

  Door slam, but the engine continued to idle. He waited for the trunk lid to open; it didn’t happen. Before long Hendryx was back behind the wheel, and the car was splashing and rocking forward along what felt like deep ruts. A sudden bump threw him around in the tight space, bounced his head off a metal surface. His grunt of pain died behind the tape gag. The car rolled a few more feet, there was another bump, and then it stopped once more, and this time the engine shut off.

  Storm sounds. Then another door-slam and heavy, muffled steps. And the trunk lock released, the light in there came on as the lid was raised—not bright, but after the pitch-blackness it made him squint. The way he was folded up on his right side, he couldn’t see Hendryx. Just as well.

  “End of the line, Gallagher.”

  Hands pulled roughly at the tape binding his ankles. Even when they were free, he couldn’t move either leg except for little painful spasms in his thighs. There was no sensation at all below the k
nees.

  Hendryx left his wrists tied, the tape in place over his mouth. The hands bunched in his clothing, tugged and turned and lifted him out of the trunk, scraping one hip on the lock mechanism, banging his head again. Hendryx held him propped against the car, his useless legs dangling to the floor, standing close enough to breathe tooth rot into his face.

  Cam turned his head aside, sucked cold, fresh air to clear his head and lungs. Garage—he could make out walls, roof, rough plank floor. Beyond Hendryx and the doorless front there was nothing but sodden blackness. Gusts of rain-laden wind blew in and started him trembling again.

  “Stand up. Walk.”

  He shook his head stiffly, shook it again. Hendryx mistook the gestures for refusal, yanked him away from the car, and then released him and gave him a shove. His dead legs collapsed immediately and he was on the wet floorboards looking up. Hendryx hauled him upright, but the same thing happened as soon as he was released.

  “Can’t you walk?”

  Cam wagged his head.

  “Drag you, then. We’re not waiting around out here.”

  Hendryx lifted him once more, without much effort; more strength in that wiry body than it looked to have. They moved out of the garage into the rain and wind, one of Hendryx’s arms tight around his waist and the other gripping his arm, his feet dragging through wet grass and puddles like miniature lakes. House shape ahead, no lights. No lights anywhere. Swaying trees. And a loud pulsing, roaring noise—fast water somewhere close by.

  Floodwater.

  River house.

  Jesus, why here?

  It seemed to take a long time to reach the porch. By then Cam had some feeling back in his legs—muscle twinges, the pins-and-needles tingling that meant blood was flowing again. The numbness inside was wearing off, too. Sharpening awareness, muted feelings of rage and hate. No panic. Whatever fear lived in him ran as deep as the currents in the swollen river behind the house.

  They were at the door. Hendryx held him braced with shoulder and knee while he keyed the lock. Inside then, the door slapping shut behind them. As cold and dark inside as it was outside. Furnace must be off … no gas or electricity? Power lines must be down all over the area. There were always power outages during storms with high winds—

  But not here, not yet. Hendryx flipped the switch, and the hall light came on. Cam blinked, squinted as they crossed into the front parlor. The light clicked on in there, too.

  Hendryx carried him to the overstuffed couch, pushed him down on it. Rolled him over, lifted his legs so he was lying flat on his belly with his ankles raised over one of the armrests. He heard the tearing sound of the tape being unwound from his wrists, but he had so little feeling in his hands and arms he wasn’t sure when they were free. Fingers pawed at his scalp, found purchase in his hair, yanked his head up; other fingers tore the tape off his mouth.

  Hendryx let go of him, moved away. Then, “All right. Sit up and look at me.”

  No, he thought, stay like this for now. Gesture of defiance. But he didn’t obey the impulse. Too helpless, too submissive lying here this way—don’t give the bastard the satisfaction.

  He couldn’t use his hands or arms, and his legs weren’t much help, either; he was like a limbless man, a carnival freak performing a trick in a sideshow. Squirming, flopping with hips and torso—contortions and gyrations that left him panting when at last he heaved himself into an upright sprawl. He expected to see his captor laughing at him, enjoying his discomfort, but Hendryx was sitting rigidly in a chair a few feet away, wearing a fixed expression of brooding implacability.

  “You know where we are, Gallagher?”

  Nod. His throat was too sore, his mouth too dry, for words yet. He worked at producing saliva, at straightening himself on the cushions.

  “How does it feel to be back home again after so many years?”

  Cam looked away, remembering his visit here last week. If he hadn’t come then, if this really was his first time in the house since January of 1974, would he still be so calm? Facing a private hell was one thing when you were alone, in control of the situation. And another when you were at the mercy of a madman.

  He stared at his hands lying at his sides. Lumps of dead meat, enormous bloated useless things. A little tingling had begun in his forearms, but that was all. Only his feet felt alive, buzzing furiously and starting to ache.

  “I asked you a question, Gallagher.”

  He licked cracked lips, managed to swallow. The words he forced out were a frog croak. “Isn’t my home.”

  “Was once. Is again, now.”

  “Why’d you bring me here?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I don’t know anything.” His voice was stronger. “Who you are, why you’re doing this.”

  “Today’s January fourth.”

  “What does that—?”

  “Your twenty-fifth anniversary.”

  Cam stared at him.

  “You remember what happened twenty-five years ago tonight, Gallagher. Your father, your mother. You.”

  January 4. He’d blanked completely on the date. The shivers were at him again as he said, “Caitlin. She told you about it.”

  “That’s right. She told me everything.”

  “I don’t … what does my family have to do with you bringing me here?”

  “Anniversaries,” Hendryx said. “Two in January, four days apart.”

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

  “Punishment for your crimes. Perfect timing.”

  “What crimes?”

  “Father, mother, sister.”

  “For God’s sake, I was ten years old, none of what happened was my fault—”

  “Not what Caitlin says. And what you did to Annalisa, that was all your fault.”

  “I don’t know any Annalisa—”

  “My wife. Woman you ran down in Denver and left to die. January eighth. Your second anniversary.”

  What he was feeling now was surreality, as if he were caught in a new nightmare made up of old body parts. “This is crazy,” he said. “You’re crazy, Hendryx. I’ve never been in Denver in January, I told you that once—I’ve never hit anyone with a car, never had even a minor accident.”

  “Keep on lying, it won’t do you any good. I know you’re guilty.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Your face. Damn ugly face.”

  “Christ, what’re you talking about now?”

  “Police sketch.” Hendryx stood, withdrew something from his coat pocket, advanced with the gun in one hand and a rectangle of laminated plastic in the other. He extended the plastic close to Cam’s eyes. “This one.”

  Pen-and-ink drawing of a man’s head and face. Similar shape, similar features, same hairline—but it wasn’t him. “It’s not me,” he said. “Somebody I resemble, that’s all.”

  “You,” Hendryx said.

  “It could be anybody! It’s not me!”

  Hendryx put the sketch away, backed up, and sat down with the automatic on his lap. His eyes were like holes burned into the set planes of his face. The fury in them was old, stoked and brooded over for a long time.

  “You,” he said again. “You’re guilty and sentence has been passed. Execution date is the eighth. Four days on death row, then you get what’s coming to you.”

  Hold on, stay calm. But he could feel the undercurrents of panic flowing closer to the surface.

  “You’re going to kill me, just like that?”

  “Execute you.”

  “Without a trial.”

  “You don’t deserve a trial. Not after what you did to Annalisa.”

  “You wouldn’t hurt my wife?” Working to keep his voice steady, controlled. “My daughters or Caitlin?”

  The look Hendryx gave him was almost pitying. “I’m not like you, Gallagher. I don’t hurt innocent people.”

  “How can I believe that? I know you did something to Jenna Bailey—”

  “Wrong. Di
d it to herself.”

  “You kidnapped her.”

  “No. She tried to shoot me.”

  “You must’ve given her a reason.”

  “Told you, it was her fault.”

  “Did you try to rape her? Is that it?”

  “Rape—! What d’you think I am?”

  “What did you do, then?”

  “Never mind. Shut up about her.”

  Cam let a few seconds pass before he said, “My family, Hendryx. You swear you’ll leave them alone?”

  “You. Just you.”

  “The condemned prisoner.”

  “That’s right.

  “How am I going to die? Shoot me down in cold blood?”

  “Don’t know yet. It won’t be in cold blood, no matter what. Execution isn’t murder.”

  “A lot of people believe it is.”

  “I don’t care what a lot of people believe.”

  Cam took a breath, let it out slowly. Outside the wind seemed wilder, buffeting the house and shrieking in the eaves as if it were frustrated at being denied admittance. His left hand was pins-and-needles now; he was able to move it, then lift it onto his lap. Coax the sausage fingers into massaging the lump that was his right hand.

  “Even if I was guilty,” he said, “I haven’t committed a capital crime.”

  “What?”

  “What you think I did, the hit-and-run. Your wife’s still alive, you said.”

  “Yeah. In a hospital bed, not herself anymore, suffering on account of you. That’s the same as killing her.”

  “Hendryx, listen to me—”

  “Just the same.”

  “All right, what about you? You’ve committed two capital offenses, worse ones than mine. If I deserve to be executed, so do you.”

  “Bullshit. What d’you mean, capital offenses?”

  “Kidnapping, that’s one. Two counts, Jenna and now me. You killed her, that’s two, and now you want to—”

  “I didn’t kill your slut.”

  “My—What do you think she was to me?”

  “Bimbo, piece on the side.”

  “I wasn’t having an affair with her. Is that what you think? Jesus, is that why you hurt her—another way to punish me?”