Balfour was out there in the yard.
She knew it even before she heard him call out the animal’s name, tell it to shut the hell up.
Panic spiraled in her. He might not have been able to tell at a distance that the lights were on, there was still time to turn them off. But when he opened the door, he’d put them on himself, he’d see the TV set, he’d see her—
Eyes, his eyes!
The panic gave way to fury. She staggered ahead to the door. The twisted-together tacks were on the floor where she’d dropped them, their sharp points gleaming faintly in the glare. She snatched them up, then flipped off the lights. Stood with her arms raised, one slender piece like a miniature dagger in each clenched fist.
He was at the door now. His key scraped in the lock.
As soon as he opened it, she’d hurl herself at him, plunge the tacks into his eyes. Even if the dog tore her apart afterward, dying in agony would be worth it because he’d be dead, too.
19
JAKE RUNYON
There were four motels and six B&Bs in and around Six Pines. He and Bill divvied them up to save time, agreed to rendezvous at the campground if neither of them found out anything worth a summoning phone call. Tiny hope at best, but it was all they had left.
Until a few minutes past seven o’clock. And then they didn’t have it anymore.
All of the accommodations were booked solid. The method in a canvass like this was to talk to clerks, managers, hostesses first to find out which guests had been staying since Sunday night, then take those individuals room by room. There weren’t many in the places on Runyon’s list; most of the visitors were late arrivals, in town for the Independence Day weekend. Some of the doors he knocked on stayed shut, the occupants out somewhere. The people who were in, most obliging, a few not, had nothing to tell him: either they hadn’t been driving in the valley hills, or if they had, they didn’t know anything about an old logging road, and they’d never seen the woman in the photograph Bill had given him. The silent cell phone in his shirt pocket said Bill was getting the same negative responses.
Runyon had been at the campground for fifteen minutes and had already spoken to several of the campers when Bill showed up. Together, they covered the rest, with the same lack of results.
Bill wanted to go back and start over, to see if any of the tourists they missed had returned to their rooms, but Runyon talked him out of it. The man was in no shape to do any more interviewing—a couple of the campers had reacted warily to his disheveled and hollow-eyed appearance, and they might not have been the first to shy away. He knew it, too; he didn’t put up an argument when Runyon offered to go back into town and make the rounds again by himself.
“All right,” he said. “The rental house isn’t far from here. Follow me up there first so you’ll know where it is.”
Bill’s driving was a little erratic, another sign of how strung out he was. Runyon followed at a safe distance, memorizing the route from the valley road. He’d packed an overnight bag before leaving the city; he got it out of the trunk while Bill opened up the house, took it into the spare bedroom he was pointed to.
When he came out again, Bill was sprawled on the couch in the living room with a piece of notepaper in his hand. Wordlessly, he extended it to Runyon. List of motels and B&Bs, names, room numbers; all but three of the names had lines through them. A similar list in Runyon’s pocket contained four names left to check. Seven altogether. Chances a couple of points above zero.
“One other thing,” Bill said. “The mailman, Ramsey.”
“What about him?”
“He looked familiar and I just remembered where I’d seen him before. Sunday, Green Valley Café, while Kerry and I were in there having lunch. He and two other guys were in the booth behind us—I think one of them was Ned Verriker. They got into a verbal wrangle with another customer, an ugly little guy they called the mayor.”
“What was the wrangle about?”
“That mayor name. Little guy seemed offended by it, made some noise and stomped out.”
“Why was he offended?”
“No idea. Some sort of local joke.”
“Anybody say his name?”
“Yeah. Balmer, Baldor, something like that … I just can’t remember for sure. First name Pete.”
“You think he noticed you and Kerry?”
“Can’t say. He looked around, but the place was crowded.”
“Talk to him or see him since?”
“No. But the connection to Verriker … worth checking him out.”
“I’ll try to find him,” Runyon said. “Don’t know when I’ll be back. Might be quite a while.”
“Call me if you get even a whisper.”
“You know I will. Try to get some rest.”
“Yeah.”
“Something to eat, too. Food in the house?”
“Enough. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.”
Runyon left him, drove down to the valley road and back into Six Pines. Four of the seven remaining tourist possibles were in their rooms; three had nothing to tell him, the fourth wouldn’t even talk to him through the door. Three to go. Chances now one point above zero.
Next option: a round of the watering holes, the ones that catered to the locals. Even though the people didn’t know you, you could pick up information if you asked the right questions the right way. Runyon had developed a knack for that kind of thing. Or maybe it just came naturally. In Seattle, before his life got turned upside down, he’d been one of the regular guys—good listener, easy rapport with strangers.
Barely possible somebody’d be drinking in one of taverns that they’d missed talking to, somebody who had seen something or had some idea of who might’ve been parked on that logging road Monday afternoon. There was still the Verriker angle, too. Broxmeyer’s judgment that Ned Verriker and his wife had no enemies, were well liked by everyone, wasn’t necessarily true; what Bill had told him about Sunday’s incident in the Green Valley Café indicated that. If nothing else, making the rounds should net the full identity of the Pete Something who didn’t like being called mayor.
The first place he went to was the Bank Shot, a block off the south end of Main Street. No different than every other small-town bar he’d been in, except that there was a pool tournament going on in the back room and the place was jammed to capacity. The noise level was such that you couldn’t hold a normal conversation. He wasn’t going to find out anything here, at least not until the tournament ended and the crowd thinned out.
His next stop, a couple of blocks away, was a place called the Miners Club. Pretty much a carbon copy of the Bank Shot, but without the pool tournament, the heavy crowd, and the ear-slamming noise. He found a place at the bar, ordered a light beer, and helped himself to a handful of pretzels to appease the mutterings in his belly. The bartender was too busy at the moment for conversation, and the couple on Runyon’s left were busy discussing the screwed-up love life of the woman’s sister. He made an effort with the middle-aged man on his right, but it didn’t buy him anything except a half glare and a couple of grunts.
He picked up his glass, moved to the other end of the bar where a fat man in a Hawaiian shirt sat alone shaking dice. Liar’s dice, from the number of die and the way each turnover was scrutinized. Runyon slid onto the stool next to him, watched him shake out another hand, then asked conversationally if he were practicing his game. The fat man glanced at him, grinned faintly, shrugged, and said he needed all the practice he could get because every two out of three times he shook Mel the bartender for a beer, he lost. There was a state law against shaking dice for drinks in taverns, but if you didn’t pay any attention to it, it made you one of the guys. Runyon asked the fat man if he wanted to shake for a new round, got an affirmative nod, made sure he lost the match, and thereby established a casual bar bond.
The fat man’s name was Harve and he was talkative enough. Runyon told him he was a salesman from Modesto, that he and the wife had come into t
own on Tuesday and were staying through the weekend. Then he said, “I hear you had some excitement here Monday night. Somebody’s house blew up and a woman was killed?”
“That’s right,” Harve said. “One of them freak accidents. Bad enough, but it could’ve been worse.”
“You mean the woman’s husband might’ve been home, too.”
“That’s one thing. Ned Verriker was real lucky. Explosion almost caused a forest fire, that’s another. VFD just got it contained in time.”
“Must’ve been some blaze. You in the neighborhood when it happened?”
“Not me,” Harve said. He sounded disappointed. “Working on a road crew the other end of the valley.”
“The man … what’s his name, Verriker?… must be taking it pretty hard.”
“Wouldn’t you if it was your house, your wife?”
“Hell, yes. Never be the same again.”
“Ned probably won’t, neither.”
Runyon took a sip of his beer before he said, “Pretty well liked in the community, Verriker and his wife, weren’t they?”
“Guess you could say that.”
“Not friends of yours?”
“No. Never met her, but I know him a little from where he works. He don’t come in here much. The Buckhorn’s his hangout. Keeps everybody in stitches over there, they tell me.”
“Is that right?”
“One of them guys with a wicked sense of humor. Well, the poor bastard’s not laughing now, that’s for sure.”
“Wicked?”
“Always making jokes about other people. You know, if they don’t hurt, they ain’t funny.”
The bartender, Mel, had come down to this end and was standing within earshot. He said a little sourly, “Like that mayor business.”
“Yeah, like that.”
“Pete sure didn’t think it was funny, and I don’t blame him.”
“Guess I don’t, either. But you got to admit, Verriker nailed him pretty good.”
“Better not tell Pete that.”
“Not me. He throws a fit every time anybody even looks at him cross-eyed these days.”
Runyon said, “Mayor business? What’s that about?”
“The Mayor of Asshole Valley,” Harve said. “Guy hung that name on me, I’d be pissed, too.”
“How’d it come about?”
“Him and Pete never got along, that’s how. Almost come to blows a couple of times, didn’t they, Mel?”
“So I heard,” the bartender said.
“How long ago’d it happen, the name-calling?”
Harve said, “Few weeks. At the Buckhorn one night.”
“Wouldn’t’ve happened in here,” Mel said, “not on my shift.”
“Dunno how it got started, different versions floating around. Something about too many assholes in the world these days. Verriker said what they ought to do was round ’em all up and put ’em in a valley somewhere, armed guards all around to keep ’em there. Pete didn’t like that and said so, and Verriker said that was because he was the biggest asshole in this valley, and if he was put in with the rest, they’d probably elect him mayor. The Mayor of Asshole Valley.”
“And the name stuck?”
“Oh, it stuck all right. Or at least Pete thinks so.”
Runyon asked, “Who is Pete anyway?”
“Good customer,” the bartender said. “You wouldn’t know him.”
“Curious, that’s all. He’s not here tonight, I take it?”
“He was, we wouldn’t be talking about him like this. Talked about him enough as it is.” He glanced meaningfully at the fat man before he moved away.
“Yeah, Mel’s right,” Harve said. “Oughtn’t to be spreading local stuff around to out-of-towners.” He picked up the dice box, rattled it a couple of times. “Shake for another beer?”
Runyon declined; said his wife was a fit-thrower, too, and if he didn’t get back to her, she was liable to throw one tonight. He’d gotten all he was going to get out of Harve and the bartender. Time to move on.
The Buckhorn Tavern was on a side street at the north end of town. From the name, you expected walls decorated with deer antlers, animal heads, hunting paraphernalia, and that was what you got. Macho place. The two dozen or so patrons were mostly male and from the look of them, regulars. Every eye fixed on Runyon when he walked in, watched him ease onto a bar stool and spend four dollars on another light beer.
The glances weren’t unfriendly, just openly curious. But he couldn’t get anybody to talk to him. Tried three times, with two men and a woman, and either got the cold shoulder or a quick brush-off. He took his beer over near an antiquated shuffleboard game for a better look at the rest of the patrons. He’d been there less than thirty seconds when one of them slid out of a booth and came sidling over to him.
The man was about forty, rangy and hollow-cheeked, dressed in Levi’s and a sport shirt. He nodded and offered a “How’s it going?” greeting. Then, “Aren’t you one of the guys been asking about the woman went missing a few days ago?”
“That’s right. Runyon’s my name.”
“Ernie Stivic.”
“Sorry, but I don’t remember talking to you.”
“You didn’t. Saw you with Frank Ramsey this afternoon.”
“The mailman?”
“Yep. He’s a friend of mine, he told me about it after you left. Any luck finding the woman?”
“Not so far.”
“Frank said her husband’s pretty shook up. I would be, too, if I was married.” Stivic took a swig from the bottle of Bud he was holding. “You and him really private detectives down in ’Frisco?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t do much in a thing like this, can you? Woman wanders off into the woods and you don’t know the area?”
“Is that what you think happened? She just wandered off and got lost?”
“What else? Happens all the time up here. Well, not all the time, but often enough in the summer.”
“You wouldn’t happen to’ve been in the vicinity of Skyview Drive on Monday afternoon, would you, Mr. Stivic?”
“Not me. I was at work.”
“Know anybody who might’ve been?”
Stivic shook his head. “Sorry. Mind if I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“How come you’re here? In the Buckhorn, I mean. You looking for somebody or just taking a break?”
It was curiosity, nothing more, that had brought Stivic over. But he was friendly and talkative enough, the type open to being probed. You wouldn’t be able to get much from a man like this about one of his friends, but you could pry out some information if the subject was somebody he didn’t like.
Runyon said, “I thought the mayor might be here. Is he?”
“Fred Donaldson? Why’d you think he’d be here? He don’t drink.”
“I meant the man they call the mayor. Pete something.”
“Oh, hell, him,” Stivic said, and his mouth bent into a lopsided grin. “The mayor. Yeah, and it fits him like a glove, too. You know why we call him that?”
“I’ve been told. Is he here?”
“Not tonight. How come you’re looking for him?”
“Just trying to cover all the bases. What’s his last name?”
“Balfour. Pete Balfour.”
“What’s he do for a living?”
“Construction. Balfour Construction.”
“Big outfit?”
“Nah. Just him and a couple of helpers. Works out of his house.”
“Any idea where I can find him tonight?”
“Miners Club, over on Third. That’s where he usually hangs out.”
“I was just there and he wasn’t.”
“Probably out at his place then.”
“Where would that be?”
“Up-valley, five, six miles.”
“Wife, kids?”
“Not Pete. He don’t have any friends, neither.”
“Sounds like you don’t much li
ke the man.”
“Ain’t much to like. He didn’t get that mayor name for nothing.”
“I understand Ned Verriker hung it on him.”
“That’s right. Poor Ned. You heard about what happened to his wife?”
“I heard. Verriker and Balfour don’t get along, I take it?”
“You take it right.” Stivic sucked on his beer again. A dark frown had replaced the crooked grin. “Balfour come in here Monday night, pretended to be tore up over Alice dying horrible like that, but he don’t really care. Not about her or any woman.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Beat up on his wife until she walked out on him a few years ago. No other woman around here’s had anything to do with him since.”
“Did Balfour ever threaten the Verrikers?”
“Threaten? Why’d you ask that?”
“No particular reason. Just wondering.”
“Well, not that I know of. Ned would’ve kicked the crap out of him if he had.” Stivic seemed to have realized he was being a little too frank with a stranger. He said, “Listen, you talk to Balfour, don’t tell him what I said about him, all right? He don’t scare me none, but I don’t want him hassling me.”
“I won’t mention you at all, Mr. Stivic. Thanks for your help.”
“Okay. Good luck finding your friend’s wife.”
Stivic moved across to the booth he’d vacated. Runyon carried his unfinished beer to the bar, left it there, and went down a corridor near the front entrance where the restrooms were. The Buckhorn was old-fashioned enough to still have a public wall telephone with a battered local directory hanging underneath. There was a small ad for Balfour Construction in the Yellow Pages, with an address on Crooked Creek Road, Six Pines. He memorized the name and number. On his way out of the tavern, he glanced up at an illuminated beer company clock on the wall between two racks of antlers. Almost nine-thirty.
In the car, he sat mulling for a couple of minutes. Judging from what he’d learned so far, Pete Balfour was a definite maybe: didn’t get along with the Verrikers, history of violence at least against one woman, loner with a nasty temper. The best lead they’d had so far, but still tenuous without more information. No reason yet to get Bill’s hopes up with a phone call. How to handle it then? Talk to Balfour tonight or wait until morning? Almost full dark now, late to be bracing somebody. But not too late, not with the time factor working against them.
Hellbox (Nameless Detective) Page 14
