Shrug. “¿Quién sabe? He don’t tell me much.” Perez’s expression was more or less stoic, but he had sad, expressive eyes, and the impression they conveyed was that he didn’t much like his employer.
“Have you worked for Balfour long?”
“Six years.” Six years too long, the sad eyes said.
“So, you must know him pretty well?”
“No, señor. I work, he pays me, that’s all.” Then, “Excúseme, por favor. I must be finish here when he come back.”
Jake had parked in the shade of a big oak; we went to sit in the car and wait. I said, “Some other business on Monday. Like maybe setting a gas-line boobytrap to murder the Verrikers.”
“Maybe. Let’s see what he has to say.”
The voice of reason. But I was tensed up again, fidgety; I couldn’t hold my hands still, kept running them back and forth across my thighs.
The wait lasted ten minutes. Then a dirty white Dodge pickup came rattling along the blacktop and angled to a stop near the shed. The driver hopped out, went around to take material out of the pickup’s bed. Balfour.
He was still unloading when Runyon and I approached him. Pear-shaped, stubby-legged, chinless; bullet head topped with a couple of tufts of colorless hair. And a dirty Band-Aid under one eye that gave him a faintly piratical look. He scowled when he spotted us, then seemed to make an effort to shift his expression into neutral. I don’t normally judge people by their appearance; I’ve spent a personal and professional lifetime letting actions and personalities dictate my opinions. But even though I warned myself to keep an open mind, I took an immediate dislike to the man.
“What you guys want?” Flat, with an undercurrent of irritation.
“Few minutes of your time,” Runyon said. “You’re Pete Balfour?”
“That’s right. Who’re you?”
Jake told him. Names, professions. The last deliberately, so we could gauge his reaction.
There wasn’t much. A couple of eyeblinks, a little twitch along one side of his mouth. He didn’t look particularly bright, but you sensed the kind of self-protective shrewdness that keeps some men from revealing much about themselves when you catch them by surprise.
“Detectives? Yeah? What the hell you want with me?”
I said, keeping my voice even, “We’re trying to find my wife. She’s been missing since Monday.”
“Oh, yeah, I heard about that. Hope you find her.” Sure he did. “But I didn’t know you was a detective.”
“Does it matter?”
“No. Hell, no. But I can’t help you none. Why come to me?”
“We’re talking to everybody we can,” Runyon said, “looking for someone who might’ve seen Mrs. Wade Monday afternoon. You didn’t happen to be anywhere near the old logging road off Skyview Drive that day, did you?”
“Me? No. I wasn’t nowhere near the valley that day.”
“Mind telling us where you were?”
“Right here, working.”
“All afternoon?”
“Sure. All day. We got to finish these repairs by tonight. Big holiday doings tomorrow, you probably heard about that.”
Lying through his stained-yellow teeth. I had an irrational impulse to grab him, shake him like a dog shakes a bone. I shoved my hands into my pockets to keep them still. Being a liar didn’t necessarily make him a kidnapper. Not necessarily. Not enough evidence yet. Innocent until proven guilty.
“Know of anyone else who might’ve been out that way on Monday?” Runyon asked him.
“No. Wish I did.”
“Well, if you hear of anyone who was, let the deputy sheriff, Broxmeyer, know, will you?”
“I sure will.”
I said as he started to turn away, “What happened to your face?”
“Huh?”
“Under your eye. The Band-Aid.”
His mouth twitched again. He lifted a hand, let it drop without touching the adhesive. “Oh, that. Splinter from a piece of wood I was cutting. Couple of inches higher and they’d be calling me One-Eye.”
Another lie. The hell he was innocent.
Back to the car. When we were inside, I said, “He’s the one, Jake. I can feel it in my gut.”
“He’s a damn liar, that’s for sure.”
“I’m thinking we ought to go back out to his place, climb the gate and look around, and to hell with the dog.”
“If we get caught, then what? If we don’t find Kerry, then what?”
I didn’t argue. Voice of reason again.
We were moving now, heading for the gates. In the sideview mirror, I could see Balfour standing alongside his pickup, pretending to rummage around in the bed while he watched us drive away.
Runyon said, “What we need is more information on Balfour. His life, his habits, if he owns any other property where he could be keeping a prisoner.”
“There’s one person who can tell us. Plenty.”
“Ned Verriker.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Ned Verriker.”
22
PETE BALFOUR
Detectives!
He hadn’t had any idea the woman was married to a damn private cop. How the hell could he? She hadn’t said nothing, nobody else’d said nothing. Probably all over the valley by now, everybody knew it but him. The last to know anything, that was how it’d always been for him, unless he pried it out of somebody like he’d pried Verriker’s whereabouts out of Jolene and Luke Penny. Asshole Valley didn’t want nothing to do with Pete Balfour, wouldn’t give him the time of day, just laughed at him and called him mayor and wouldn’t give him any peace.
Them two nosing around, asking where he was on Monday afternoon—one more threat to him and his plans. Just making the rounds, asking everybody, like they’d said? Or did they suspect him somehow? Come into the fairgrounds, private property, you couldn’t see the construction work from out on the road … maybe they did suspect him. But that didn’t make any sense. How could they? Unless somebody’d pointed them at him, said go talk to the mayor, he’s a schmuck nobody likes, he could be the one has the woman locked up somewhere.
No, hell, that didn’t make sense, neither. Everybody figured she was lost in the woods, they couldn’t have any idea she’d been grabbed. Sure. Sure. It was all right. Those city dicks didn’t suspect anything. Getting himself all worked up for no good reason.
But why the questions about the old logging road, Skyview Drive? They couldn’t of put it together that that was where he’d snatched the woman or what he was doing up there in the first place. They didn’t live in the valley, they didn’t know how much he hated the Verrikers. Guys like the Ramseys and Stivic and Lucchesi knew him and Verriker didn’t get along, sure, but that was all they knew. Couldn’t tie Pete Balfour to the explosion. Nobody could. Tragic accident, everybody thought so, everybody said so. Wasn’t no way to prove otherwise.
Yeah, but still … the way the old guy, the husband, had looked at him. Eyes boring into his like he was trying to see inside his head. Hard eyes. Suspicious eyes. Tight mouth, too, and it’d got tighter when he said he hadn’t been nowhere near that logging road, that he’d been right here working all day Monday—
Shit! They’d been waiting when he come back from Builders Supply, they could of been here long enough to ask the Mex or the half-wit the same questions they’d asked him.
He went quick to where Eladio was working in the beer concession. “Them two guys that was just here. You talk to them while I was gone?”
“Sí.”
“What’d you tell them about Monday? You say I was here all day?”
“That would be a lie. I tell them the truth.”
“You stupid son of a bitch! That I left early, didn’t come back?”
Eladio nodded, looking at him with those big sad eyes of his. Then he shrugged, half smiled, and started banging away again at the countertop.
Balfour came close to jumping in there, smashing his face in. But it wouldn’t of done no good, the damage was alre
ady done. He jerked away, went around to lean against the wall of the men’s crapper. Sweat ran like grease on his face; he rubbed it off on the sleeve of his shirt.
Those detectives suspected him now, all right, if they hadn’t before. But they didn’t know anything yet. He could of had some other reason for lying about Monday, right? Off doing something illegal, buying drugs, banging somebody’s wife, people had all kinds of reasons for telling lies. No, they couldn’t know anything for sure, but that wouldn’t stop them from nosing around.
Suppose they went nosing around his place?
They could get in if they wanted to, the gates and the fence wouldn’t keep them out. Bruno wouldn’t let them get near the shed, but if they had guns … Jesus, if they found the woman …
His plans, his revenge, finished right then and there. He couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t, wouldn’t!
What if they were out there right now?
The thought turned his sweat to ice. Then he thought, no, that wasn’t the way cops operated, even private cops. They’d try to get something else against him before they went busting onto his property, shooting his dog. Wouldn’t they? Sure they would. They might go ahead and do it later anyway, whether they found out something or not, but not yet, not for a while. There was still time to make it all work the way he’d worked it out. What he had to do was shift the timetable, get everything ready as fast as he could, move out now.
The only problem was the woman. Couldn’t leave her where she was, too much chance of her being found. Couldn’t put her where he’d planned to until tonight, either. What the hell was he gonna do with her?
Well, there was one thing. No, two things. Both risky, but he’d have to do one or the other. Didn’t have to figure out which now. First things first. Get on your horse, man, get moving before it’s too late!
Balfour hurried back to the beer concession. “Eladio, listen, I’m sorry I jumped on you. Having a lousy day, that’s all.”
Another shrug, another half smile.
“I got to go out again for a while, some other business to take care of. I should be back sometime this afternoon, but if I’m not … repairs are almost done, all the major ones anyway. You and the kid can finish up the men’s restroom.”
“Sí, jefe.”
“One more thing. Those two guys come back, you tell them you made a mistake about Monday. Tell ’em I was here all day working with you and the kid. You understand?”
That half smile again. Fucking stupid Mex!
Balfour unbuckled his toolbelt on the way to the pickup, tossed it into the front seat. He didn’t need to take anything else from the job site. Everything he was gonna need was in his workshop at home.
He drove out of there to the south, took back roads to get to his place so he wouldn’t have to go through town—the private cops might spot him and the last thing he wanted was them following him home. He was careful when he neared his driveway, but it was all right. Nobody around, the gates locked tight. Bruno started barking up a storm when he unlocked them, drove into the yard. Okay, good, everything just the way he’d left it.
Still time. Make it fast, but don’t forget anything.
First thing was the camper shell. He locked the gates again, drove over to the workshop, opened the double doors, then backed the pickup in close to the rear wall where he had the shell drawn up on pulleys. He lowered it, swung it into place, released the pulleys, and locked it down.
Work supplies next. Didn’t take him long—his toolkit was already in the truck. Double-bitted ax, shovels, a pick, some other hand tools and hardware. Nothing electric or battery-operated except for his B&D drill, a grinder, and a small Skil saw. Nothing big or bulky. He hated to leave his big power tools, the circular saw and jigsaw and lathe and router, but there just wasn’t enough room. Wouldn’t be needing them anyway, where he was going.
Plenty of space left once he had it all stored. Plenty. When he drove out, he took a long look at Crooked Creek Road to make sure he didn’t have company, then went on up to the house. Inside, he unlocked and emptied his gun cabinet. Took two trips to load the Bushmaster, the MK7, one of his deer rifles, an over-and-under shotgun, the Glock .380 auto, and all the ammo he had on hand. His hunting knives, too, the 16-inch Bowie and the skinner and the gut-hook. The .38 he’d use on Verriker was already locked inside the glove box.
Bedroom. That was where he kept his laptop, and when he saw it sitting on the desk, he thought again about taking it along. But it just wouldn’t be smart. They had ways of finding you when you used your computer. Cut all his ties, don’t leave any traces—that was the only way to do it. And don’t take anything along that wasn’t absolutely necessary.
He got his suitcase out of the closet, the big one Charlotte had bought him right after they were married so they could travel around, see the country, as if he’d cared to take any kind of trip with that fat cow. He packed it up with pants, shirts, two heavy sweaters, underwear, and shaving gear and a few other things from the bathroom. Stored that in the camper shell, then went and got his hiking boots, both pairs, the old Marlboro Man jacket he’d bought secondhand in Placerville, the rolled-up camp bed and two wool blankets.
What else?
Food, right. Not too much, just enough to hold him for a few days so he wouldn’t have to stop at restaurants or fast-food places. Do his eating and sleeping at rest stops or campgrounds, no other stops except for gas. Straight on through.
He filled a flour sack, added his last two bottles of Jack Daniel’s, and took that to the truck. Then he went and got a frying pan, a couple of cook pots, the old tin coffee pot he took on his hunting trips, a few other things. All of that pretty much filled up the camper. Just enough room left.
Bruno was yapping again, but it wasn’t because anybody’d showed up. Yeah, he’d figured the detectives right. Dog was just barking because he was a dumb mutt that liked to hear himself make a lot of noise. Or maybe he was hungry, but the hell with that. No time to feed him. Didn’t make no difference what happened to Bruno now anyway.
Back inside, he used a screwdriver to pop off the baseboard on one bathroom wall. The hole he’d cut out behind it was just large enough for the two cigar boxes he kept in there. His stash. All the cash he’d been paid for construction work and never reported to the IRS; screw the IRS. A little over seven thousand, mostly tens and twenties, nothing larger than a fifty—he’d counted it two nights ago, after he had his plans all worked out. Last him a long time if he was real careful. He put three hundred in his wallet, stuffed the rest into one cigar box, took that out to the pickup, and hid it under the floorboards on the passenger side. Somebody’d have to be looking for it, strip-searching, otherwise they’d never find it.
Just about done. He quick-checked his list to make sure. No, he hadn’t forgotten anything.
One last thing to do and he’d be loaded and ready to roll.
23
KERRY
She lay marinating in heat and the stench from her soiled body. Drifting in and out of consciousness now, a floating limbo. Wrapped in tape from neck to feet this time, a gray mummy stretched out on its back on the dirty floor, unable to move even a little because more tape held her immobile against one of the bench stanchions. For a long time, there had been agony—cramped muscles, sensations of suffocation, shoots of pain in her jaw where Balfour had hit her after she missed stabbing his eye with the tack weapon. Fear and hate, too, rising like tides, receding, rising again, receding again. Then resignation had set in, followed by a return of the apathy, followed by a numbness both physical and mental.
Now, she felt as if her mind had become detached from her body, her spirit already hovering just outside her body. The spirit withering, losing sentience, drifting for long periods in a trancelike state where nonfrightening images swam and darted like creatures beneath the surface of a calm sea. Then it would stir back to life, send out little pulses of awareness—heat, pain, thirst, hunger, the death odors as if her body had already begun
to decay. And the fear and the hate would come again, but only briefly and with less and less intensity. Even the desperate will to live had become muted, begun to give way to a desire for the peace that lay beyond the floating limbo.
Adrift again.
Aware again.
Sounds. The dog barking, always barking. Damn the dog.
Something else then, a roaring noise. Car engine. Outside, close.
Door slamming. Balfour, coming back.
She didn’t care anymore. Let him come.
She tried to will the hovering spirit to take her back into the nowhere place. But awareness remained. Spasms of pain, thirst, hunger, fear, hate. Fragments of thought. And more sounds. Key scraping in the door lock. The truck engine, louder, throbbing. Heavy steps moving toward her.
His voice: “Didn’t get loose this time, did you?”
Words came to her, bright and clear, as if they were being held up on a sign: Fuck you. But she couldn’t say them. Her throat was closed tight, her vocal chords shriveled and frozen.
Bending over her, putting a hand on her.
Don’t touch me!
Snick. Knife, he had a knife in the other hand.
No, don’t. Go ahead, get it over with. No, please don’t!
He didn’t. Ripping sounds … he was using the knife to saw at the tape that held her against the bench support.
Another snick and the knife disappeared. His hands on her again then, pulling her away from the bench, turning her onto her back. A gurgling whimper came out of the hollowness inside as he bent over her, worked his hands under her and lifted her up tight against his body.
“Jesus, lady. You stink.”
His breath was no better. The sour spew of it in her face jerked her head aside.
Grunting, he carried her out through the open door. The glare of sunlight was like needles poked into her eyes; she squeezed them shut. The dog was close by, its barks and growls loud.
“Shut up, Bruno. Shut up!”
The animal noises stopped and Kerry could hear the engine rumble again. She opened her eyes to slits. Blurred images settled into focus.
Hellbox (Nameless Detective) Page 16
