Trouble in Mind: The Collected Stories, Volume 3

by Jeffery Deaver

  Pellam was content to let him go on because, he figured, the more like friends and family this seemed, the less the chance of getting robbed blind. But Hannah wasn’t in the mood. She interrupted curtly, “You mind getting to those estimates? The pickup first.”

  “Well now, I’ll do that.” With a crinkly-eyed look that meant he’d just added a hundred or two onto the bill.

  He headed outside. So did Hannah, setting the Stetson firmly on her head, against the up-and-coming wind. She pulled her cigarettes out of her pocket but then looked at assorted open containers of liquids that might or might not be flammable. She grimaced and put the Marlboros away. She made some calls.

  Pellam did, too. He told the director that he’d been in an accident, which the man responded to with more or less genuine concern. When he learned that the county would not under any circumstances issue permits, the director had a more intense reaction.

  “Fuckers. Why?”

  “Fragile ecosystem.”

  “Fragile? You told me it was rocks and sand.”

  “Joe, that’s what they said. What they mean is that they don’t want horny actors and slutty actresses carousing around in their county.”

  “We’re behind schedule, John.”

  “I’ll get the camper fixed and head south tomorrow.”

  A sigh. “Okay. Thanks.” The voice grew grave: “You okay, for sure?”

  Concern in tone, not in spirit.

  “Fine, Joe.”

  He disconnected and happened to be looking at a map of the area. The Devil’s Playground seemed to be the best locale for Paradice, the fictional town where the movie was set, as well as being the film’s title.

  And Pellam laughed to himself, realizing that, damn, the indie was about a stranger coming to a small desert town, like Gurney, and getting into all sorts of trouble. There wasn’t much of a story to go with it, but sometimes—especially in noir—all you needed was a misspelled word in the title, some hunky lead and a sexy babe and betrayal. Oh, and a fair amount of gunplay. Never forget the gunplay.

  Hannah finished her own call, walked farther away from conflagration risks, and had a portion of a cigarette. Then she returned to the waiting room, staring out the window, too. She flopped down in a cracked fiberglass chair. “I told Ed. He wasn’t happy.”

  Pellam got the impression she didn’t much care.

  “Your husband, the real estate man.”

  She looked at him as if asking, You heard that before. Why ask?

  “Where’s Butch?” Pellam asked.

  “Who?”

  Oh. Right. “Taylor.”

  “Headed to this little park in the middle of town. He wanted to write a poem.”

  “A poem? He’s serious about that?”

  Hannah continued, “Said he’d felt inspired by the experience of being out here. In a small Western town.” She shook her head, meaning: I don’t get it. “There’s nothing to experience. Not here. Dust maybe, rednecks, losers, coyotes. Hamlin’s got a mall.”

  Pellam wondered if the shopping center comment was delivered with the irony that seemed warranted. Apparently not.

  A few minutes later the huge, bearded mechanic lumbered into the office, rearranging the grease on his fingers with a filthy rag.

  “Damn shame ’bout that pickup. Needin’ bodywork when you can still smell the new leather. That’s always the way, ain’t it? Now, miss, I got two options. First’ll get you home sooner: I can remove the old bulbs—that’s tricky since they’re busted—and then screw in new bulbs and mount the lenses. That’ll be four hundred eighty dollars. Number two, which I’d recommend, would include all that, plus the bodywork and replacing the hitch. You don’t want to tow nothing with it in that present condition. Paint, too.”

  “And how much is that?”

  “Twenty-eight fifty.”

  Hannah squinted. “Really? I can have my guy in Hamlin do the bodywork for a thousand. The hitch is fine, I’ll buff off the scratches myself. And why’s that even an option? Didn’t your brother-in-law tell you I was in a hurry?”

  “I—”

  “So, we’re down to option one. And let’s think it through.”

  “How’s that?”

  She continued patiently. “You can get bulbs for six bucks a pop at NAPA, cheaper at Walmart. I need four of them. The lenses? Let’s be generous. Fifty bucks each. Just need two. That’s a grand total of one twenty-four in parts. Labor? Now, the bulbs aren’t screw-mount, like you said. They’re bayonet.”

  Rudy’s face had gone red beneath the smudges. “Well, I meant ‘screw,’ you know, in a like general sense.”

  “I’m sure you did,” Hannah muttered. Which was really a very funny line, even if she didn’t seem to realize it. “You put a glove on. Right? Stick your finger into the broken base and push and twist. You can do all four in a minute or two. Takes you another five minutes to mount the new ones. So you’re basically charging me four hundred dollars for twenty minutes’ work. That’s a thousand dollars an hour. My lawyer doesn’t charge that. Does yours?” A look at Pellam.

  “I don’t have a lawyer.” He did but he wasn’t going to get involved in this. He was enjoying himself too much.

  Silence for a moment.

  “I have overhead” was the only defense Rudy could mount.

  From beneath her dark, silken eyebrows, she gazed unflinchingly into his evasive eyes.

  “Two fifty,” he muttered.

  “One fifty.”

  “Two fifty.”

  “One fifty,” Hannah said firmly.

  “Cash?” came the uneasy riposte.

  “Cash.”

  “Okay. Jesus.” The mechanic sullenly retreated into his garage to fetch the tools.

  Pellam glanced at the Winnebago. He had no talent whatsoever when it came to motor vehicles, except for the uncanny ability to attract state troopers when he was speeding. Rudy was going to hose him. Maybe he should have Hannah go over the estimate.

  He walked to the vending machine and bought a Moon Pie. Pellam noted the “complimentary” coffee and thought about making a joke that it better say nice things about you because it looked like sludge. But Hannah just didn’t seem to be the sort to share clever comments with. He bought a vending machine instant coffee. Which wasn’t terrible, with the double milk powder.

  “You really picked that fellow up?” Pellam asked her after a moment. “I clock a hundred thousand miles a year but I never pick up hitchers.”

  “Even pretty women?”

  “Especially them. Though I’ve been tempted.” A glance into her pale eyes. Then he grazed her tan.

  She chose not to flirt back. “I normally wouldn’t’ve, but he did help me out. And I mean, really, a poet or grad student? He’s about as harmless as they come.”

  “Still could be pretty dangerous,” Pellam said gravely.

  She looked at him with consideration.

  “What if he started reciting poetry at you?”

  A blink. “Actually, he did. And it sucks.”

  “You ever been to Berkeley?”

  “No. I don’t travel much. Not out of the state.”

  Pellam had scouted for a film there. The movie was about the regents at a fictional school, which happened to look a lot like UC-B, tear-gassing protesting students in the sixties, and the rise of the counterculture. All very politically correct. The critics liked it. Unfortunately most of the people who went to see it, which was not very many, did not. Pellam thought the concept had potential but the director had ignored his suggestions—because he was JTLS. And even though he’d been a successful director himself years ago, anyone who was Just-the-Location-Scout, like Just-the-Grip or even Just-the-Screenwriter, was bound to be ignored by God.

  “He seems old to be a student.”

  A shrug, a glance toward Pellam, as if she were noticing him for the first time. “Maybe one of those perpetual college kids. Doesn’t want to get into the real world. Afraid of making money.”

  The
Moon Pie was pretty good. He thought about offering her a bite.

  But he liked it more than he liked her, despite the glance from her cool, gray eyes.

  Pellam eyed a ’74 Gremlin, painted an iridescent green that existed nowhere in nature. Now, that was a car with personality, whatever else you could say about it. From the tiny engine to the downright weird logo of, yes, a gremlin. He stuck his head inside. It smelled like what 1974 must have smelled like.

  Rudy finished the job in jiffy time and even washed the windshield for her, though the water in the pail didn’t leave it much cleaner than before.

  She paid him and the big mechanic went on to look over Pellam’s Winnebago. Two flat tires, wrecked bumper, probably front-end work. Maybe the fan. Bum brakes too, of course. What landed him here in the first place. If a bit of paint and fixing some dents were going to cost Ms. Hostility nearly three grand, what the hell was his estimate going to be? At least he had the production company credit card, though that would entail a complicated and thorough explanation to the accounting powers that be—and in the film business those were formidable powers indeed.

  Rudy went off to do his ciphering. Pellam expected him to lick his pencil tip before he wrote, but he didn’t.

  “Where the hell’s Taylor?” Hannah looked around with some irritation. “I told him to meet me here.”

  Pellam decided that with her impatience, edge, and taste for authentic jewelry, in quantity, a poet would not make the cut in a relationship.

  Good luck to you, Ed.

  “You have Taylor’s number?” Pellam asked.

  “No phone. He doesn’t believe in them. One of those.”

  He didn’t know exactly what that category was, but he could figure it out. “How big can Gurney be?” Pellam asked.

  “Too big,” she said.

  She was tough but Pellam had to give her credit for some really good lines.

  Rudy came back and, maybe it was Hannah’s presence, but the estimate was just under three Gs. Not terrible. He said okay. Rudy explained he’d call for the parts. They’d be here in the morning. “You’ll need to get a room for the night.”

  “I have one.”

  “You do.”

  “The camper.”

  “Oh, right.” The mechanic returned to his shop.

  Pellam ate some more Moon Pie and sipped coffee.

  Hannah looked around the repair shop office and didn’t see anything to sit on. She started to ask Pellam, “You—”

  But she was interrupted when two law enforcement vehicles, different jurisdictions, to judge from the color, pulled into the lot in front of the station. They parked. Werther got out of the first and was joined by the second car’s occupant, a young Colorado state trooper, in a dark blue shirt, leather jacket and Smokey the Bear hat.

  Pellam and Hannah left the shop, stepping into the windy afternoon, and joined them.

  “Ms. Billings, Mr. Pellam, this’s Sergeant Lambert from the Colorado State Patrol. He’d like to talk to you for a minute.”

  Heads were nodded. No hands shaken.

  Lambert wasn’t as young as he seemed, looking into the weathered face up close, though he was still a decade behind Pellam. His dark eyes were still and cautious.

  “You were both near Devil’s Playground around ten thirty a.m. today, is that correct?”

  “I was,” Pellam said. “Around then.”

  Hannah: “Probably, yeah.”

  “And the sheriff says you weren’t alone.”

  “No, a man was with me. Taylor…Duke was with me.”

  “I see. Well, seems a man was murdered about that time near the Playground. On some private land near Lake Lobos.”

  “Really,” Hannah said, not particularly interested.

  “His name was Jonas Barnes. A commercial real estate developer from Quincy.”

  Pellam pitched out the remaining Moon Pie. For some reason it just seemed like a bad idea to eat junk food pastries while being questioned about a homicide. The coffee went, too.

  The trooper continued, “He was stabbed to death. We think the killer was surprised. He started to drag him to one of the caves nearby, but somebody showed up nearby and he fled. That tells us there was a witness. Either of you happen to see anyone around there then? Parked vehicles? Hikers, fishermen? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  Hannah shook her head.

  Pellam thought back. “This was in the Devil’s Playground?”

  “South of there. The victim was looking over some land he was thinking of buying.”

  “Where that spur to the interstate’s gonna go?” This was from Rudy, who’d wandered up, doing more grease rearranging. He nodded a greeting to his brother-in-law.

  “That’s the place, yeah,” the trooper offered. Werther said he didn’t know.

  “Well, that’s what I heard. Connecting Fourteen to I-Fifty-two.”

  Ah, the infamous State Route 14. Pellam looked at Hannah Billings again. Her cool eyes and grim mouth didn’t make her any less attractive. He’d never see her again after today, of course, but he wondered just how married was she? Women like that, that was a natural question. It asked itself.

  Hannah said, “I wasn’t in the park. I had a flat about a half mile south. It was near a café.”

  “Duncan Schaeffer’s place?”

  She looked at the mechanic with a gaze that said, And why the hell would I know who owns it?

  The trooper said, “And the fellow who helped you with the flat? The hitchhiker? He might’ve seen more, since he was on foot.”

  “Could be,” she offered.

  “Where is he now?”

  “He was downtown. He’s supposed to meet me. Should’ve been here by now, I’d think.”

  The trooper took down their information and said he’d get an update while he waited until Taylor Duke returned. With ramrod-straight posture, he returned to his car, sat down, and began to type onto his computer. Sheriff Werther finished a conversation with Rudy, who headed back to the shop. The sheriff started up the cruiser and headed off.

  Pellam spotted a convenience store fifty yards up the dusty road. He could get a frozen dinner to nuke and curl up with a whiskey and a map of southeastern Colorado to find a shooting location for Paradice. He’d get something, but he was pissed he’d been denied Devil’s Playground. It was perfect.

  Stepping away, Hannah lit another cigarette, having some trouble getting the tobacco to stay alight in the stream of wind. He caught a glimpse of her pale eyes, her dark eyebrows, jeans tight as paint, as the flame flared. She snapped the lighter shut—a silver one, not disposable.

  Madam, I’m Adam…

  She ambled in his direction, as a fierce gust of wind pushed her starboard a few inches. As she closed in, she hung up. “Don’t get married,” she muttered. “Ever.”

  This intelligence about Ed was interesting. So was what she said next. “We go inside?” A nod at the camper.

  But when he responded, “You bet we can,” he wasn’t flirting. The damn wind had chilled him to the bone.

  * * *

  ONCE THEY WERE IN the confined space, Pellam noted immediately that they both smelled of service station—a sweet and ultimately unpleasant astringent smell, courtesy of Rudy and Gurney Auto Service, We Fix All Makes and Models, Foriegn too!! Dump your Oil HERE.

  Hannah noticed this as well and smelled her leather sleeve. “Jesus.” She settled into the bench seat behind the tiny kitchenette table. “Kind of homey.”

  “I like it.”

  Eyeing her beautiful face, to gauge if she was bored by his narrative, he told her about life on the road, what appealed to him. She did seem more or less interested. She rose, went to the cupboard. “Vodka?”

  “Whiskey.”

  “Headache.” She seemed to pout.

  Pellam was amused. Hurrying off into the windy afternoon to buy her vodka was just the sort of thing that the straight guy, the innocent, the mark would do for a femme fatale in a noir movie like Paradice. And
it was generally a bad decision on all fronts.

  Hannah looked him over carefully once more and then sat down on the bed, rather than the banquette. Her head dipped, her eyes locked on to his.

  He asked, “Grey Goose or Belvedere?”

  * * *

  TEN MINUTES LATER he’d shelled out big bucks for the premium and bought himself an extra fifth of Knob Creek, just to be safe. Two Stouffer’s frozen lasagnas, too. They were both for him. He didn’t think Hannah would stay around for dinner.

  Don’t get married. Ever.

  At first he’d thought that was a warning, not an invitation. But seeing her on the bed he wasn’t so sure.

  The wind kept up its insistent buffeting and Pellam walked with his head down, eyes squinted to slits. He’d spent a lot of time in deserts and it seemed to him that the grit in Colorado, Gurney in particular, was the sharpest and most abrasive. Imagination probably.

  He lifted his head and oriented himself, then adjusted course. Pellam walked past an abandoned one-story building that had been a video store. You hardly saw any of these anymore. As somebody in the Industry, he’d never really liked videotape or DVDs. And he didn’t like streaming movies on your computer or through your TV, however gargantuan was your Samsung or Sony. There was an intimacy about going to a theater to watch a movie. Lights going down, the hush of the crowd, then experiencing the images big and loud and awash with the reactions of everyone else. That was how movies should be—

  Whatever hit him weighed fifty pounds easy. It shattered the vodka and whiskey and sent Pellam tumbling into the street.

  But stuntman instincts never quite go away. He rolled rather than impacted, diffusing the energy. And in a smooth motion he sprang up, flexing his right hand to see if it was broken—it wasn’t. Two fists and he was ready to fight.

  The assailant, however, wasn’t. He was already sprinting away from the attack, through the brush. Pellam couldn’t see him clearly, but he noted that it seemed the man had a backpack on.

  Interesting…

  Pellam was about to go after him, but glanced toward the camper, about a hundred feet away, and saw the body lying on the ground.