Crazybone

by Bill Pronzini

  Little things, lots of them, and what they amounted to was something big and ugly. A chain reaction scenario of sudden violence, sudden death.

  There was anger in me now, cold and focused. If my scenario was the right one, and I was reasonably sure it was, I had more work to do tonight. Hard work. Dirty work.

  I went out of there to get it done.

  21

  Most businesses in the village were closed for the day; it was almost seven o’clock. The first open place I stopped at a liquor store, had a public phone outside, but the directory was missing. I went inside long enough to ask the clerk a couple of questions about Speyburn single highland malt Scotch. Then I drove on a ways until I came to a Shell station.

  Two phone booths there, one with a tattered book. I flipped through the survivor’s white pages. There was a listing — an address on Ridgecrest Road. I had a map in the car that would tell me how to find it.

  “He’s not here,” the woman said.

  Her name was Lillian. She’d volunteered that information right after she opened the door, making it plain that she preferred her given name to her married one. Even in the pale porch light I could tell she had once been a beauty, the dark-haired, smoky type. She was still attractive at around forty, but there was a letting-go laxness to her facial muscles, a listlessness in her voice and movements, lines bracketing her mouth that had been deep-etched by the acid of bitterness. Behind her, inside the house, I could hear voices and laughter, some young and live, the rest canned — teenagers watching a TV sitcom.

  “When do you expect him?” I asked.

  “I don’t. He’ll be late, as usual.”

  “Do you know where he is? It’s important I talk to him.”

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

  “No. It’s urgent. Really.”

  Pause. “He said he had a business meeting.”

  “Did he say where or with whom?”

  “No.”

  “So you haven’t any idea where I can find him?”

  Another pause, longer this time. Studying me. I was making an effort to keep my feelings from showing, but some of the anger must have leaked through. A good thing, as it turned out.

  At length she said, “What do you want to talk to him about?”

  “A personal matter.”

  “I see. An urgent personal matter.”

  “Very urgent.”

  Her faint smile had no humor in it; in the diffused light the lines of bitterness looked deep and blood-dark, like slash marks. She thought she knew what kind of urgent matter, that was plain. And it didn’t seem to bother her. If anything, she was pleased. Long-suffering and fed up, and I’d caught her in just the right frame of mind.

  “Well, then,” she said, “I may have an idea where he is. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but he has a cabin up in the mountains off Skyline. It used to belong to his brother before Dennis moved to Texas. He goes up there sometimes.”

  “On business?”

  The faint smile again, so fleeting this time it was like a shadow across her mouth. “When he wants to get away from me and the kids. His private little retreat.”

  “Can you give me directions?”

  “It’s about fifteen miles from here.”

  “I don’t mind driving fifteen miles.”

  “You might have trouble finding it.”

  “I don’t mind that, either.”

  She told me how to get there, in some detail. I said then, “A few more questions before I go. What kind of Scotch does your husband drink?”

  “Now why would you want to know that?”

  “Speyburn? The expensive twelve-year-old kind?”

  “That’s right. Nothing but the best for him.”

  “Is he in the habit of keeping a bottle in his car?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.” Her laugh was as cold as the night. “He wouldn’t want to be caught without it in an emergency. Such as a sudden business meeting. So you’d better be prepared, not that you aren’t already.”

  “Prepared?”

  “If he is at the cabin,” she said, “he won’t be alone.”

  Lillian’s directions were explicit enough, but as she’d predicted I had a little trouble pinpointing the exact location of the cabin. It was northwest of Greenwood, on winding Tenitas Creek Road just off Skyline; the area was heavily forested, the property screened from the road by pine and spruce, the night dark, windy. Shifting splinters of light winked through the trees, but it wasn’t until my second pass that I spotted the half-hidden driveway leading in that way. The drive made a dogleg to the left partway along so I couldn’t tell whether the illumination came from a window or some kind of outside night-light.

  I drove past again and on down the road a few hundred yards, to where I’d U-turned the first time. Mine was still the only car in sight. I made another quick swing around, came back uphill in low gear. A short distance below the driveway, on my side of the road, my headlights picked up a narrow, rough-earth turnout. I cut the lights and eased in there, making certain I was all the way off the pavement before I shut off the engine.

  I felt around under the dash, unsnapped the .38 Colt Bodyguard from its clips, and slid the gun into my pocket. Heavy darkness broken only by those distant shards of light enveloped me as I got out: the road was still deserted. Cold, pummeling wind, directionless night sounds, the strong resinous scent of evergreens and the more pungent flavor of woodsmoke. I pulled my coat collar up, ran across the road to the driveway.

  It was of packed earth, rutted and overlain with a carpeting of pine needles. There was enough starshine overhead to outline the ruts and uneven ground between them; the tree shadow along both sides was as thick as black paste. I walked in as fast as I dared, head down and body bent so I could watch my footing. Dry needles and twigs crackled under my weight, but the wind made more than enough noise to drown out small sounds. The woodsmoke smell was stronger in there.

  Off to my left the light grew less fragmented, and when the track began to curve, the trees thinned out and I could see part of a clearing, then the black bulk of the cabin. The light came from inside, making a warm yellow rectangle of a front window. In the outspill, there was the gleam of metal and glass — two cars parked before a narrow, railed porch, one medium-size and dark colored, the other low-slung and light colored.

  Richard Twining was here, all right. And he wasn’t by himself.

  I changed course slightly, taking an angle that brought me to the cabin on the side away from the lighted window. Music played inside, not loud, just discernible above the skirl of the wind. I passed slowly alongside the sports car, ducked under the log rail at the far end and lifted up on the porch.

  Boards creaked, but barely loud enough for me to hear. I took another step, and there was a wind gust that hammered a shutter or loose shingle somewhere, created a series of mutters and rattles and shushes in the trees. By the time it lulled again I was past the front door and up against the wall next to the lighted window.

  Inside, a woman laughed suddenly, a shrill giggle that ended in a kind of squeal. Then the squeal became something else, a long, drawn-out sighing moan. I knew that sound, all right; there is no other like it and its cause is as old as time. I eased my head and body around, not being too cautious about it because there was no longer any need, and peered in through the glass.

  They were on the floor in front of a stone fireplace, on a scatter of oversize throw pillows. Light from a log fire and a squatty end-table lamp shone on outflung arms and legs and bare, sweat-shiny flesh. The woman was on top, turned in profile to me — young, carrot-topped, plump, and enthusiastic; I had never seen her before. Twining’s face was clearly visible, teeth bared, eyes open and lust-popped, a satyr’s mask that turned my stomach. Under other circumstances I would have looked away immediately; I’ve never much cared for sex as a spectator sport. But it was not what they were doing that kept me standing there a few seconds longer. It was what I saw when he arched h
is body, twisted and lifted his head off the pillow: three parallel lines a couple of inches long, an angry red in the firelight and lampshine, on the left side of his neck down to the collarbone.

  No doubt of it now, none at all. The anger in me boiled up, to the point where I did not give a damn about being reckless. I sidestepped to the door, felt for the knob, turned it. Not locked. Good. Less wear and tear on me.

  I went in, making as much noise as I could, and slammed the door behind me.

  22

  There was nothing comical in the way they broke apart, surged up off the floor in a wild untangling of arms and legs and bumping of bodies. Or in the way the woman grabbed up one of the pillows to cover herself, making little frightened squeaking noises. Or in the way Twining gawked at me in those first few seconds, with slack-jawed incredulity and the clownlike foolishness of a middle-aged, paunchy stud caught in flagrante delicto. The whole scene was pathetic and shameful and disgusting. And I was loaded with too much dark and bitter rage.

  He said, “You... what... Jesus Christ, how did you...” Confused and meaningless sputterings. He took a half-step toward me. “Son of a bitch...”

  “Stay where you are.” I had my hand in my coat pocket, holding on to the gun, but I did not want to show it unless I was forced to; the plump carrot-top had nothing to do with this and she was scared enough as it was. I moved the pocket a little, with just enough menace to show Twining I was armed and meant business. But it was all right. Very few naked men are willing to start trouble with another who is fully dressed, and he wasn’t one of the few. Lover, big lover, not a fighter.

  “Rich?” the woman said in querulous tones. “For God’s sake. Rich?”

  He paid no attention to her. “What the hell’s the idea?” he said to me. Confusion giving way to blustery anger. And with the return of control came the realization that he was standing there nude in front of me. His gaze wavered and slid away, around behind him. His pants were draped across the back of a wicker sofa; he moved over there, trying not to be too eager about it, and managed to put them on without hopping around too much. That made him feel better. He came back to where he’d been before and glared at me and said, “What the fuck’s the idea? Who do you think you are, busting in here like this?”

  Ignoring him, I said to the woman, “Go into the bedroom and put your clothes on. Then get in your car and drive away. Your boyfriend and I have some business to take care of.”

  She looked at Twining, clutching the pillow against her body with both arms. “Rich?”

  “Go on, get dressed,” he said without looking at her. “I’ll handle this.”

  “Are you sure—?”

  “Go on, go on!”

  She went, scooping up clothing with one hand and then running. I didn’t pay any attention to where she went; I had eyes only for Twining.

  He said, “I don’t have any goddamn business with you.”

  “Sheila Hunter.”

  “...What?”

  “You heard me. Sheila Hunter.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bluff and bluster, but he couldn’t keep the fear from showing in his eyes.

  “How’d you get those scratches on your neck, Twining?”

  His hand came halfway up, twitched, and went paralytically still. The fear was on his face now, in little beads of sweat. “I don’t have to answer that. This is my house — you’re trespassing on private property. I can have you arrested.”

  “Go ahead. Call the law.”

  “I will if you don’t get out of here—”

  “I’m not going anywhere. You’re the one going somewhere.”

  “Bullshit.” Then, “Where am I going?”

  “You know where.”

  The carrot-top came back into the room like somebody walking on hot embers. Wearing a green coat, her hair still tangled, her eyes still showing fright — but not as much fright as Twining’s.

  “Should I leave?” she asked him. “Like he said?”

  He licked his lips, ran the back of one hand across his forehead. “Go ahead, Tanya. I’ll call you.”

  “Should I... I mean, do you want me to go straight home?”

  I said, “She wants to know if she should call the law, tell them about me. She thinks you’re in trouble.”

  “Rich? Are you in trouble?”

  “No.”

  “Yes,” I said. “But you don’t want her to call anybody, do you? You just want her to go on home.”

  “Is that what you want, honey?”

  “Yeah. Christ, just get out of here.”

  “You’ll be okay? He won’t do anything to—”

  “Shut up! You stupid bitch, I can’t think with you yapping at me. Shut up and move your fat ass out of here.”

  He couldn’t have hurt her more, or got her out of there more quickly, if he’d kicked her broad bottom. She went flying through the door, yelling “Fuck you!” over her shoulder, and banged it after her with enough force to dislodge a plaque from the knotty pine wall next to it.

  Twining wheeled away and went to the fireplace. The fire was banking; he picked up a poker and bent and began to stir the charred wood around. As soon as he did that I took the .38 out of my pocket and held it down against my leg. Outside, a car engine came to life, revved up high. Headlights flashed on, glared through the window, then made a sweeping pattern across the far wall as the carrot-top backed her car around.

  When she roared away I said to Twining, “Put the poker down and come back over—”

  I didn’t get the rest of it out because the damn fool was moving by then, swinging around and making a wild-eyed rush my way with the poker lifted high. I raised the gun, but he was too far gone to see it or to stop his charge if he did. But he hadn’t surprised me any; I had plenty of time to set myself and then dodge sideways just as he started his downward swipe. The poker slashed air, nowhere close to me. The force of his lunge bent him over and his foot came slanting down on one of the throw rugs. It slid, he slid, and I stepped in and kicked his leg out from under him.

  He went down yelling, but he didn’t lose the poker. I backed off and shouted at him, “Don’t get up, Twining!” Useless words; he was already flopping around, trying to set his legs under him. Only one thing I could do then, and I didn’t waste any time doing it: I threw the gun up and squeezed off a round.

  Not at him, at the far wall — a warning shot. The racket the .38 made was like a small explosion in there. To my relief it had the desired effect on Twining: It turned him stone-still on his knees, the tip of the poker still touching the floor.

  “Let go of it,” I said. “The poker. Let go. Don’t make me put the next bullet in you.”

  He stared up at me out of those bulging eyes. I waggled the revolver at him. The wildness went out of his face; he jerked his hand free of the poker handle as if it had suddenly become red hot. “Jesus!” he said, and it was as close to a prayer as somebody like him would ever get.

  “On your feet. Go sit on the sofa.”

  “You... oh... God, you could’ve killed me.”

  “That’s right, I could have. But I like the alternatives better. Do what I told you.”

  He tried to get up, couldn’t make it the first time. I watched him gather himself, struggle to his feet, stagger toward the wicker sofa. The last couple of steps were a lunge, as if his legs were giving out on him. He sat there with his teeth gritted, the sweat on his face shining in the dying firelight, looking at me and then not looking at me in little flicks of his head and eyes.

  After a time he said, “I shouldn’t’ve done that. Come at you like that. But the way you busted in here... and now that gun... What’s the idea? What do you want?”

  “You know why I’m here.”

  “I don’t know. You said... alternatives. What alternatives?”

  “Not the kind you’re looking for. Prison. Maybe even lethal injection.”

  One side of his face spasmed, the rippling kind that pulled it out of shap
e. He pawed viciously at his cheek. “You’re crazy! I haven’t done anything.”

  “Just killed two women, that’s all.”

  “I never killed anybody!” It was a shriek as shrill as the carrot-topped Tanya’s parting shot, and with just as much anguish.

  “Sheila Hunter and Dale Cooney.”

  “No. No!”

  “I can prove it, Twining.”

  “No. How can you... no.”

  “Yes. The scratches on your neck, for one thing. Made by a woman’s fingernails.”

  “My wife. Or Tanya...”

  “Sheila Hunter. She clawed you, and when she did she broke the gold chain you wore around your neck. Same gold chain you had on the day I talked to you in your office. You missed one of the links when you cleaned up her kitchen. I found it. Found some other things you missed, too. Like a smear of her blood on the center island.”

  His throat worked as if he were going to be sick. He clamped his jaws to keep his gorge down, wiped his mouth, pawed at his face again. His eyes were as big and streaky-white as cocktail onions.

  “Here’s the way I think it happened,” I said. “You went to her house on Saturday around noon, one o’clock. Pretense of business, but she was the real reason. Big stud like you, knowing she played around with Trevor Smith and any number of other guys but never with you — it must’ve been like a needle jabbing that cocksman’s ego of yours. So you decided to give it one more try. Only she was strung out, scared, never mind why, and the pass you made set her off. I figure she called you names, maybe slapped you, maybe scratched you then, and that set you off. You lost control, threw her down, raped her right there on the kitchen floor—”