A Wasteland of Strangers

by Bill Pronzini

  I went and opened the door, reluctantly. Dietrich, with his horse face and walnut-sized Adam’s apple and Pollyannaish exuberance, is never a pleasant sight. On a morning when Kent was suffering more than usual, Jaydee was positively repellent.

  “What’s the idea?” I demanded. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken to moonlighting as a town crier?”

  “What? Oh. I’m sorry, Mr. Kent, but I didn’t know if you were here or not. Or if you were maybe … well, you know, sleeping. I didn’t get any answer when I was here before, and then I couldn’t find you anywhere else and things got so hectic—”

  “Stop babbling. My head hurts enough as it is. When were you here before?”

  “Around midnight. I came over as soon as I—”

  “Midnight? Why in sweet Christ’s name were you banging on my door and crying my name at midnight?”

  “I’d just heard the news and I didn’t know if you were—”

  “News? What’re you talking about?”

  “Mrs. Carey. Storm Carey.”

  A sudden coldness formed in a knot under my sternum. A darkness, too, like an incipient black hole. “What about Mrs. Carey?”

  “You don’t know, then,” Dietrich said, and his big Adam’s apple bobbed and bobbed again. “She’s dead. Murdered last night at her house. Bludgeoned with a paperweight, compound skull fracture.”

  The black hole grew and spread; I could feel the chill pull of it, like a vortex. But that was all I felt. Numb. She’s dead. Murdered last night at her house. Just words—no reality to it yet. Cold and black and numb.

  “That stranger,” Dietrich said, “the one you wrote the editorial about, he did it. Faith. Chief Novak caught him up there right afterward. He broke the Chief’s nose and then Mr. Novak shot him when he tried to escape and he jumped into the lake. Faith did. They think he’s dead, drowned, but they still haven’t found the body—”

  “Where is she? Where’d they take her?”

  “Mrs. Carey? Porno General. I talked to Dr. Johanssen—”

  “Take me there. Right now.”

  “Sure, Mr. Kent. But like I said, I already talked—”

  “Now, damn you. Now!”

  Audrey Sixkiller

  WHEN I FIRST heard about it, from Joan Garcia, an Elem nurse at the hospital, I didn’t know what to do or think. My first impulse was to rush down there, but I didn’t give in to it. Dick wouldn’t want or need me, and there was nothing I could do for him anyway. Later, when feelings weren’t running quite so high and things were more settled—that was the time to make myself available to him.

  I lay in bed with the lights on, prepared to endure another long, sleepless night. Instead, exhaustion dragged me under almost immediately. My dreams were unsettling. I dreamed of blood, which the old-time Indians believed was a sign of the devil: Blood spilled in a place poisoned it forever after. And I dreamed that I was one of the bear people, rushing through the night in my hides and feathers, and that I came upon Storm Carey and there was a terrible battle—two witches in a clash of magical powers that left her dead and me weeping as if my heart would break. Guilt, of course. I’d yearned for her to be gone from Dick’s life, but I had never once wished her dead.

  In the morning I was still tired, and achy, as though I might be coming down with something. I put a kettle on the stove, and while the water was boiling I called the police station. Dick was there but not accepting personal calls. I spoke with Verne Erickson, and he said Dick had been holed up in his office most of the night. Hadn’t gone home, and as far as Verne knew, hadn’t eaten or slept either. He blamed himself for John Faith getting away from him. The fact that neither Faith nor his body had been found yet only made him feel worse.

  But that wasn’t the only reason Dick was in such a state. I knew it, and I’m sure Verne did, too, even though neither of us mentioned it. Dick’s feelings for Storm. Whether or not he’d been seeing her again, she’d meant more to him once than just sexual gratification. It was painful to think that even he might not have realized how much he cared for her until she was dead.

  Before we rang off I said, “I’ll stop by his house in an hour or so and take care of Mack. You might tell him when you get the chance.”

  “I will. Thanks, Audrey. He’s probably forgotten all about the dog.”

  And me, I thought. Mack and me both.

  Tea and a Pop-Tart for breakfast. Ten minutes in the shower and another twenty to dress and put on my face. I was shrugging into my pea jacket when the telephone rang. I hurried to answer it, thinking that Verne had relayed my message and Dick had thought to call me after all.

  “Hello? Dick?”

  “Dick’s what you want, huh?” Thick, muffled man’s voice. “Well, dick’s what you’re gonna get, and plenty more besides. Gun of yours won’t stop me next time. You’re dead, bitch. Dead as Storm Carey—and soon, real soon.”

  Trisha Marx

  SATURDAY STARTED OUT just as shitty as Friday ended. I didn’t get much sleep; at first I was too depressed and cried a lot, and then later there was all this noise, people driving around and yelling, a helicopter or something flying overhead in the middle of the night. I felt so down I didn’t even care what was going on. Then this morning I was sick to my stomach and spent five minutes in the John trying to hurl as quietly as I could so Daddy wouldn’t hear. Morning sickness again. Just freaking great. Then, after I got dressed and went downstairs, Daddy wanted to talk about Anthony. I told him we’d had a fight and it was all over between us, but I couldn’t tell him about the baby yet. No way. He asked me how I’d gotten home last night, and the way he asked it I knew he already knew and that somebody must’ve seen John Faith dropping me off and snitched about it. So I told him what’d happened, everything except that Anthony and I’d been smoking dope and how close I’d come—so close it scared me when I thought about it—to falling off the Bluffs into the lake.

  And he said, real dark and grim, “You’re lucky, Trisha. You don’t know how lucky. After that Faith character brought you home, he went out to Mrs. Carey’s house and killed her. Bashed her head in.”

  “What!” I stared at him with my mouth open. He wasn’t kidding. “John? It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t do anything like that …”

  “Well, he did. Chief Novak caught him out there, and there was a fight and the Chief shot him.”

  “Oh, God, he’s dead, too?”

  “Looks like it. He went into the lake, probably drowned. They haven’t found the body yet.”

  “All the noise last night—that’s what it was?”

  “Yeah. Whole town was in an uproar. I stayed here—didn’t want to leave you alone again.” Daddy rubbed his right hand; the knuckles looked scratched, as if he’d been in a fight himself. “He got what was coming to him, by God. Just not soon enough. Started causing trouble the minute he showed up in Pomo.”

  “He didn’t cause me any trouble,” I said.

  “You’re lucky, like I told you. If it hadn’t been Storm Carey, it’d’ve been somebody else. Could’ve been you.”

  I felt sick again, and this time it had nothing to do with being knocked up. Mrs. Carey killed—that was awful. I didn’t know her very well and people were always saying what a slut she was, the same people, I’ll bet, who were saying John Faith had killed her and who wanted him to be dead. I remembered last night on the Bluffs, how he’d dragged me away from the cliff edge and the stuff he’d said to me there and on the drive home, and I couldn’t believe he’d gone and bashed Mrs. Carey’s head in right afterward. No matter what Daddy said, what anybody said, I didn’t believe it.

  Daddy tried to get me to eat some breakfast, but I couldn’t. I would’ve hurled again if I’d tried to swallow so much as a glass of milk. He had to work half a day at the lumberyard, he said, but he’d be home around one and he wanted to find me here when he got back. I said okay. The last thing he asked before he left was did I intend to see Anthony anymore. I didn’t lie to him. I said no way, José, and I meant it. Wha
tever I decided to do about the baby, Anthony wouldn’t be any part of it. Anthony was a big pile of dog crap I’d avoid from now on.

  Selena called after Daddy left and wanted to talk about all the excitement last night; she sounded positively thrilled. I told her I couldn’t talk now, I’d call her later, but I knew I wouldn’t. The only person I could talk to today was Ms. Sixkiller.

  Upstairs I put my makeup on, fixed my hair, and was ready to go at twenty of nine. Twenty minutes was about how long it’d take me to walk to Ms. Sixkiller’s house. I wished Daddy hadn’t had to work this morning, because then he might’ve let me have his pickup for a couple of hours. Man, how I’d love to have a car of my own. Selena’s folks bought her an old Volks bug for her seventeenth birthday, but Daddy says we can’t afford a second car, even a junker, thanks to the Bitch. That’s what he calls Mom; he won’t even say her name anymore, not that I blame him. Probably be years before I can afford to buy myself a car, even longer if I have the kid—

  Shit! Cars, babies … I don’t know what I want or what I’m gonna do. I’m so screwed up. How’d I ever get this screwed up?

  It was as cold this morning as last night. Sky all gray and twitchy, the way I felt inside. I walked fast over to Lakeshore Road. A car went by and honked, but I didn’t bother to look and see who it was. What was the word for when you felt this way? Apathy? Right, apathy. If apathy was gold, I’d be as rich as Mrs. Carey was—

  But I didn’t want to think about Mrs. Carey.

  When I got to where I could see along the north shore, there were a couple of big boats out and one of them looked to be the sheriff’s launch from down in Southlake. Still hunting for John Faith’s body. Everybody hurts, everybody wants to stop hurting. Well, he’d stopped hurting, all right. Poor John Faith.

  Poor Trisha. When am I gonna stop hurting?

  The more you hurt, the more you care. You’ll be all right if you don’t let yourself stop caring …

  Ms. Sixkiller’s house was like a cottage, a real retro type with a tall brick chimney and shingles and stuff. Her father built it a long time ago, when Indians didn’t mix much with whites. He made some money hauling freight in wagons and boats and bought the land and built the house and pissed off all his white neighbors, but he wouldn’t move or sell and they couldn’t drive him out. Good for him. He must’ve been oneG141 tough old dude. His daughter’s pretty tough, too. Best teacher at Pomo High, and that’s not just my opinion. She’d listen, help me if she could. She had to help me because there just wasn’t anybody else.

  I went in through her gate and rang the bell, but Ms. Sixkiller didn’t come to the door. Nothing but echoes inside when I rang again. I looked at my watch, and it was exactly nine o’clock. Oh, man, what if she forgot I was coming to see her and left early for her tribal council meeting? I went over to the garage and looked in through the side window. Her car wasn’t there.

  Now what was I gonna do?

  But maybe she hadn’t forgotten. Maybe she’d gone to the store or something and she’d be back any minute. I could sit on the porch and wait. Only I didn’t feel like sitting, so I went between the house and the garage and across the back lawn to her dock. It’s a long one, and about halfway out there’s a security gate, and beyond that, underneath, a board float and a shedlike thing open at both ends where she keeps her boat. She must really love that old boat; you’re always seeing her out in it, even in the winter. Once I saw her bouncing along when it was raining. Really raining, not, like, just a drizzle.

  I walked out on the dock as far as the gate. When I pushed on the door set into the gate, not for any reason, just because it’s the kind of thing you do sometimes, it popped right open. Some security gate. I went on through, over to the edge of the dock where a ladder led down to the float. From there I could see into the shed. Ms. Sixkiller has one of those electronic hoists, and her boat was up out of the water on it, a tarpaulin roped across the stern half to keep out moisture.

  It was sure a nice one, even if it was retro like her house. A boat’s something else I’d like to have someday, one of those sleek fiberglass jobs with gold glitter mixed into the paint. We owned a powerboat once, a fourteen-foot inboard, when the Bitch was still living with us. But we couldn’t afford to keep it after she ran off with that jerk from Kansas City. Daddy used to let me drive it sometimes. Driving a boat’s easier than driving a car. All you have to do is steer. Docking’s the hard part, especially when the water’s choppy like this morning—

  What was that?

  I was still standing by the ladder, looking now toward where the sheriff’s launch was making loops offshore near the Carey house. I cocked my head and listened. Lots of sounds—the boat engines, loons crying somewhere, a kind of creaking from the dock pilings or the hoist under the Chris-Craft’s weight—but not the one I thought I’d heard. I turned away and started back toward the gate. And then I heard it again. A funny kind of sound. I couldn’t quite identify it or tell where it was coming from.

  For about a minute I stood quiet, listening. Then I went back to where the ladder was and climbed down to the float. I heard the sound again then, but I still couldn’t tell what was making it, and like a magnet or something, it drew me right in next to the boat. Pretty soon it came again, and this time it gave me goose bumps all over because I realized where it was coming from and what it was.

  When I tugged at the heavy canvas, a flap of it lifted right up; it wasn’t really tied on the float side. And when I looked underneath, there was John Faith, lying in the bottom of the boat, on his back behind the driver’s seat. Clothes wet and all bloody on one side, his face twisted and his eyes shut tight, the sounds I’d heard—a kind of low moaning—coming from way down deep inside.

  George Petrie

  AT FIRST I didn’t know where I was. I opened my eyes to an unfamiliar room full of shadows and dark shapes, and panic surged and drove me out of bed, halfway across rough carpeting. I stood, trembling and disoriented, my heart raging against my ribs. It wasn’t until sounds penetrated from outside—traffic noise, distant voices, the slam of a car door—that the fog cleared away and I remembered.

  Motel. Best Western just off Highway 80, outside Truckee.

  On the run with a small fortune in stolen bank funds.

  Sweet Christ, I really did do it, didn’t I?

  I groped back to the bed, sank down on the rock-hard mattress. The sheets were sweat-sodden; so were my pajamas. How long had I slept? Digital clock on the TV, red numerals shining blurrily in the gloom. I rubbed grit out of my eyes. Nine-twenty. I’d pulled in here at what … close to midnight? Bed an hour and a half later. Nearly eight hours—

  The money!

  I lunged to my feet again, fumbled the nightstand light on. Breath hissed out between my teeth: The garbage bags, all six, were on the far side of the bed, where I’d put them last night. This was a ground-floor unit and I’d backed the car in close, unloaded the bags two at a time. Nobody saw me, I made sure of that. Triple-locked the door, tested the lock on the window, and then pulled the drapes tightly closed. Nobody could have gotten in. But I went around the bed anyway, felt each bag, opened each to make certain the packets of bills were still there.

  $209,840.

  I’d counted it before I’d crawled into bed. Every packet and loose bill, not once, but twice. $209,840. More than I’d expected—a small fortune even in this inflated economy. So many things it can buy me. Women … better-looking women than Storm, younger and kinder and even better in bed. Not that it’s possible for anybody to be much better in bed than Storm—

  No, the hell with her. I won’t think about her anymore. She’s part of the past, the Pomo prison. Free of her, too, now. The money is the future, and the future is all that matters.

  In the bathroom I splashed cold water on my face. My pulse rate was back to normal, but I was still twitchy. I kept thinking about the money, only instead of soothing me, it produced a worm of anxiety. Six garbage bags full of cash. And every mile I drove
, every time I stopped somewhere to eat or fill the gas tank or use a rest room, I ran the risk of something going wrong. Accident, car-jacking, traffic violation, other possibilities I couldn’t even imagine right now …

  Cut it out, Petrie. Get a grip on yourself. Two more full days on the road, at least fifteen hundred miles between me and Pomo when the vault lock releases Monday morning, and I can’t do it wired the whole time, worrying about everything, feeling and probably looking like a fugitive. That’s how you make mistakes. Fatal mistakes. Tight control from now on. I’m finished otherwise. Remember that. Don’t forget it for a second.

  I felt better after a long, hot shower. Clearheaded. One thing I could do about the money was to get it out of those garbage bags and into a couple of suitcases. Large, lightweight suitcases. Nobody at a motel would think twice about a man carrying luggage from and to his car. Just another anonymous business traveler. Buy the cases in Reno or Sparks, make the transfer out in the desert somewhere or maybe wait until I reached Ely tonight.

  When I came out of the bathroom, the digital clock read five past ten. Overdue getting back on the highway. But hunger gnawed at me—I hadn’t eaten anything since noon yesterday, couldn’t have choked down food last night if my life depended on it. There was a Denny’s adjacent to the motel; I recalled seeing it when I drove in. Quick breakfast … no, better make it a large one, stoke up so I wouldn’t have to stop again for food this side of Ely. Okay. I zippered my overnight bag, unlocked the door, and started out.

  A scowling gray-haired man was standing in front of my car, peering down at the license plate.

  Surprise made me suck in my breath, loud enough for him to hear. His head came up. I jumped back inside, shut and locked the door, leaned hard against it. Sweat dribbled on my face and neck; for a few seconds I couldn’t seem to get enough air. I made myself breathe in shallow little pants, until the blood-pound in my ears diminished and the feeling of suffocation went away. Then I moved unsteadily to the window, eased aside a corner of the drape.