A Wasteland of Strangers

by Bill Pronzini

  “How do you like being dead, huh?”

  He didn’t like it, but I did. I liked it so much I laughed out loud. But my mouth hurt, so I stopped laughing and sat there trying to think what to do.

  I ought to call the cops and tell them I’d shot Earle like a horse. But if I did that, then how would John Faith get away? But if I didn’t call them, I’d have to stay here all night with Earle sitting dead in his chair, and I didn’t think I could do that. I really didn’t think I could do that.

  I couldn’t make up my mind. I was so tired and numb I couldn’t even get up out of my chair and go pee, which I had to do very badly now. I just sat there. And looked at Earle’s third eye and wondered how long it would be before it stopped dripping.

  Richard Novak

  THE DOORBELL JARRED me awake. I’d been half out on the couch, caught on the rim of sleep and cringing from a nightmare that I couldn’t remember except for some of the things in it: blood, water, lightning, a huge phallus with an opening that kept winking like an obscene eye. I heaved to my feet, fuzzy-headed, sweaty and cold at the same time. Mack was there, up and alert; I almost tripped over him as I stumbled across to open the door.

  “Audrey. What’re you—Something happen?”

  She shook her head. Her face seemed blurred, out of shape at the edges. Damn eyes wouldn’t focus right.

  “Then why’d you come?” I asked her.

  “To see if you were home, feed Mack if not. The lights are on and I thought you … but you were asleep, weren’t you?”

  “On the couch.”

  She wanted to come in and I let her do it. She said as I shut the door, “Your face … is it any better?”

  “Mostly numb now. Painkillers—codeine. Must be why I’m so groggy.”

  “You should be in bed.”

  “Didn’t want to get undressed …”

  “Dick, you’re trembling.”

  “Cold in here. Forgot to turn the heat on, I guess.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  She went away. When she came back I was leaning on the couch arm, massaging my eyes; they wouldn’t clear and neither would my head. Mack was butted up against me. Audrey said something that didn’t register, came over close on the other side. Warm fingers, soft and gentle, touched my cheek and made little scraping sounds on the beard stubble. I could smell her perfume, something like jasmine. Eva’s favorite scent, jasmine. I pulled back from her.

  “Dick, come and get into bed.”

  “No …”

  “You’ll be sick if you don’t. You’re chilled already.”

  No argument left in me; I was too groggy, too cold. I let her ease me to my feet, guide me into the bedroom on legs like heavy, dragging stumps. I couldn’t seem to stand when she let go of me, and then I was lying sprawled on the bed. She didn’t put the light on. In the dark I felt her hands on me again, taking off shoes, unbuttoning and unzipping clothing; I neither helped nor hindered her. Strong … she hauled everything off except my shorts, lifted and pushed to get the bedclothes around me.

  I lay on my back, shivering, starting to drift. Weight on the bed then and Audrey was crawling in beside me, fitting her body along my right side. Naked, too, except for panties; I was aware of the hard points of her breasts pressing my arm and chest. No, I thought, and tried to roll away. The strong arms held me tight.

  “Audrey, I can’t …”

  “I don’t want you to. Just hold you, that’s all. Make you warm, help you sleep.”

  “… Too good …”

  “What, Dick?”

  “Too good for me.”

  “Sshh. Sleep.”

  I slept. Deeply this time, without any nightmare—suspension in a black void.

  A long time later there was a ringing, distant, then louder, closer … phone … and I struggled up out of the black, untangling myself from Audrey’s embrace and the damp bedclothes. I reached out blindly, almost knocked the telephone off the nightstand. Eyelids came unstuck as I fumbled up the receiver; the numerals on the alarm clock swam into focus: 10:45. It didn’t seem possible, but I’d been out more than five hours.

  Verne Erickson’s voice penetrated. “… something you’d better know about, Chief.”

  “Faith?”

  “No. Another homicide, evidently unrelated.”

  “Homicide, you said?”

  “Yeah. Shooting death, this time.”

  I was mostly alert now. Aware that the codeine had worn off and my nose was throbbing again, dully. Aware of Audrey sitting up behind me, her hand warm on my shoulder. I didn’t look at her.

  “Who? What happened?”

  “Earle Banner finally got what was coming to him. His wife shot him with his own gun. Just now reported it.”

  “Just now? When’d it happen?”

  “Around five,” Verne said. “She’s been sitting with the corpse ever since.”

  Audrey Sixkiller

  AFTER DICK LEFT I sat propped up against his pillows, holding on to a last few minutes of the warmth and scent of his body. He’d said I was welcome to stay the night, but his heart wasn’t in it. He’d avoided my eyes as he spoke. Plain enough that when he came back home—if he came home again tonight—he’d be relieved to find me gone.

  I glanced down at my bare breasts. Brazen Audrey and her pair of meager offerings. Sad, rejected Audrey and her white-acting ways. William Sixkiller would hide his head in shame if he could see his little papoose tonight.

  But that was foolish self-pity; I stopped indulging in it. Dick was the one who deserved compassion, not me. He’d looked so worn out when I’d arrived, I couldn’t bring myself to confide my suspicions about Trisha Marx and John Faith; sleep was what he’d needed tonight, not guesswork and more upheaval. Upheaval had come anyway—another killing—but at least he’d had a few hours’ rest first. And why should I feel rejected anyway? I hadn’t really offered him my body; couldn’t expect to be anything more to him right now than another burden, another source of worry.

  I got up finally, straightened the bed, put my clothes on in the bathroom. The face in the mirror looked puffy and unappealing in its frame of tangled hair. Comb out the tangle? Why bother? And the puffy face could wait for a good washing until I was home. I made sure Mack had enough food and water, patted him, collected my purse, and went out to my car.

  A mixture of heavy mist and light drizzle had laid a sheen of glistening wetness on the streets, blurred house lights and the car’s headlamps. The low-hanging clouds were thick and restless; a soaking rain would fall before dawn. I drove slowly, with the radio on for comfort. And to keep from fretting about Dick, I let my thoughts center on Lori Banner.

  I hardly knew her and I didn’t know her husband at all, but even I had heard she was a battered wife. I hoped she’d shot him in self-defense and that she could prove it. Otherwise, she’d keep right on being a victim. That was one of the things that infuriated me about domestic violence, the no-win position the abused usually found herself in. I’d seen so much of it on the rancherias and at Indian Health in Santa Rosa. Spousal and child abuse, often alcohol-triggered, was among the worst of the many problems Native Americans had to struggle with on a daily basis. I’d never counseled violence as a way of ending violence; it was a poor choice of solution to any problem. Yet sometimes, in certain situations, people were pushed and prodded into corners where violence became the only possible alternative. I had learned that hard lesson myself the past couple of days. The Ruger automatic in my purse was bitter proof that I’d learned it well.

  The drizzle had thickened by the time I turned into my driveway. It took four tries before the garage-door opener decided to cooperate; there was something wrong with the remote that a fresh battery hadn’t fixed. The lightbulb on the inside frame had burned out again, too. I would have to make an appointment with the dealer south of town and then arrange to be here when a repairman came out. Maybe I could do it at the same time the glazier came to replace the broken bathroom window. One or two more ti
me-consumers to overload my already groaning weekday schedule.

  I sighed and shut off the lights, leaving the garage door up for the moment. I’d close it with the push button next to the side door. When I latched the car door and the dome light winked off, I was in heavy darkness except for the misty gray square behind me. I made my way along the side of the car, feeling for the wall and the doorknob.

  I smelled him before I heard him, a rank, sweetish odor like a sweating animal that had been sprinkled with something like Old Spice cologne. Foot scrape, grunting exhalation, and then his hands were on me. He dragged my body back tight against his, pinning my arms before I could get the gun out of my purse. Rough cloth chafed at my cheek and jaw: ski mask. His breath was hot and beer-sour; spittle sprayed my neck when he spoke.

  “About time you decided to come home, bitch.”

  Same raspy voice as on the phone. For the first time I felt fear, a quick rush that drove away surprise and fired rage. I squirmed, couldn’t get loose, and tried to kick back at him; but he had his legs spread and his body braced against the wall. He rasped something else that was lost in the rising pound of blood and adrenaline. I gave up trying to kick him and stomped down hard with the heel of my shoe, three times before I connected with an instep. He yelled and for an instant his grip loosened, just long enough for me to wrench free and twist sideways. I yanked my purse open, fumbled inside for the automatic—

  One thick arm looped around my waist, jerked me back against the thrust of his hip; his other hand flailed, struck the purse, and tore it from my grasp. I heard it bang into the side of the car. Then his forearm was up and under my chin, snapping my head back, bruising my throat. The sudden pressure choked off breath. I ripped at the arm but couldn’t break the hold. The darkness seemed to churn and bulge.

  “Bitch!”

  The pressure increased. And the darkness flowed behind my eyes, congealing—

  “Bitch!”

  —and I was caught in it and swept away …

  Part IV

  Sunday

  Trisha Marx

  I COULDN’T SLEEP.

  I lay there in the dark, listening to the rain patter on the roof and whisper at the windows. The house was quiet otherwise. Too quiet. It was after twelve and Daddy still wasn’t home and that meant he wouldn’t be until morning. Playing poker at the Brush Creek casino like he did one or two weekend nights a month. Every time, he’d get into a tournament and be out all night—come home around eight or nine, bleary-eyed and grumpy unless he’d won for a change, and fall into bed and sleep most of the day. I didn’t mind it when I was hanging with Anthony and Selena and Petey and the others, because then I could stay out all night myself. (That one Saturday I let Anthony stay over, sleep right here in my bed … we’d done the nasty three, no four times, bam bam bam bam, and he ran out of condoms after the second or third time. That must be the night he got me pregnant.) Tonight, though, I wished Daddy’d stayed home. Tonight I didn’t like being alone.

  Anthony … he was one of the reasons I couldn’t sleep. Calling up, saying he had to see me. I hung up on him. Then, right after Daddy left, like Anthony’d been outside waiting and watching for him to go, there he was knocking on the door. As if I’d let him in. He only wanted to talk, he said. About our problem, he said. Problem! Like it was some dinky little hassle you could make go away by rapping about it. Like when we could just kiss and make up and everything’d be the way it was before. He stayed on the porch for about ten minutes, pleading and sweet-talking—“Trish, baby, you know how I feel about you, you got to know I love you”—before he finally gave up and went away.

  I felt low after he was gone and I still feel low. Why’d he have to start in again with the love crap? He didn’t love me, all he’d wanted was to fuck me. Why’d he have to come around and make things worse by pretending he really cared?

  Then there was Ms. Sixkiller. She knew it was me broke into her house and used her boat, all right. Her coming over and talking to Daddy proved she did. When he told me about it I said it wasn’t anything important and he didn’t need to call her, I would; but I didn’t. I’d have to talk to her pretty soon, though. I didn’t think she’d call the cops until she talked to me first, and if I waited until tomorrow afternoon to see her, Lori would already have taken John away someplace safe. Then it wouldn’t matter if the cops came and started ragging on me. I wouldn’t tell them anything. They couldn’t prove I’d been guilty of aiding and abetting a fugitive, could they?

  The rain stopped and then started again. (Wow, that rain. If it’d been coming down like that this morning, the wind howling the way it was now, I’d never have been able to take Ms. Sixkiller’s boat across to Nucooee Point and back. No way.) The house creaked, made groaning sounds like John’s when I found him. I tried lying on my back, my stomach, one side and the other. I tried counting backward from one hundred. I tried a couple of other tricks. Nothing worked. I kept right on tossing and turning, wide awake.

  I thought about John over there alone in the old lodge.

  I thought about Lori with her banged-up face (that guy she was married to must be a real asshole) and how good she’d been to John and how I didn’t really mind sharing him with her. I’d never tell on her no matter what.

  I thought about Daddy and what he’d say when I told him I was pregnant.

  I thought about the Bitch and how she’d probably laugh her dyed blond head off when she found out.

  I thought about the baby growing down there inside me.

  And it was funny because then, thinking about the kid, I started to feel sleepy and not quite so alone. Well, I wasn’t alone, right? A baby was somebody else, even a half-formed baby. It was a life. First time I’d looked at it that way, and it was like a whole new perspective, not just on the kid but on me, too, as if maybe my life wasn’t such total crap after all. John had said if you hurt, you cared, and he was right. I hurt every time I thought about the baby, so that must mean I cared about it. I mean, I’m not gung ho on being a mother and I’m not one of those antiabortion types; I believe a woman has a right to choose what she does with her own body. But now there was this thing growing in my body, a part of me, and the choice was mine, not somebody else’s.

  Just before I drifted off I knew I wasn’t gonna go to a clinic. My choice, and it didn’t matter what Daddy said or the Bitch said or Anthony said or anybody said. I was gonna have it and I was gonna keep it.

  Audrey Sixkiller

  CONSCIOUSNESS RETURNED SLOWLY, in a series of awarenesses. Of a sore throat and a swelling headache, first, as if my head had been pumped full of fluid. Then of motion under and around me. Then of suffocating darkness that stank of wool and dirt. Then that I was lying on my stomach on something hard but yielding … car seat … with my arms and hands drawn up behind me. I tugged and couldn’t separate them. Taped together at the wrists, the tape pulling and tearing at my skin. Ankles bound, too. And another piece of tape tight across my mouth.

  I’m not afraid. I won’t panic.

  Roughness along my cheek, and the wool-and-dirt smell. Filthy blanket. Thrown over the length of my body, covering my head, too. I managed to twist over onto my right side—movement that, even though I did it carefully, increased the pressure in my temples and behind my eyes.

  Sounds: tires whispering on pavement; things whooshing past outside. From up front a faint gurgling, a satisfied, hissing breath, an explosive belch.

  I snagged the blanket with the toe of my shoe, worked it down until I could ease my head free. Darkness thinned by the pale reflected glow of the dash lights. All I could see of the man driving was the shape of his skull above the seat back.

  Other smells: beer, the sweetish animal stench from the garage—sweat and Old Spice. My stomach churned. I couldn’t seem to swallow; I locked my jaws instead, shut my eyes, and lay very still. If I vomited with the tape sealing my mouth I would strangle.

  The nausea passed. I squirmed onto one hip, swung my legs off the seat, and th
en lowered them to the floor—

  “Hey! You stay down back there.”

  I froze. His voice … not as raspy as before. He wouldn’t be wearing the ski mask while he drove.

  “Give me any trouble, you’ll wish you hadn’t. Hear me? I’ll use your own gun on that pretty face of yours. Yeah, that’s right, I found it in your purse. Blow your fuckin’ head off with it, maybe, like you tried to do to me the other night.”

  Familiar voice. Listen, put a name and a face to it …

  “Won’t be long now, bitch. We’re almost there.”

  Almost where?

  “Then I’ll give it to you like you never had it before. My cock first and then your gun. How’d you like that, huh? Fucked with your own gun.”

  He laughed, and in the darkness his laughter was a Huk sound, a death sound.

  But I was not afraid. I felt a cold fury, nothing more. No matter what he said, no matter what he did, I would not give him the satisfaction of making me afraid.

  Richard Novak

  LORI BANNER WAS in a bad way. Disoriented, face all bruised and swollen and caked with dried blood. She’d wet herself, too; the urine odor was strong in the cold room. And she kept saying things like “I put that third eye in his head” and “I fell asleep in my chair. Can you believe that? What kind of person kills her husband and then goes to sleep for hours in the same room?”

  Seeing her, listening to her brought back the images of Storm last night; the hurt started all over again, inside and out. I turned the questioning over to Mary Jo Luchek, the first officer on the scene, and walked out into the cold, wet night to watch for the ambulance, Doc Johanssen, the civilian photographer Nichols.

  A small clot of citizens had gathered in spite of the rain and the late hour; they seem always to sprout like toadstools at the scene of any violent occurrence. Here they were huddled under porch roofs and umbrellas and inside cars. A few were reporters, homegrown and leftovers from last night; they converged on me as soon as I appeared, hurling questions like stones ahead of them.