Nothing but the Night

by Bill Pronzini

  Atleast he didn’t quite lie to Dudley. No, Jenna hadn’t said anything to him about her plans for the rest of that evening or the weekend. No, he had no idea of what might have happened to her. No, he knew of no one who had threatened her or held a grievance against her or who had cause of any kind to want to harm her. Sins of omission. No justification for it, yet there was also no justification for putting himself and his reputation on the line. Cold comfort in that fact—the coldest kind.

  Dudley was gone in less than fifteen minutes. Cam sat limp at his desk and began worrying all over again. He’d heard enough on the valley grapevine to know that both Bryan Collins and Dennis Frane remembered the man at the Hotel Paloma bar, how irritated Jenna had been when she saw him; but they knew nothing about the man, couldn’t provide a detailed description. Lieutenant Dudley hadn’t mentioned him, so he didn’t know that Cam had been with her that first night, but he’d certainly be investigating that angle. Suppose he found someone to whom Jenna had confided her fears of being stalked, who knew about the connection to Cam?

  Fingerprints—that was another source of apprehension. He’d surely left some in her house; suppose they found one and identified him? Could he get away with claiming it was an old one, from the time of the wine-and-cheese party? The odds were in his favor that if identifiable prints hadn’t been found by now, there weren’t any. He’d read somewhere that it was not as easy to lift clear latents off any surface, even glass, as TV and mystery novels made it seem. But still. Still.

  Suppose the driver of the car that had been behind him when he turned into Jenna’s driveway was found? Suppose the driver remembered the BMW, all or part of the license plate?

  Suppose, suppose, suppose …

  He didn’t believe the few minutes with Lieutenant Dudley would be the end of it. Any more than he believed, now, that Jenna would be found unharmed. No happy endings here. Not for her, not for him, either. The waiting, the gut sense of impending disaster, made him feel as though he had been squeezed into a hot, airless box. Keep on living in that box, he’d suffocate or drown in his own sour juices.

  He had to get out. Make a decision, take some kind of action while there was still time. He didn’t know what yet, only that he’d have to do it soon. He could not go on this way.

  53

  Nick spent Christmas Eve alone with Annalisa.

  Before supper he picked a small branch off one of the pine trees, gathered up a couple of the bigger, nicer cones. Arranged them on the kitchen table, added two of the red Christmas candles he’d bought, and lit the wicks. The framed photo of Annalisa went between the candles and among the pine needles and cones. Pretty. Just right. Even prettier when he shut off the overhead lights and it was only the candle glow shining soft on her face, on that little private smile of hers that made him think of the Madonna in all the religious pictures he’d seen.

  He ate there with her, a can of Franco-American spagetti because it was something she’d always liked, and afterward he put the card he’d bought next to her. It was a nice card, not too sentimental—perfect. Later he’d mail it to Mom and Pop Foster for them to keep with all his letters, so she’d know he was thinking of her and how much he missed her on this special holiday.

  He sat at the table until midnight, warm for the first time in days, not from the furnace but from her eyes shining in the candlelight. Before he went up to bed he sang her favorite hymn, “Silent Night,” like they used to do together back home. Voice was rusty, but he remembered all the words. And her voice, sweet and clear in his memory, seemed to join in and make it almost like a duet on the last couple of verses.

  When they were done he said, “Merry Christmas, honey,” and picked her up and kissed her. “Merry Christmas.”

  She smiled back at him as if she knew this was the last holiday they’d ever have to be apart.

  Silent night, holy night.

  54

  The river was rising.

  All the rain over the past three weeks, all the runoff from the mountain creeks that fed into it, had swollen it into a foamy brown swirl that ran high and fast against its banks. It was still five or six feet below flood stage, but if the rains continued—and the forecasters were saying they would, ballyhooing El Niño in loud voices and scare headlines—this would be another serious flood year on the Russian River. The residents of Guerneville, Rio Nido, and Monte Rio were already preparing for it. Cam drove past boarded-up houses and cabins, sandbagged storefronts, emergency evacuation equipment ready and waiting on high ground.

  It had rained heavily on Christmas Day, off and on over the weekend; now, at noon on Monday, there was a thin, windblown drizzle out of low-hanging cloud cover so dark and restive it was like a black-dyed substance simmering in an enormous cauldron. The slick highway was mostly deserted. He passed only two other vehicles, one a county sheriff’s cruiser, between Guerneville and the turnoff to Crackerbox Road.

  He drove with his mind shut down and a tight lid on his emotions. He’d turned himself off twenty-four hours ago, when he had made up his mind to come up here—the only way he’d be able to go through with it.

  Some of the homes along Crackerbox Road were empty, battened down for the winter. The few that appeared occupied wore ground girdles of sandbags—useless barriers, like matchsticks stacked in front of a drainpipe, if floodwaters exceeded the forty-foot level. Behind the homes, the muddy river churned and eddied, half-submerging scrub trees and vegetation along the lower sections of both banks; the surface boil was less than a dozen feet below Highway 116 leading out to Jenner, the only main road through the flood zone. The highway, and Cracker-box and Moscow Roads on this side of the Duncans Mills bridge, would be inundated and impassable at a forty-foot-plus crest. The only means of transportation in and out of the area then would be boat or helicopter.

  Neither Hendryx nor Riverbank Realty’s handyman had done anything to fortify Gallagher’s Bane. Waste of time if they had. The house squatted crumbling and dripping in its nest of evergreens and tall weedy grass. Ancient, decayed, near death with its wet eyes staring blindly, waiting to die and have done with it. This winter might just do the trick. El Niño’s one good deed. Tear the frigging place down, break it up, scatter its moldy bones along the riverbanks all the way out to the beaches at Jenner and Goat Rock, where the Russian River met the ocean.

  He crawled past, looking. The open garage was empty; so was the mud-rutted drive and the expanse of roadside in front—no sign of the blue Mazda. As expected. Hendryx was at work at the Goodwill in Los Alegres. Cam had made sure the charity was open today, the Monday after Christmas, before leaving to drive up here.

  A copse of pine separated the property line from its nearest west-side neighbor. He left the car in among the trees and walked back. No one around that he could see, only a few house lights to cut into the midday gloom. He stopped at the front gate, shoulders hunched inside his topcoat, chin ducked, looking up from under the brim of the rain hat he wore at the house’s blank face. Shifting his gaze after a few seconds to the river running behind, to a torn-off tree limb with thin bare branches like spider’s legs caught and bobbing in the current. When the limb swirled out of sight, he opened the gate and went through, heading first to the garage.

  Nothing to find in there. Nor among the grass and weeds between the garage and the collapsed shed, between the shed and the rear porch of the house, or on the long sloping riverbank, or under the trees. He didn’t admit it to himself until he was on his way to the front porch, but what he’d been searching for was freshly turned ground. A grave—Jenna’s grave. The notion seemed a little foolish now, but that was part of his relief at finding nothing of the sort.

  The stair risers sagged and creaked under his weight as he climbed onto the porch. At the door he took the spare key, the one he’d never used, out of his pocket. And stood there with the key in hand, aware of a faint weakness in his knees, the hard, irregular beat of his pulse.

  I don’t want to go in there.


  I’m not afraid of this goddamn house!

  He slipped the key into the lock, blanking his mind again. Turned it, turned the knob, opened the door, and for the first time since that bloody long-ago night, he entered the river house.

  Cold draft from somewhere, even after he shut the door. It produced a shiver as he stood in the murky hallway. He smelled damp, mold; heard the wind in the eaves, the rain on the roof, a steady dripping high above. His breath shortened, caught in his throat. He had an intense urge to turn and run out. He fought it, leaning against the wall. Same wallpaper, pattern of little blue flowers, forget-me-nots, the paper damp and sticky against his fingers and palm as if the paper, the wall, were bleeding—

  He shoved upright again, forced himself to walk through the archway into the parlor. Different furniture, old and dusty and uncomfortable looking. Caitlin’s choices, or the Realtor’s? Ashes in the fireplace, no other indication that Hendryx spent much time in here. Back into the hallway. A deep breath, another, and he started up the stairs.

  Runners worn through in places, loose riser halfway up, creak, creak, creak. Then he was on the second floor, walking toward the rear past the bathroom door, past the attic door. Into the back bedroom. His room twenty-five years ago—mostly his, except when Caitlin threw a fit about having to sleep downstairs all alone and Pa let her have her way. On those nights he’d had to sleep down there behind the kitchen, in the room where—

  No.

  Twin beds here once, now a queen with a scarred wooden headboard. Mattress bare except for a yellowed plastic covering. Musty, unused. He opened the closet. Empty. The dresser drawers. Empty.

  Back along the hall to the bathroom. Old leather toilet kit, shaving gear, not much else. No medications or personal items of any kind, man’s or woman’s.

  Front bedroom. This was where Hendryx slept. Sheets on the bed, pillowcases, thermal blanket, and a comforter—unmade and not very clean. The closet’s contents were two shirts, two pairs of pants, and a lightweight windbreaker on hangers, all cheap and worn, and a pair of scuffed shoes and a cardboard suitcase on the floor. The suitcase was empty. So were the pockets of the windbreaker.

  On top of the dresser was a framed wedding-reception photo of Hendryx and a round-cheeked blond woman, pretty in a homespun way. His wife, the victim of the hit-and-run. The dresser and nightstand drawers contained nothing but dust and lint. No ashtray, alarm clock, books or TV or radio. Hendryx didn’t smoke or set an alarm or read or watch sitcoms or listen to music or talk radio. What did he do with his time?

  Into the hallway again. The only place left up here was the attic. At first his legs refused to take him there. And when he finally did get them moving, he had to fight himself through every jerky step. His breathing was labored again when he reached the door. It had a lock now, not new, but it hadn’t been keyed. He opened the door, his teeth clamped so tight muscle pain flared along his jawline.

  A pull cord hung from the wall fixture, same as when he was a boy; he tugged on it. Dead bulb. Murky shadows above, beyond the top of the stairs. Rain on the roof, dripping in the walls. Cold, damp, dark. Smells of mold and mildew, rain and dust and mouse turds. Voice crying in his memory, whimpering in the dark, saying things he didn’t want to hear.

  There was cold sweat on his face, under his arms. Nothing up there but ghosts. Hiding place for ghosts and terrified children and he did not, did not, did not want to go up there—

  Wimp, pisspoor excuse for a man—do it!

  Push-pull, push-pull. It raged inside him for a little time, a silent bitter struggle; then, almost convulsively, he was through the door and on the stairs.

  Enough daylight filtered in through the dormer windows to let him see that the attic had been cleared out. Empty space except for dust and droppings, no Jenna, and he turned and went back down, quickly at first and then more slowly as he reached the bottom. There. Not so bad, was it?

  Bad enough.

  He shut the door and descended to the first floor, mopping his face with his handkerchief. Kitchen. Same appliances, or ones that looked the same. The only difference was the dinette table; this one was chrome and yellow Formica. And on it—a pine bough, two fat cones, two half-burned red candles, and a color photograph of Hendryx’s wife in a tarnished silver frame.

  Shrine, he thought. Like a shrine.

  For a reason he couldn’t name, it made him uneasy. What kind of man worships a woman enough to create a shrine to her, yet maintains a relationship with another woman? The psychotic kind capable of stalking and kidnapping a third?

  Cam stepped into the rear hallway, eyes avoiding the bedroom, and had a look around the screened porch. Washer, dryer, freezer, an ancient cracked oilskin hanging from a nail—nothing. Downstairs toilet. Nothing. Now the bedroom. Come on, come on, one quick look and you’re finished, you’re out of here, you never have to come back again.

  The bedroom door was ajar. He stood in front of it, his breath making faint rattling sounds in his throat. He put his fingertips against the panel, pushed, and then clutched at the jamb, cringing, expecting to see blood and death, in reality or in flashback images.

  He saw a room, just a room.

  Four walls, small unfamiliar rollaway bed, bare unstained floor—an empty room.

  He turned away. A few seconds later he was out through the front door, locking it behind him. On the weedy path, sucking cold fresh air, feeling the rain on his upturned face. Through the gate, on the road, into the copse of pines, into his car.

  He sat there, feeling … what? As though he’d run a long gauntlet. Calm, almost numb. And acutely relieved. No sign of Jenna, nothing of hers to implicate Hendryx in her disappearance. But it went deeper than that. Beloit: Confront the creatures that inhabit your nightmares. Well, he’d confronted the house creature, and it hadn’t been half so terrifying as he’d imagined. Bad moments, but he’d fought through them, he hadn’t run away.

  The sense of helplessness was gone. He was still in a box, but he was out of the attic. He wasn’t hiding anymore.

  55

  Monday was Nick’s day to go shopping.

  On his lunch hour he walked down to a women’s store, one of those boutique places, on the same block as the Goodwill. Looked at some earrings, bought a long dangly pair made of beads and shiny stuff. They’d’ve looked good on Annalisa, so he figured they’d look good on Caitlin. She’d driven up the river on Christmas Day, surprised him with a present—silver key chain with a doodad that had a chunk of real turquoise in it—and he’d felt bad about not having something for her in return. He’d give her the earrings on New Year’s Eve. Asked him to spend it with her, kind of wistful and sad, and he didn’t have the heart to refuse her. Annalisa wouldn’t mind when he told her, about that or about the earrings.

  After work he stopped at a hardware store on the north end of Los Alegres, then a furniture store in Rohnert Park, then a building supply outfit in Santa Rosa. Mazda wasn’t built for hauling, so he had to make two trips to the river house—drop off one load, go back to the building supply for the lumber. Took some roping and red-flagging, but he got everything tied on, no problem.

  He lined up everything he’d bought, all the items on his list, in the front room. Good thing he’d always been handy. Worked construction building tract houses that one summer before he joined the army. Someday, when he and Annalisa had their own home, he’d have a workshop in the basement or garage, all the latest woodworking equipment, and he’d make things for her—tables, bookcases, one of those little catchall desks, maybe something big and fancy like those glass-fronted cabinets that held dishes and had drawers for silverware and table linens underneath. He could almost hear the whine of the power saws as they cut through fine-grained oak and mahogany and walnut, almost see and smell the flying sawdust. Man, he could hardly wait.

  Job here ought to take him about three days, be finished by New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day. Part of this week off from both his jobs, same as last week, so he’d have plenty
of time. That’d be a real pleasure, too—hammering and sawing and banging nails and tightening screws again—because it wasn’t just scut work. It was work that had to be just right, because it meant more than any he’d done in a long time.

  56

  New Year’s Eve.

  The Edmondses’ annual party at their hundred-year-old Cherry Valley Victorian. Same dozen couples, same trite, traditional trappings—balloons, noisemakers, party favors, trays of cholesterol-laden canapés, salads, cold cuts. The usual crystal bowl of champagne punch and plenty of hard liquor, but Cam steered clear of it all. He was twitchy just being there; hadn’t wanted to come, but he couldn’t think of a valid excuse to cancel out, and it was a way to take his mind off things for a few hours.

  It had been a long, empty week for him. No word on Jenna, no more contact with Lieutenant Dudley, and yet the vague sense of foreboding remained. Hallie knew something was bothering him, but beyond a few tentative overtures, she left him alone. Waiting for him to come to her. If only he could find the courage; he desperately needed to talk to somebody, and she was the only one who really understood him. But would she understand about this? That was the question that kept him mute.

  The one positive thing to come out of recent events was that he seemed to have lost his reliance on alcohol. He’d had very little to drink since Jenna’s disappearance. Shocked sober. Shocked right out of his bleak, Rose-haunted indulgences, and into looking at himself and his life in a new, more objective way. The box he was squeezed into now wasn’t the first, merely the latest in a long succession. He’d been sweating and thrashing in dark boxes, mobile coffins, for the past quarter of a century, and booze had only helped to keep him locked in. If there was a way out of this one, out of the others, he’d never find it at the bottom of a bottle.