Bill Pronzini: The Other Side Of Silence

He had Casey and the judge to thank, yes; but if you wanted to look at it another way, it was the Valley that had brought the boy to him. As if their relationship was the end product of a plan hatched deep inside this ancient rock and set in motion that day last October when he’d found Casey alive in the Butte Valley wash. As if all along the person he was meant to save, to be responsible for, was Kevin Andrew Spicer Fallon…

Kevin moved forward a pace, peering downward into the crater, and Fallon put out a restraining hand. “Don’t get too close to the edge, Son.”

“I won’t. Wow, it sure is deep.”

“Five hundred feet. And half a mile wide.”

“What made it?”

“A volcanic explosion thousands of years ago. There’s another, smaller crater half a mile south of here. Little Hebe.”

“Can we go look at that?”

“Sure we can.”

The boy grinned up at him. The grin was like Timmy’s had been, an inner light that illuminated his features; it enhanced the superficial resemblance, but there was no sadness in the fact. Kevin was neither a replacement nor a substitute for his dead son. He was simply a boy in need of all that Fal- lon had been unable to give to Timmy-a new and different son, the second child he and Geena had never had.

It had taken a long time and a lot of patience to earn Kevin’s trust, but he had it now. The terrified, bewildered eight-and-a-half-year-old hiding in the date groves had evolved into an inquisitive, more secure nine-year-old who seemed to be genuinely happy with his new life. It showed in his enthusiasm and his appetite; he’d begun to fill out, gain strength and endurance. He still hadn’t forgiven his mother, refused to visit her, but he’d come around eventually. Fallon would make sure of it. No child should ever grow up hating anybody, least of all a parent.

Kevin had taken to the desert as well, all the marvels it had to offer-to Fallon’s great relief. Kids who’d grown up in a dysfunctional urban environment either hated the stark landscapes and the solitude, or like him found comfort and refuge in them. The hot, dry climate was good for his asthma, too; the more he hiked out here, the better his breath control and the less he needed to use his inhaler.

Every chance Fallon had, he took Kevin exploring in the Mojave, the high desert country along the California-Nevada border, and twice now in the Valley. Kevin had been eager for this second trip-a camp-out last night near Death Valley Junction, a tour of Scotty’s Castle this morning, Ubehebe Crater and points west this afternoon. You looked at the wonder in his face and you knew that he, too, felt and responded to the Monument’s powerful draw.

And maybe that, too, was part of a plan that had brought them together. Kindred souls, matched by a sentience beyond human comprehension. It seemed possible. Here, with the Valley spread out all around them, anything seemed possible.

When they turned away from the crater, Kevin asked, “Where’re we going after Little Hebe, Rick?”

The use of his first name was by Fallon’s request. He wondered, not for the first time, if someday Kevin might want to call him Dad. He wouldn’t ask for it, but he’d be proud if it happened.

“Well, I thought maybe we’d hike up Wild Horse Canyon and camp there tonight. That’s near the Panamints.” Fallon pointed. “Those big mountains to the west.”

“Sure, I know.”

“Pretty rugged country over that way. You won’t mind?”

“Heck, no. Didn’t there used to be gold mines up there?”

“Gold mines and a boomtown called Panamint City. There’s not much left now, but I’ll show you the canyon where they were.”

Halfway through the hike, Fallon paused to drink from his water bottle. When Kevin imitated him, even to the way he held the bottle, he smiled and thought fondly: desert rat in training. In the distance the Panamints loomed, gray and shadowed in their lower regions, golden where the sun struck their peaks and ridges.

He said, “You know, there’s a Paiute legend about those mountains. It says little spirits called Kai-nu-suvs live deep inside them and only come out at night to ride bighorn sheep among the crags.”

“You think it’s true, Rick?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Have you ever seen a mountain spirit?”

“No, but there’s a first time for everything.”

“Maybe we’ll see one when we’re there tonight.”

“Maybe we will.”

They walked on toward Little Hebe, not speaking now, both of them listening to the silence.

Bill Pronzini is the author of seventy novels, including three in collaboration with his wife, the novelist Marcia Muller, and is the creator of the popular Nameless Detective series. In May 2008, he received a Grand Master Award from the Mystery Writers of America. A six-time nominee for the Edgar Allan Poe Award, and two-time nominee for the International Association of Crime Writers’ Hammett Prize (for A Wasteland of Strangers and The Crimes of Jordan Wise ), Pronzini is also the recipient of three Shamus awards and the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Private Eye Writers of America. He lives in northern California.