Bill Pronzini: The Other Side Of Silence

“I won’t forget.”

Fallon locked the cabin and drove to the service station, where he reported the location of the Camry and arranged for it to be towed to the Ranch. Then he returned to the infirmary.

The nurse told him Casey was resting, that her burns were relatively minor and her condition not critical. “You did a very good job of hydrating her and tending to her injuries, Mr. Fallon.”

“Has she said anything about what happened?”

“No. She didn’t want to talk about it.”

“About the other injuries? The older ones?”

The nurse’s lips pursed. “She said she was in an accident, but it looks to me like she was abused. Do you know anything about that?”

“No. The first time I ever laid eyes on her was in that wash. How long before she’s well enough to travel?”

“A day or two, barring infection.”

“Can I see her?”

“If she’s awake. We gave her a mild sedative.”

Casey was asleep. The nurse suggested he come back in two hours; Fallon said he would, and went from there to the saloon. He was tired enough and thirsty enough to crave a cold beer. He sat in a corner with the pint of draft ale, as far from the other customers as he could get, and tuned out bar voices and a TV news broadcast. The same thoughts he’d had on the way in still crowded his mind.

Careful, Rick. You’re pretty vulnerable right now. Don’t get yourself mixed up in something you’ll live to regret.

Good advice, but he had the feeling he was already mixed up in it, already committed. Careful, yes; that was why he’d gone through her things, called Will. But unless it turned out that she’d lied to him about the kidnapping and the stolen money, he couldn’t walk away as if he’d never found her. Kevin and the resemblance to Timmy, the abuse she’d suffered, the possibility that she might try to kill herself again… they were part of the reason. But there was more, too. He couldn’t quite explain it yet, needed to think about it. Not here, though. Someplace where the engines were still and there were no distractions.

The beer made him realize he was hungry. There was a restaurant next to the saloon; he dawdled over a steak sandwich and another draft. Will still hadn’t called back by the time he was done. Probably wouldn’t until morning.

The two hours were up; he returned to the infirmary. Casey was awake, the nurse told him. He found her groggy but lucid, small and vulnerable on the bed like a wounded child. When he was alone with her he said, “I’ve got a cabin ready for you. The nurse says I can take you there if you feel up to it. It’s just a short ride.”

“All right.”

“We can get you a wheelchair if you need it.”

“No. If I can stand up, I can walk.”

He waited five minutes in the anteroom. She came out under her own power, walking slow and stiff but steadily enough. She wouldn’t let him help her outside or into the Jeep.

On the way across the grounds he said, “A tow truck will pick up your car tomorrow morning and bring it back here. The mechanics ought to be able to get it running again.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“Maybe you do.”

“What does that mean?”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

At the cottage she again refused his help, walked inside on her own. When she saw her luggage and purse on the single bed, she gave him a quick sidelong look.

He said, “Don’t worry, I won’t be staying here. The cabin’s all yours.”

“You paid for another cabin?”

“No. I prefer sleeping outdoors.”

She sat on the edge of the bed. “I can’t figure you out.”

“Sometimes I can’t figure myself out,” he said. “I’ll come by in the morning, sometime after nine, and we’ll talk. You’ll still be here?”

“Where am I going to go? I can’t pay for the car repairs, either.”

FALLON SPENT THE NIGHT packed in near Skidoo, the remains of an old mining camp above Emigrant Canyon. Alone in the stillness, he felt the tensions of the long day evaporate, his thought processes sharpen until they were as clear as the crystalline night sky. He knew then the other part of the reason why he was letting himself become involved in Casey Dunbar’s troubles.

The Valley, and his symbiotic relationship to it. As if it was somehow responsible for bringing the two of them together.

He could have gone anywhere within three thousand square miles today, and yet he’d chosen, or been directed to, the exact spot where the Toyota had quit running two days ago. He could have easily missed finding her in the wash, but he hadn’t. She could have been dead by then, but she wasn’t. If you looked at it that way, the Valley was just as responsible for saving her life as he was.

Illusion? False mysticism? Maybe. All he knew for sure was that the concept seemed real to him. If the story Casey had told was essentially factual, he was obligated to continue watching out for her, to provide her with a reason to go on living. Otherwise none of today’s happenings would mean anything and his relationship with the Valley would never be quite the same again.

He wondered if he could make her understand this. He wondered if he should even bother to try. She’d probably think he was crazy. Hell, maybe he was. But it was a benign form of lunacy, the kind that allowed a man to live at peace with himself.

At first light he went for a five-mile roundabout hike that eventually brought him back to the Jeep. By then the day’s heat was just beginning to seep through the night chill. He drove out of the canyon to Stovepipe Wells, a smaller food and lodging settlement on the desert flats; filled the Jeep’s gas tank and then went into the restaurant for coffee and a plate of eggs and toast.

Will Rodriguez called as he was about to start the thirty-mile drive to Furnace Creek Ranch. “Sorry I didn’t get back to you yesterday, amigo. I couldn’t get hold of a couple of people until this morning.”

“What did you find out?”

“The woman seems to’ve told you a straight story. She brought a legitimate kidnapping charge against her ex-husband four months ago. Still outstanding. He and the kid have dropped completely off the radar.”

“What about the theft charge against her?”

“There isn’t one,” Will said. “No warrant of any kind.”

“Sure?”

“Positive.”

“So Vernon Young didn’t file a complaint after all.”

“Why wouldn’t he? Two thousand bucks is two thousand bucks.”

“He may not know yet that the money is missing. Or if he knows why she took it, maybe he feels sorry for her.”

“Or she has some reason to lie to you about the theft.”

“She have any history with the law I should know about?”

“No. Clean slate.”

“The husband, Court Spicer?”

“Court short for Courtney. He’s another story. Three arrests, one for aggravated assault-bar fight-and two for drunk and disorderly. The most recent D &D was six months ago, right before the custody hearing. One reason why the judge ruled against him, probably.”

“Casey told me he hid assets before the divorce, that that’s how he financed his disappearing act.”

“Could be, but it didn’t come from his job.”

“Musician, right?”

“Right. Piano player-solo lounge jobs or with small jazz groups.”

“What’d you find out about the detective, Sam Ulbrich?”

“Operates in San Diego under the name Confidential Investigative Services,” Will said. “Former police officer like most, in business for himself about fifteen years. Brought up before the Department of Consumer Affairs five years ago for overcharging a client. He claimed it was bogus; the judge agreed and his license wasn’t suspended. Otherwise, he seems to have a decent rep.”