Bill Pronzini: The Other Side Of Silence

“Okay. Anything else I should know?”

“That’s the whole package. So what’re you going to do?”

“About Casey Dunbar? I’m not sure yet. Depends on her.”

“Well, whatever you do, just don’t all of a sudden drop off the radar yourself.”

Casey was waiting for him in her cabin, with the air conditioner cranked all the way up to near chilly. Dressed in clean clothes, her hair washed and brushed, her sun-blotched face and arms greasy with burn ointment. The deep cracks in her lips had already begun to scab over.

“Feeling better this morning?” he asked.

“I suppose so.” She seemed to mean it; the dull, hopeless look had faded. Not exactly glad to be alive, he thought, but no longer wishing she weren’t. “Had breakfast?”

“No. I didn’t want to go out looking like this.”

“You can get room service here.”

“On your money? No, thanks.”

“You need to eat,” Fallon said. He went to the phone, put in an order for a light breakfast without consulting her about the contents.

“You’re pushy as hell, aren’t you?” she said when he hung up. There was spirit in the words, but no rancor. She wasn’t angry at him, but at herself and what she saw as the hopelessness of her situation.

“Sometimes. When I need to be.”

“How long are you going to keep it up? All this Good Samaritan stuff.”

“As long as you’ll let me.”

“What would your wife say if she knew?”

“I’m not married. Not anymore.”

“So you say.”

“I can prove it to you, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“Okay, so you’re unattached and full of the milk of human kindness. And you expect me to believe there’s nothing in all this for you?”

“There’s something in it for me.”

“Uh-huh. Now we get to the bottom line.”

“The bottom line,” Fallon said, “is I might be able to help you find your son.”

The hazel eyes widened. “What’re you talking about?”

“Just what I said. Find your son, get him back to you.”

“… You can’t be serious.”

“Never more serious.”

“My God. Then you must be out of your mind. Weren’t you listening when I told you about the money I stole?”

“I was listening. You’re not wanted by the police, Casey. Vernon Young hasn’t filed theft charges against you.”

“He… how do you know his name?”

“Does it matter?”

Reflexive headshake. “Are you sure he hasn’t filed charges?”

“I’m sure.”

She bit her lower lip, grimaced because her teeth caught one of the scabbed places.

“If he knows the money is missing,” Fallon said, “he understands why you took it. He may be waiting to hear from you, hoping you’ll decide to pay it back. It’s only been a few days. Grace period.”

“But I don’t have it, I can’t pay it back.”

“Not right away. Arrangements can be made.”

“What do you mean, arrangements?”

“Monthly payments. Or if necessary, a loan to pay it back all at once.”

“Nobody would loan me that much money.”

“I might,” he said, to see what she’d say.

“What are you… oh, come on. Two thousand dollars?”

“I can afford it.”

“No. I wouldn’t feel right accepting that much money from you.”

“We could have a legal paper drawn up and notarized.”

“How do you know you could trust me?”

“I don’t.”

“Oh, but you’d be willing to take the risk.”

“Maybe. If it comes down to that.”

“If you think it would get me into bed with you-”

“Oh, Christ. What kind of man would I be if I expected that, after all you’ve been through?”

“I don’t know what kind of man you are, not really.”

“I’ll say this one last time: I don’t want anything from you.”

“Right.” Edge of sarcasm in her voice now. “You saved my life, a stranger, and now you’re willing to loan me two thousand dollars and help me find my son. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does to me.”

“What can you do? You’re not a detective-” She broke off, blinked, and said, “Or are you?”

“In a way. I work for a big pharmaceutical company in L.A.-assistant to the head of security. That gives me resources. It’s how I found out that no theft charges had been filed.”

“Checking up on me.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No. But… finding people? Do you know how to do that? The police, the FBI couldn’t find Kevin. Neither could the detective I hired.”

“Maybe none of them tried hard enough. Or looked in the right places.” She kept on staring at him. “I don’t know what to think,” she said. “I’m not used to dealing with somebody like you. Most of the people I’ve known in my life are takers, not givers.”

“Like your ex-husband.”

“Yes. Exactly. Court… you don’t know him. He meant what he said about killing me. He’d kill you too, if you got in his way.”

“I’m not afraid of men like Court Spicer. He may be off the rails, but he’s also a coward. Sending Banning after you proves that.”

“But you’d still be risking your life for a stranger, two strangers. Saint Rick? I don’t believe that.”

“My soon-to-be ex-wife said I used to be a fighter, somebody who welcomed challenges, but that I’m not that way anymore. I think she was wrong.”

“Meaning you want to prove her wrong.”

“It’s not like that.”

“How is it, then?”

“The split wasn’t ugly like yours. I don’t have anything to prove to her.”

“To yourself, then?”

He shrugged. “There are other reasons. Some you’d understand, some you might not.”

“That’s an evasive answer.”

“All right. I’ll tell you the main one.” Fallon opened his wallet, removed the snapshot of Timmy from its glassine pocket, handed it to her. “My son. Timothy James Fallon.”

She said, staring at it, “He… looks like Kevin.”

“He would’ve been the same age.”

“Would’ve been?”

“He died,” Fallon said. “Three years ago.”

He thought he saw the shape of her expression change. She sat motionless, looking at the photo. “How?”

“An accident. A stupid accident. He climbed a tree with some other kids on a dare, lost his balance, hit the ground on the back of his head. Inoperable brain damage. He was in a coma for three weeks before he died.”

“God.”

“I was at work when it happened,” he said. “There wasn’t anything I could do to save him. Maybe there’s something I can do to save your son. Do you want me to try?”

She sat holding the snapshot of Timmy, alternating her gaze between it and Fallon. Making a decision.

“Yes,” she said at length. “I want you to try.”

WHILE CASEY ATE HER room-service meal, he quizzed her about her ex-husband, her son, and the man who called himself Banning.

Court Spicer first. Fallon asked for his description, since she had no photograph to give him. Average height. Lean and wiry, about 160 pounds. Black curly hair that he wore long, so long the last time she’d seen him that he’d had it in a ponytail. Clean-shaven then. Blue-gray eyes, very intense. Long-fingered hands. Mole on his left cheek, near his mouth. “I used to think he was good-looking. Now,” she said bitterly, “I think I must have been out of my mind.”

Nothing much there, except maybe for the mole. Mr. Average. And weight can be gained, hair cut and dyed, beards or mustaches grown, a man’s appearance changed in a dozen other ways.

“Tell me about your relationship with him,” Fallon said. “Start with how you met.”

Talking about Spicer was difficult for her. She spoke haltingly, her gaze slanted off much of the time in a fixed stare. She’d gone with a friend to a small club in San Diego’s Old Town district, she said, where Spicer had been playing piano. He’d noticed her, kept looking at her and smiling, and on his break he’d gone to their table for introductions, bought a round of drinks. She was flattered by the attention, but not attracted to him enough to say yes when he asked her for a date.