Bill Pronzini - A Wasteland of Strangers

His third eye, the red one in the middle of his forehead, was staring at me, too. I didn’t mind that eye. After all, I’d put it there.

“Well, how do you like it, huh? How do you like being the one who got hurt for a change?”

I wasn’t shaking so much now. In fact, I was hardly shaking at all. I felt numb, numb all over. Just had to go and get your gun, didn’t you, Earle? Just had to start waving it around and threaten to shoot me like a horse. Hit me and kept hitting me, made me all bloody, and then on top of that ranting about shooting me like a horse. A horse, for God’s sake! Didn’t expect me to knock it out of your hand, did you? Didn’t expect to trip over your big feet so I got to it first. And then you had to laugh and call me a bitch and a mare in heat and say I wouldn’t shoot you like a horse. Wrong, Earle, wrong again. Just never got tired of being wrong, did you? Ran at me, grabbed for the gun, and bang! Wrong Earle, dead Earle, three-eyed Earle. Just like that.

I was still holding the stupid gun in my hand. The three eyes, two blue and one red, watched me put it down on the end table.

“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.

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.”

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.