Bill Pronzini - A Wasteland of Strangers

“Two years is a long time to nurse a grudge.”

“Not for a boy who suddenly decides he’s a man.”

“There was an attempted rape the other night,” John Faith said. “Novak questioned me about it. Guy wearing a ski mask, he said. Was that Munoz after you?”

“Yes. He tried to break into my house.”

“Maybe you’re not his first victim. Maybe he’s the one...” He let the rest of the sentence trail off.

“The one who killed Storm Carey. Is that what you were going to say?”

He nodded. “Didn’t look like she’d been raped, though. Was she?”

“No.”

“But she could’ve fought him and he killed her before he had a chance to do anything else. He’s the kind who’d panic in a situation like that. And then run in a hurry, like he did tonight.”

“He’ll keep on running,” I said. “He must know we saw his face.”

“He knows it, all right.”

“Then we have to notify the authorities right away. Before he can get too far—”

“I let you go and you notify them, and then I give myself up. That’s what you mean.”

“It’s the only way.”

“For me to get off the hook? Uh-uh. If there was any proof Munoz killed the Carey woman, then, yeah, I’d take the chance. But there isn’t any proof. Novak and the rest aren’t looking any further than me.”

“They can make him confess when they catch him—”

“If they catch him. If he’s guilty. No guarantees any way you look at it. Besides, the law’s already got me for assaulting a police officer and unlawful flight, among other things. I’d still go to prison.”

“Extenuating circumstances. The charges would be dropped—”

“Would they? I doubt it. How’re your hands?”

“... My hands?”

“Feeling back in them yet?”

“Yes.” Pins and needles now. “My ankles...”

“We’ll leave them taped. Don’t try to take it off.”

“You’re not letting me go?”

“Not tonight. Neither of us is going anywhere tonight.”

“But Mateo Munoz...”

“Never mind him for now.” John Faith stood again, grimacing. “I have to change these bandages. You stay put.”

He walked away, his light picking out another abandoned couch at an angle across from the one I was on. Candles in tin holders sat on a pair of folding chairs at either end; he struck a match and lit one candle, then the other. He brought the second over and set it on the chair near me, positioning the chair so I would be visible in the flickering glow.

Several items were piled on the other couch: blankets, clothing, food, medical supplies. I watched him sit among them, wedge his torch between two cushions so its beam was fixed on his chest, and then peel off the bloody bandage and apply some sort of ointment to the wound. Now and then he glanced up to make sure I hadn’t moved. When he was done taping a fresh bandage in place he repeated the process, with greater difficulty, with another wound in back, under his arm.

Sweat oiled his bare skin when he’d finished. He shut off the flashlight, I suppose to conserve its batteries; took a long drink of bottled water. For a time he sat limply, resting. Then he stood again, brought the bottle to me.

“Thirsty?”

I nodded.

“Use your hands all right now?”

“Yes.”

He let me have the water. And another, smaller bottle: aspirin for my sore throat and the pulsing ache in my temples. Swallowing the water was painful enough; getting four aspirin down, one at a time, hurt even more. The skin was so tender around my Adam’s apple it felt as if a layer of it had been scraped away.

When I could speak again I asked him, “How did you get here, John Faith?”

“Half the name’s enough. Take your choice.”

“How, John? All the way to Nucooee Point?”

“Same way I managed not to drown last night. Strong survival skills.”

“You couldn’t have made it here by yourself. Someone helped you. Brought you over in a boat.”

“Wrong. I brought myself.”

“Trisha Marx. In my boat.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The food and medical supplies — she got those for you, too.”

“You think so? Is this Trisha a doctor or a nurse?”

“Of course not.”

“You saw the bandages I had on before. Much more professional than the ones I put on myself, right?”

“Are you saying someone else besides Trisha helped you?”

“Someone else, period. Doctor, man you don’t know.”

“I don’t believe that,” I said. “There isn’t a doctor in Pomo County who would give aid and comfort to a fugitive.”

“Don’t be too sure about that.”

“Trisha can get in a lot of trouble, you must know that.”

“Not if you don’t start throwing her name around. Tell the cops about Munoz, tell them about me, tell them I had help if you want to, but don’t mention Trisha Marx’s name. Give the kid a break.”

“How do you know she’s a kid unless—”

“I met her last night, on the Bluffs. Gave her a ride home before I went out to Storm Carey’s place. Her old man knows about it, among others.” He paused. “You going to keep her out of it?”

“Yes. But you have to let me go.”

“I will. Just not yet.”

“When?”

“In the morning. Before noon, when I leave.”

“Hours from now. We just sit here until then?”

“Sit, talk, sleep — whatever. You’ll be comfortable enough.”

“Is Trisha coming for you? With a car?”

“No. That’s enough about her. My ride out of here has nothing to do with Trisha Marx, I swear that to you. All right?”

I believed him. He was too vehement, too fiercely protective of her. He’d let Trisha help him once, at considerable risk to both of them, because he’d had no other choice. But it hadn’t set well with him. The second person... I didn’t understand that, or have a clue as to who it might be. Not a doctor; that part I didn’t believe.

He said, “You won’t see who it is. And you won’t see me leave.”

“Tape my hands again? Blindfold me?”

“Tape your hands, but in front where you can get at them with your teeth. It’ll take a while for you to get loose and flag down a car on the highway. By the time you make it to a phone I’ll be long gone.”

“Gone where? A man wanted for murder... there’s no place that’s safe.”

“I know it. But it’s better than rotting in jail.” He laughed, a humorless bark. “Me and Richard Kimble.”

“You’ll never have a minute’s peace. Have you thought about that?”

“I’ve thought about it.”

“And it doesn’t bother you?”

“More of the same, that’s all. I’m used to it.”

“Used to what?”

“Running,” John Faith said. “I been doing it, one form or another, most of my life.”

Fingers on your window in the middle of the night, man, it can’t be nothing good. Rap, rap, rap, and I was off the bed and rubbing my eyes. But I couldn’t see nothing at the window, just rain patterns on the glass and the black night beyond. I got hold of my aluminum Little League bat and drifted over there slow in the dark.

Rap, rap, rap. Then he must’ve seen my shape, because the fingers quit and he called out, “About time, Anthony. Open up, for Chrissake. Lemme in.”

Mateo. What the hell, man?

I flipped the catch and hauled the window up. Rain and cold blew in. I backed off as Mateo climbed over the sill, laid the bat on the card table I use for a desk, and then flicked on the lamp there.

“Shut that freakin’ light off!”

I snapped the room dark again, quick, but not before I got a straighton look at him. It bugged my eyes. Clothes all wet and torn, whole left side of his face a piece of raw meat. Scraped, swelled up, bloody. And half his ear torn away, rest of it hanging there dripping red. And his eyes... wild, man, half bugfuck. Scared. That was the worst thing of all, the thing that chilled my guts. I’d never seen Mateo scared before. Never.