Bill Pronzini - A Wasteland of Strangers

I answered the phone since I was standing right there, and for a change the call was for me. My mood had been pretty good; winning at poker always gives me a lift. But when I hung up five minutes later, I was shaking my head and feeling a sag. Man, oh man, nothing much happens in Pomo for years on end and then all of a sudden everything pops at once, like somebody’d opened up Pandora’s box. I know about Pandora’s box on account of that’s the name Ed Simms gave his bar downtown and he’ll explain the whole myth or legend or whatever it is to anybody who’ll listen.

Trisha came into the kitchen as I was opening a beer to go with my sandwich. She said, “Who was that on the phone, Daddy?”

“Hank Maddow. He just talked to his son down at the police station.”

“Did something happen?”

“Whole lot of somethings. A Pandora’s boxful.”

For starters I told her about Lori Banner blowing away that jerkoff husband of hers, no loss there. Her eyes got big as saucers.

She said, “Did the cops arrest her? Put her in jail?”

“No, they got her doped up in the hospital.”

“Oh, God.”

“That teacher of yours, Ms. Sixkiller, almost bought it last night, too. Kidnapped and nearly raped.”

“What!”

I told her who’d done it and I didn’t beat around the bush. A dose of hard-ass reality’s good for a kid her age who’s running a little wild. Sometimes it’s the only way you can get through to them. “I told you those Munozes were a couple of punk losers. You need another reason to steer clear of Anthony, there it is.”

“He’s not like Mateo.”

“How do you know he isn’t? Maybe he just ain’t shown his true colors yet.”

“Ms. Sixkiller... is she all right?”

“Wasn’t hurt bad. Lucky he took her where he did.”

“Where’d he take her?”

“The old lodge on Nucooee Point. And who do you think was hiding out there, alive after all? John Faith. You’d think he’d be the last guy to play hero, but he stepped in and belted that Mateo punk and chased him off. Cost him, too. Faith.”

Trisha’s face was white now, white as milk. “Cost him?”

“Chief Novak showed at the lodge this morning, nobody knows why yet, and arrested Faith. Took him to—”

I broke off because she wasn’t there anymore; she’d turned tail and run out. Ran upstairs. I followed her up there, and she’d locked herself in the bathroom. I could hear her throwing up and sobbing in there.

Kids. How she could get so worked up over a sleazeball like Mateo Munoz showing his true colors is beyond me.

I was at Pomo General about an hour, most of it spent waiting for Dick to drive me home. As soon as we arrived he and the two officers he’d asked for had taken John Faith upstairs to the security wing; I’d gone to the emergency room and submitted to an examination, even though it really wasn’t necessary. My vital signs were normal and there was no cartilage or other damage to my throat.

Afterward, I sat in the waiting room and fidgeted. The young reporter from the Advocate , Jay Dietrich, found me there and wouldn’t leave me alone until I’d reluctantly answered a few of his questions. Then Joan Garcia, who happened to be on duty in the security wing, came down briefly to see how I was doing. I asked her about John Faith’s condition and she said it was stable; no apparent infection, but as a precaution an antibiotic called Cefotan was being administered by IV. She thought that if there were no complications, he would be released for transfer to the city jail later in the day.

Dick came down at last. The strain he’d been under was all too evident in the harsh fluorescent lighting — hunched shoulders, haggard and frayed appearance, pain etched again in his eyes. Now that John Faith was in custody, he had to stop driving himself so hard. If he didn’t stop by himself, someone — Verne Erickson, Mayor Seeley, me — would have to take steps to force him for his own good.

Outside, as we crossed the parking lot, I asked him if John Faith had called a lawyer. He said, “No. Didn’t ask for one. He’s still not talking, not even to the doctors.” The only other thing Dick would say about him was that, to prevent another escape attempt, he was handcuffed to his bed as well as under constant guard.

On the drive to my house Dick was mostly silent. When we arrived I expected a terse good-bye in the car, but he surprised me by walking me to the door. Then he really surprised me by gathering me close, whispering in my ear, “I’m glad you’re safe, Audrey,” and then kissing my mouth, hard.

It was freezing inside the house, but I was warm enough. Warmer than I’d been in a long time.

Seeley and Thayer were waiting for me at the station. I ushered them into my office, and as soon as the door was shut the sheriff said heatedly, “What the hell’s the idea, Novak?”

“The idea of what?”

“You know what. Nucooee Point Lodge is on county land. You had no right to make an arrest there without consulting me first.”

“I didn’t know Faith was hiding out at the lodge when I went there. I didn’t even know Audrey would be there. All I had was a vague tip from Harry Richmond. Didn’t Lou Files tell you all that?”

“He told me. But that doesn’t change the fact that it was a breach of jurisdiction. You should’ve notified me before you went in, then waited for backup. You could’ve blown it, let Faith get away again.”

“But I didn’t.”

“But you could have.”

“Have it your way. Your people find anything incriminating among the stuff at the lodge?”

“No, and Faith’s helper didn’t show, either. If you’d waited and followed protocol—”

“The same thing would’ve happened. Why don’t you admit the real point of this harangue, Leo?”

“Real point?”

“You’re pissed because my hunch was right that Faith was still alive. And because you didn’t get to arrest him yourself. No glory for Pomo County’s esteemed sheriff.”

“Bullshit! You listen here—”

Seeley said, “That’s enough, both of you. Cool down. The arrest part of it’s over and done with and there’s no sense arguing about it. Faith’s in custody, that’s the important thing.”

“Not to Leo, it isn’t,” I said.

Thayer took a step toward me. The mayor used his porcine bulk to block him off. “I said, cool down! No more infighting, and that goes double out in public. Media gets a whisper of dissension, they’ll blow it all out of proportion. We’ve had enough negative PR as it is.”

Negative PR. That was Seeley for you. Typical small-time political boss: He didn’t give a damn about anything except the status quo and his and Pomo’s image.

He said to me, “Dick, about this Mateo Munoz kid. I wish you’d talked to me before involving the FBI.”

“Why? Notification is standard procedure in a kidnapping case where there’s a possibility of interstate or international flight.”

“Yes, but I don’t like the idea of FBI agents poking around here. More fodder for the media.”

That wasn’t the only reason. He was afraid they might stumble on something by accident that he didn’t want them to see — a little local dirty laundry, maybe. I had an urge to say that to him, put a crack or two in that smooth facade. I curbed it and said instead, “They’ll only send one agent, if they send any. Low-priority case for them. If an agent does show, I’ll see to it he stays out of our hair and in the background.”

“You do that. One more thing about Munoz. Is there any chance he killed Storm Carey, not Faith? I mean, there are similarities between the Carey homicide and the Sixkiller kidnapping.”