Bill Pronzini - Hellbox

Three more sips, swirled and swallowed the same as the first, and the dish was empty. Kerry set it on the bench, turned to survey the room. Put things back together or not? Yes. The apathy was mostly gone now; she was not going to just sit and wait passively to die.

She moved across to the armchair, struggled to shove it into an upright position. A piece of the torn cloth showed along one edge; she toed it out of sight. Now the television. Foolish to try to pick it up and carry it to the bench. Push it over there, close, and then summon enough strength to lift it up Outside, the pit bull resumed its barking. The sounds had a different cadence than before, the loud rumbles interspersed with little yips. Eager sounds. Welcoming sounds.

Balfour was out there in the yard.

She knew it even before she heard him call out the animal’s name, tell it to shut the hell up.

Panic spiraled in her. He might not have been able to tell at a distance that the lights were on, there was still time to turn them off. But when he opened the door, he’d put them on himself, he’d see the TV set, he’d see her Eyes, his eyes!

The panic gave way to fury. She staggered ahead to the door. The twisted-together tacks were on the floor where she’d dropped them, their sharp points gleaming faintly in the glare. She snatched them up, then flipped off the lights. Stood with her arms raised, one slender piece like a miniature dagger in each clenched fist.

He was at the door now. His key scraped in the lock.

As soon as he opened it, she’d hurl herself at him, plunge the tacks into his eyes. Even if the dog tore her apart afterward, dying in agony would be worth it because he’d be dead, too.

JAKE RUNYON

There were four motels and six B amp;Bs in and around Six Pines. He and Bill divvied them up to save time, agreed to rendezvous at the campground if neither of them found out anything worth a summoning phone call. Tiny hope at best, but it was all they had left.

Until a few minutes past seven o’clock. And then they didn’t have it anymore.

All of the accommodations were booked solid. The method in a canvass like this was to talk to clerks, managers, hostesses first to find out which guests had been staying since Sunday night, then take those individuals room by room. There weren’t many in the places on Runyon’s list; most of the visitors were late arrivals, in town for the Independence Day weekend. Some of the doors he knocked on stayed shut, the occupants out somewhere. The people who were in, most obliging, a few not, had nothing to tell him: either they hadn’t been driving in the valley hills, or if they had, they didn’t know anything about an old logging road, and they’d never seen the woman in the photograph Bill had given him. The silent cell phone in his shirt pocket said Bill was getting the same negative responses.

Runyon had been at the campground for fifteen minutes and had already spoken to several of the campers when Bill showed up. Together, they covered the rest, with the same lack of results.

Bill wanted to go back and start over, to see if any of the tourists they missed had returned to their rooms, but Runyon talked him out of it. The man was in no shape to do any more interviewing-a couple of the campers had reacted warily to his disheveled and hollow-eyed appearance, and they might not have been the first to shy away. He knew it, too; he didn’t put up an argument when Runyon offered to go back into town and make the rounds again by himself.

“All right,” he said. “The rental house isn’t far from here. Follow me up there first so you’ll know where it is.”

Bill’s driving was a little erratic, another sign of how strung out he was. Runyon followed at a safe distance, memorizing the route from the valley road. He’d packed an overnight bag before leaving the city; he got it out of the trunk while Bill opened up the house, took it into the spare bedroom he was pointed to.

When he came out again, Bill was sprawled on the couch in the living room with a piece of notepaper in his hand. Wordlessly, he extended it to Runyon. List of motels and B amp;Bs, names, room numbers; all but three of the names had lines through them. A similar list in Runyon’s pocket contained four names left to check. Seven altogether. Chances a couple of points above zero.

“One other thing,” Bill said. “The mailman, Ramsey.”

“What about him?”

“He looked familiar and I just remembered where I’d seen him before. Sunday, Green Valley Cafe, while Kerry and I were in there having lunch. He and two other guys were in the booth behind us-I think one of them was Ned Verriker. They got into a verbal wrangle with another customer, an ugly little guy they called the mayor.”

“What was the wrangle about?”

“That mayor name. Little guy seemed offended by it, made some noise and stomped out.”

“Why was he offended?”

“No idea. Some sort of local joke.”

“Anybody say his name?”

“Yeah. Balmer, Baldor, something like that… I just can’t remember for sure. First name Pete.”

“You think he noticed you and Kerry?”

“Can’t say. He looked around, but the place was crowded.”

“Talk to him or see him since?”

“No. But the connection to Verriker… worth checking him out.”

“I’ll try to find him,” Runyon said. “Don’t know when I’ll be back. Might be quite a while.”

“Call me if you get even a whisper.”

“You know I will. Try to get some rest.”

“Yeah.”

“Something to eat, too. Food in the house?”

“Enough. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.”

Runyon left him, drove down to the valley road and back into Six Pines. Four of the seven remaining tourist possibles were in their rooms; three had nothing to tell him, the fourth wouldn’t even talk to him through the door. Three to go. Chances now one point above zero.

Next option: a round of the watering holes, the ones that catered to the locals. Even though the people didn’t know you, you could pick up information if you asked the right questions the right way. Runyon had developed a knack for that kind of thing. Or maybe it just came naturally. In Seattle, before his life got turned upside down, he’d been one of the regular guys-good listener, easy rapport with strangers.

Barely possible somebody’d be drinking in one of taverns that they’d missed talking to, somebody who had seen something or had some idea of who might’ve been parked on that logging road Monday afternoon. There was still the Verriker angle, too. Broxmeyer’s judgment that Ned Verriker and his wife had no enemies, were well liked by everyone, wasn’t necessarily true; what Bill had told him about Sunday’s incident in the Green Valley Cafe indicated that. If nothing else, making the rounds should net the full identity of the Pete Something who didn’t like being called mayor.

The first place he went to was the Bank Shot, a block off the south end of Main Street. No different than every other small-town bar he’d been in, except that there was a pool tournament going on in the back room and the place was jammed to capacity. The noise level was such that you couldn’t hold a normal conversation. He wasn’t going to find out anything here, at least not until the tournament ended and the crowd thinned out.

His next stop, a couple of blocks away, was a place called the Miners Club. Pretty much a carbon copy of the Bank Shot, but without the pool tournament, the heavy crowd, and the ear-slamming noise. He found a place at the bar, ordered a light beer, and helped himself to a handful of pretzels to appease the mutterings in his belly. The bartender was too busy at the moment for conversation, and the couple on Runyon’s left were busy discussing the screwed-up love life of the woman’s sister. He made an effort with the middle-aged man on his right, but it didn’t buy him anything except a half glare and a couple of grunts.