Bill Pronzini - Hellbox

Tamara worked fast, called back in a little more than an hour. Nothing much, no red flags except for an arrest six years ago on a spousal battery charge. But Balfour’s ex-wife had dropped the charge the next day. Two other brushes with the law: a DUI three years ago and a charge of poaching deer out of season, fines and probation on both. There’d also been two complaints against his construction business, one by a private individual for overcharges on a house remodel, the other by the owners of a restaurant in one of the hamlets at the north end of the valley for use of inferior building materials; the second complaint got him a modest fine by the county licensing board. Those were the only blemishes on his record. Lived alone, no dependents, paid his bills more or less on time. Probably worthy of the mayor tag, but being an asshole didn’t necessarily make him a felon.

But God, I wanted it to be him. I ached for it to be him. If it wasn’t, then we were as much in the dark as before.

I’d been able to sleep some while Runyon was making his rounds-sheer exhaustion had knocked me out for a while-but I didn’t get much more that night. Fits and starts, the dozes interrupted by running dreams and one nightmare that woke me up in a cold sweat but I couldn’t remember afterward. I was in fair shape come dawn, my tank partially refilled. I’d be okay for part of the day, but if it went on like the last two, full of frustration and overexposure to the sweltering heat, I was not sure how long I could hold up.

I was up and dressed at five-thirty, a few minutes ahead of Runyon. As much as I wanted to head out to Balfour’s place right away, I knew it was too early. It wouldn’t matter whether or not he was up at this hour if his front gate was still locked. In that case, with no communication device, the only ways to let him know we wanted to talk to him were a phone call or blasts on the car horn. Guilty or innocent, he’d either refuse to see us or be closed off and hostile if he did. We had to handle this right. If Balfour was the man, Kerry’s life depended on it.

I made coffee, toast, boiled a couple eggs-disposing of time, not because I had any appetite. Runyon didn’t seem to have much, either, but we both choked the food down for sustenance. Not talking much; we’d hashed it all out the night before. He looked a lot more clear-eyed and rested than I did. Plenty of stamina in him, and why not? He was twenty years younger, in better physical shape, and he had no abiding personal stake in this-the woman he loved was not in the hands of Christ knew what brand of maniac.

No, that wasn’t fair. The woman Jake had loved as desperately as I loved Kerry was already dead, the victim of a different kind of horror.

We left the house a few minutes before seven, Runyon driving again. I sat leaning forward, tense, as we wound up Crooked Creek Road to Balfour’s property. And when we got there… gate in the chain-link fence closed, padlocked.

Runyon parked in the driveway and I got out, crossed a short platform bridge, and went up to peer through the gate. House, barn/workshop, another outbuilding at the rear whose roofline I could just make out between the other two. There was no chimney smoke or other sign of life in or around the buildings.

Jake came up beside me. “Looks deserted.”

“Yeah.”

The dog had started barking and snarling somewhere behind the house. From the noise it was making, Jake’s guess of a guard dog, big and vicious, was the right one. I’d had a run-in with another animal like that, a kill-trained Rottweiler, only a few months ago and it had come close, very close, to ripping my throat out. I had no desire for a repeat of that incident. But I’d stand up against this one, too, if it came to that.

I said, “Was that stake-bed truck parked over there last night?”

“Same place.”

“And the carport was empty?”

“As empty as it is now. Up and gone early, maybe.”

“Or he didn’t come home at all last night.”

Neither of us put voice to the possibility that Balfour had closed up shop and left the valley for the holiday weekend.

Silent drive into Six Pines. The Green Valley Cafe was open, and busy with breakfast trade. I scanned the room, but none of the customers was the ugly little guy I’d seen on Sunday. I shook my head at Jake, led the way to where a couple of stools stood vacant at the counter. When the plump blond waitress got around to us, I asked her if she knew Pete Balfour.

“Oh, yeah, I know him.”

“He been in this morning?”

“No. Usually is, but not today so far.”

“Any idea where we can find him?”

“Fairgrounds, probably. Supposed to be finishing up a remodel job in time for the Fourth.”

We drove down there, through the open front gates to where the construction work was going on at a row of concession booths behind the grandstand. Two vehicles parked next to a metal storage shed, two men working-a sixtyish, gray-haired Latino and a young guy with red hair under a turned-around Giants baseball cap. There was no sign of Pete Balfour.

We approached the Latino, who stopped hammering a section of countertop into place inside one of the booths. He wore a sweat-stained, blue chambray workshirt with the name Eladio Perez home-stitched over one pocket. I asked him if Balfour had come to work today.

“ Si. Yes. Very early.”

“But he’s not here now?”

“He go out to buy something he needs.”

“So he’ll be back pretty soon.”

“Pretty soon.”

Runyon asked, “Were you working here on Monday afternoon?”

“Monday afternoon, si. Every day.”

“Was your boss here, too?”

Frown lines crosshatched Perez’s forehead. Trying to remember.

I said, “The day the house blew up on Skyview Drive.”

“Oh, Monday. Yes.”

“ Was Balfour here that afternoon?”

“No. He leave early that day.”

“How early? What time?”

“After lunch. One o’clock.”

“And he didn’t come back?”

“No.”

“Do you know where he went?”

Shrug. “?Quien sabe? He don’t tell me much.” Perez’s expression was more or less stoic, but he had sad, expressive eyes, and the impression they conveyed was that he didn’t much like his employer.

“Have you worked for Balfour long?”

“Six years.” Six years too long, the sad eyes said.

“So, you must know him pretty well?”

“No, senor. I work, he pays me, that’s all.” Then, “ Excuseme, por favor. I must be finish here when he come back.”

Jake had parked in the shade of a big oak; we went to sit in the car and wait. I said, “Some other business on Monday. Like maybe setting a gas-line boobytrap to murder the Verrikers.”

“Maybe. Let’s see what he has to say.”

The voice of reason. But I was tensed up again, fidgety; I couldn’t hold my hands still, kept running them back and forth across my thighs.

The wait lasted ten minutes. Then a dirty white Dodge pickup came rattling along the blacktop and angled to a stop near the shed. The driver hopped out, went around to take material out of the pickup’s bed. Balfour.

He was still unloading when Runyon and I approached him. Pear-shaped, stubby-legged, chinless; bullet head topped with a couple of tufts of colorless hair. And a dirty Band-Aid under one eye that gave him a faintly piratical look. He scowled when he spotted us, then seemed to make an effort to shift his expression into neutral. I don’t normally judge people by their appearance; I’ve spent a personal and professional lifetime letting actions and personalities dictate my opinions. But even though I warned myself to keep an open mind, I took an immediate dislike to the man.

“What you guys want?” Flat, with an undercurrent of irritation.