Bill Pronzini: Schemers

Runyon said, “Have you talked to Damon?”

“Yes, before the lieutenant came and again afterward.”

“He and his family all right? No trouble at their home?”

“No, they’re fine. Cliff… only Cliff…”

One at a time, then, rather than both brothers together. The cemetery was definitely out. Besides, St. John would have had the same line of thought, ordered the cemetery checked out first thing; he was cautious and defensive and hard to convince, but he was no dummy.

“Where?” Mrs. Henderson said again. “Why? What does he want with Cliff?”

To kill him. Maybe torture him with acid first. It had reached that point. Psychos were unpredictable for the most part, but an escalation of a monomaniacal psychosis like Devries’s was something you could calculate with reasonable certainty.

“I don’t know,” he lied.

“Is there anything you can do, Mr. Runyon? You’ve done so much for us already, I hate to ask any more of you, but I feel so helpless…”

What could he do? Talk to St. John, and if an APB hadn’t been put out on Devries and the Dodge van, try again to persuade him? St. John wouldn’t like that. Further infringement on his territory. It was even possible he’d dislike the interference enough to make trouble with the state licensing board.

“Anything? Please?”

Begging him now. He couldn’t say no. Couldn’t put her off, either. The hell with St. John and the possible consequences.

Right back in it, like it or not.

“I’ll drive up,” he said, “talk to St. John.”

“When?”

“As soon as I can.” He wouldn’t be able to sleep anymore, and he couldn’t lie in bed or rattle around the apartment until dawn waiting for news. The restlessness, the need for movement, was already sharp in him. “If you have any word about your husband before I contact you, call me on my cell phone.”

“Yes, I will. Thank you, Mr. Runyon. Thank you!”

For nothing, probably. Except wasted effort.

He put the teakettle on, showered in cold water to get the grit out of his eyes and sharpen his mind. Two quick cups of tea helped, too. He’d never needed much sleep. Four hours, which was about what he’d gotten tonight, was enough for him to function normally.

Out of the apartment, through the mostly empty late-night streets, across the fog-cloaked span of the Golden Gate Bridge.

Why the change in Devries’s pattern? Acid in all the other attacks except for the one on Damon Henderson, but the blows with the tire iron had been the result of circumstance, not planning. What was he up to this time?

Through the MacArthur tunnel, down the winding expanse of Waldo Grade.

Where would he take Henderson? Not somewhere in or close to Los Alegres, that didn’t fit Devries’s profile or motives.

Where?

TUCKER DEVRIES

He adjusted the focus on his Nikkormat, checked the light meter, made another adjustment. The dawn light coming through the broken window and open door was just right-kind of pearly, like an oyster shell. But it wasn’t strong enough yet-he’d still have to use the Vivitar flash. Better try to make these last few snaps as perfect as he could.

This was the second roll of film he’d shot. The first roll, last night after they got here, had been all handheld with little or no light-a dozen pix in and out of the van, the rest in here. No way to know how well they’d turn out until he developed them, but he was good at estimating distances and exposure needs under those conditions; he had a feeling they’d be pretty good. This second roll he knew would be good. As soon as it was daylight he’d carried the tripod in and set the Nikkormat up on it. Every shot since had been calculated, meticulously framed and lighted.

One more adjustment. Okay, ready. No, not just yet. When he squinted through the viewfinder, his vision was a little smeary. Lack of sleep. Twenty-four hours without it now and he was bone-tired. But there was still a lot to do. He’d sleep when he was done. He’d sleep real good then.

He wiped his eye on his jacket sleeve. It still felt sticky with mucus. Henderson was watching him. Well, let him watch, let him wait, he wasn’t going anywhere with two rolls of duct tape around him and the big wooden chair.

Devries went outside into the chill morning hush, then around the cabin to the stream that ran murmuring along the edge of the woods. The water was so cold it made him shudder, numbed his hands and cheeks. But clean, sweet, free of pollutants. So much better than city water. His vision was clear when he finished, and his skin tingled.

Inside the cabin again, he dried off on the towel from the van. Now he was ready. He rechecked the light meter, took another squint through the viewfinder. Henderson was framed in the exact center. Red eyes, cracked lips, gray-flecked beard stubble, animal scowl. Perfect.

“Smile,” he said.

“Fuck you.”

Henderson had said that before, at least a dozen times since he’d dragged him in here from the van. Didn’t bother Devries. He’d expected whining, begging, but all he’d gotten so far was anger and abuse. Give the devil’s spawn his due. Henderson had plenty of guts. He wouldn’t die screaming, the way Mother must have. The way Lloyd Henderson should have.

Okay, set up another shot. Use the timer this time, so he could be in it, too. He’d taken a few of those two-shots before, but one more wouldn’t hurt. The gun to Henderson’s head again? The closed jar of acid tilted above his face? No, something different. Maybe open the jar, dribble a little of the acid on Henderson’s leg, capture the vapor from sizzling flesh and what was sure to be an openmouthed yell of pain? No, the pain would make him thrash around and spoil the shot. Save the acid for later, when Henderson was dead. Burn what was left of him, the way he’d burned the father’s ashes.

Make it the gun again, then, only from another perspective. Kneel down behind him, tuck the muzzle up under his throat. Good! The composition would be just right.

The automatic was on the table by the door, with his camera bag and briefcase. When he had the camera ready, he went and got the gun and thumbed off the safety. Henderson watched him with his hard, fearless eyes.

“You going to finish it now?”

“No. Sit still.”

Devries set the timer for twenty seconds, went around behind Henderson and into the pose he’d decided on, smiling a little, not too much-a grim executioner’s smile. Henderson moved his head and his eyes, the only parts of his body he could move, trussed up the way he was. It was so quiet inside and outside that the sound of the shutter tripping was like the pop of a small pistol.

“Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with?”

Henderson had said that before, too. Devries gave back the same answer as he got to his feet: “Not yet.”

“Sadistic son of a bitch.”

“I’m not sadistic.”

“Hell you’re not. All those pictures, keeping me wrapped up like a goddamn mummy, torturing me.”

“Torture? I haven’t hurt you, have I?”

“Making me wait before you kill me. Like a fucking terrorist.”

“No! Executioner.”

“Bullshit, man. How many times do I have to tell you my father didn’t kill your mother?”

“The evidence says he did. Evidence doesn’t lie.”

“Evidence. Christ.”

“Her own words, her own testimony.”

“I don’t care what she wrote in her diary or whatever it is. He didn’t kill her. He never hurt anyone in his life.”

“You want me to read it to you again? All the evidence?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He went and got the notebook from his briefcase, handling it carefully as he always did. Not a diary or a journal, just a random collection of notes Mother had made-dates, names, events, impressions, reminders. He was in there, many times until the last few pages. “My sweet baby, Tucker. My handsome boy, Tucker.” His miserable damn father a few times, the sentences bitter and angry. Men she’d dated, casual affairs, you couldn’t blame her for seeking love and comfort after Anthony Noakes abandoned the two of them. And then Lloyd Henderson. Nine entries, right at the end, five happy and hopeful, three infuriating and terrible. Evidence. Irrefutable testimony.