Bill Pronzini - Mourners

Time had accomplished that, finally. Some days now, for short periods, she was able to function more or less normally, without feeling the grief and anger and bitterness, without thinking of Erin at all. But other days were bad, like the ones in the first weeks-Erin in her mind almost every minute at the apartment, the health club, anywhere she happened to be. Scores of little reminders, constant flood of memories. Erin’s room with her unmade bed and her clothing and cosmetics strewn every which way and Mr. Floppy, that grungy one-eyed stuffed dog she’d had since she was six, propped on its tail on her dresser; Erin laughing, Erin grumbling, Erin tipsy, Erin fresh from the shower and prancing nude around the apartment, Erin in all her moods from loving and generous when she got her way to spiteful and bitchy when she didn’t. The time when she was twelve and they’d had their first long talk about sex, and the night when she was fifteen and she’d done it for the first time and was so excited and scared and couldn’t wait to share all the gory details. The weird fun summer they’d spent on little Nicolet Island off the Wisconsin mainland. The Whitewater rafting trip on the upper Colorado River three years ago with Jerry and that friend of his Erin called Needle Dick behind his back. So many things…

Today had been different from any of the others. Strange. Good and bad, both. Good because of that detective, Runyon, and his offer to help, and the reborn hope that someday there might be justice after all. Bad because the hope was so small, and because of the other man at the cemetery, not knowing who he was or why he’d bought the headstone and sent all the flowers. And because it seemed that everybody she came in contact with had also lost Erin or somebody else close to them. Each in turn made her feel her loss that much more intensely.

The headstone man, the flower man. If he wasn’t the guilty one, then whoever he was and whatever the relationship he’d had with Erin, she must have been very important to him. And that meant he’d lost her, too.

Jake Runyon. Widower for ten months, his wife a victim of cancer. That must be just as terrible as losing a sister to sudden brutal violence. God, she’d looked into his eyes and it had been just like looking into her own in the mirror-all the suffering, all the sorrow, right there on the surface.

Scott. He’d really loved Erin, she hadn’t realized how much until she saw how torn up he was. Erin had loved him, too, the first guy she’d ever been serious about. They’d probably have gotten married eventually, had kids despite Erin’s hollow “no squalling brats for me” disclaimer. Had a good life together, a normal, uneventful, mostly happy life. A life that never would be.

Kate. Only three months since Noreen walked out on her after nine years, no warning, just announced one morning she was leaving. Losing a lover that way was a kind of death, too, and for a while it hurt almost as much. She knew that kind of loss, too, because she’d gone through it herself when she and Jerry split up. Kate was her friend as well as her boss, but she still had days when she was depressed and hard to deal with and this had been one of them.

Dave. Like Scott, he’d lost a woman he loved deeply-some kind of accident he couldn’t talk about beyond hinting he was the cause of it. Came to the club two or three times a week and worked out on the machines for hours until he was exhausted. So quiet and sad, hardly talked to anyone but her. Broken birds of a feather. He’d been in such pain today, his buff body radiating it even from a distance, that she couldn’t stand to be near him.

And Jerry. She was his loss, as he was hers, thirteen months ago. The blame was all his, one hundred percent-just couldn’t keep that thing of his zipped up in his pants. Called again this afternoon, second call this week, about the twentieth since the funeral. He wanted her back, he’d come right out and said so-lousy timing as usual. So sorry, Risa, I never stopped loving you, Jana was a stupid mistake, I swear I’ll never do it again, just give me another chance and I’ll be there for you from now on, yada yada yada. She still loved him at some level, she supposed, no use lying to herself about that; if all the love was gone she wouldn’t have kept his name. But how could she trust him again? For God’s sake, he’d even hit on Erin a couple of times, practically drooled on himself the day he showed up at the apartment without calling and she walked out of the bathroom naked. He swore the hits weren’t serious, he was just joking around, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have screwed her or tried to screw her if she’d shown him any encouragement. No. They were divorced and they were going to stay divorced; he’d lost her and she’d lost him. One more loss that couldn’t be undone, ever.

Long, strange, good-bad day. She was relieved when her shift ended and she could leave the club and escape home. The emptiness, all the reminders of Erin, made the apartment claustrophobic sometimes, but tonight it was preferable to facing all those other hurt and damaged lives.

Her building was only a dozen blocks from Get Fit; she’d been fortunate to find a job with such an easy commute. She seldom drove to work, usually either walked or took the 38 Geary bus depending on the weather and how tired she was. Tonight, despite an early blowing fog, she walked. Lost inside herself and paying only minimal attention to her surroundings, yet without really thinking about Erin or anything else: bolstering herself against the night ahead with exercise and the few minutes of freedom.

The apartment was more good-bad: a sanctuary, but a cold, empty one. She really ought to move to a new place. Or at least clean out Erin’s room, keep a few mementos and send the rest of her things to Mom and Dad or give them to Goodwill. People kept advising her to do one or the other, and she knew they were right, but she just couldn’t face either chore. No use kidding herself-it probably would be a long time before she could.

She poured herself a vodka and lime juice, and took it with her into the bathroom. The drink and a hot shower helped a little. Dressed again, she looked up Sally and Kevin Johnson’s phone number in her computer address book and then called it, thinking that if Sally knew anything about Fatso that she didn’t, it would be easier for her to get the information. But all she got was their machine. She decided against leaving a message, tapped out Runyon’s cell phone number instead.

He had an odd sort of voice, gruff and gentle at the same time, but without much inflection. This morning, the whole time he’d talked to her at the cemetery, he’d worn a sort of neutral expression, what Jerry called a poker face, so you couldn’t be sure of what he was thinking behind those pained eyes. She wondered again, talking to him now, what kind of man he was. Honest and caring, she was pretty sure of that much. And if he had the usual male ideas he kept them under control-she’d believed him when he told her he didn’t expect anything in return for his help. But aside from that, who was he deep inside? Her interest was both personal, because of Erin, and impersonal. Or maybe detached was a better word. Acts of kindness were few and far between these days. A man like Jake Runyon almost made her believe again that most people were good and God was good and the world wasn’t always a rotten, ugly place. Almost.

When she told him she’d tried to call Sally, he said, “You think she might not talk to me?”

“No, I don’t see why she wouldn’t. I just wanted to save you some time and effort.”

“Thanks, but there’s no need. I know what questions to ask.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Thing is,” he said, “this isn’t much of a lead yet. I don’t want you to get your hopes up prematurely.”