Bill Pronzini: Blowback

At the far end of the village was the dirt-and-gravel county road that led to Eden Lake. Nobody seemed to want to go there except me-the road was deserted. It wound upward past cuts of bluish limestone and the ancient, crumbling outbuilding of a pocket mine that lay against the hillside like an old scar that had never healed; then, after three dusty miles, it began to climb sharply into heavy sugar and digger pine. When it finally crested I could see Eden Lake shimmering ice-blue in the sunlight below.

The lake was small, maybe a half-mile wide and a quarter-mile long. Forestland grew to the water's edge in a full half-moon to the north and east; to the west there was a high bluff and a grassy meadow rising in a gentle slope beside it. Harry Burroughs' fishing camp was at the south end, and its buildings were the only ones anywhere on or near the lake. All of the surrounding land was owned by either the state or the county, I couldn't remember which, and through a friend on the real-estate board Harry had managed a long-term lease for the portion on which he had built his camp. One of these days, though, at least some other parts of the lakefront property were going to undergo development-a fact he did not much care to think about.

The first view you had of the camp was when you came down out of the trees and neared the graveled circle that served as a parking area. There were six cabins, set into a rough wide horseshoe shape and sweeping inland from the lake, but the only one visible from here was Harry's, the largest and the one nearest the parking circle; the others were hidden by pines and other forest growth. Extending into the lake fifty yards from Harry's front door was a short narrow pier, and tied to the end of it were two fourteen-foot, oak-hulled skiffs with five-horsepower outboards.

His ten-year-old jeep was parked in the circle, along with four cars: a new dark-brown Cadillac, a dusty Rambler station wagon, a 1972 Ford, and an expensive yellow Italian sports job. I pulled my car in beside the Rambler and got out into the hot, dry mountain air.

Nobody came to meet me, and the camp looked empty for all I could see. I went over to Harry's cabin and up onto the log-railed porch and rapped on the door. There was no response. So I came down again and walked around to the far side, to where there was a large Coca-Cola cooler that I knew he always kept well-stocked with beer and soft drinks. I helped myself to a can of Schlitz, popped the tab, and drank a third of it before I lowered the can. It had been a long drive from San Francisco.

The beer brought on an instant craving for a cigarette, as beer often did with me; I made an effort to blank my mind against it. I had not had any trouble doing that during the drive-I had managed to concentrate enough on the road and on the radio broadcast of the Giants game. My chest felt all right, maybe a little tight; I wondered if the thin mountain air, the summer dust, would have any effect on my lungs.

But I did not want to think about my lungs.

I drank more of the beer and looked around and still did not see anyone. Behind Harry's cabin was a shed with the doors spread open. I wandered over there and looked inside and saw the same things I had seen the last time I was up for a visit: another skiff up on davits, several rolls of heavy canvas for added protection of the boats during the winter months, an uncluttered workbench along one wall, shelves of paint and motor oil and other items neatly stored. Unlike me, Harry had always been a fastidious man.

I finished the beer and turned back toward the lake. A young guy wearing only a pair of gabardine slacks came out of the trees from the direction of the first of the guest cabins. He saw me, paused, and then walked over casually. He was tall and lean, with one of these bronzed beachboy physiques and a lot of shaggy flax-colored hair that covered his ears and curled up on the back of his neck. A thick, stylish mustache right-angled down on either side of his mouth, forming three sides of a frame for the kind of lips some women would call sensuous.

He smiled crookedly as he approached. “Well,” he said, “new blood in no man's land. You joining our happy little group?”

“For a day or two.”

“I wish I could say the same thing. You alone?”

“I'm alone.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, and stepped around me to the cooler, lifted the lid, and took out a beer. When he had it open he sipped a little, made a face, and gave me his crooked grin again. “This stuff is rat piss, you know? I like imported beer if I have to drink it at all.”

“Is that right?”

“Sure. I'm Todd Cody. Vegas.”

I told him my name and where I was from. He gave no indication of wanting to shake hands, and that and the beer comment made me decide I was not going to like him much. I said, “Do you know where Harry is?”

“Burroughs? Nope. I've been taking a nap; too damned hot to do anything else.”

“You been here long, have you?”

“Two weeks. With another two to go, unless I can get time off for good behavior.”

“How's that?”

“My old man,” Cody said. “He sends me to places like this periodically, when he thinks I've been getting out of hand. If I don't go, he stops sending checks. So I go. I suffer, but I go.”

So that was the way it was. I said, “It takes all kinds.”

“Sure,” he agreed. He thought I was talking about his old man.

In the hot stillness I heard the distant hum of an outboard, and I turned to look out over the lake. A fourth skiff was just pulling out from the southwest shore, heading across the lake at an angle away from the camp. There were two men in it, the one at the tiller wearing what looked like a jungle helmet; they both appeared good-sized and they were both wearing white T-shirts.

Cody said contemptuously, “Knox and Talesco.”

“Guests here too?”

“Yeah. You're in for a treat when you meet them.”

“Why is that?”

“A couple of machos straight out of Hemingway,” he said. “But wherever you see one, the other's not far away. Closet fags, if you want my opinion.”

I didn't. I said, “Who else is staying here right now?”

“Guy named Bascomb, an artist or something. Spends all his time painting and sketching. A real fun dude.”

“Anyone else?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Jerrold,” Cody said. The crooked smile again, with a leer in it this time. “You're also in for a treat when you meet little Angela-a genuine treat. The lady is a fox of the first order, you know what I mean?”

But that question turned out to be rhetorical, because a voice called sharply “Cody! You, Cody!” and turned both our heads toward the rear of Harry's cabin.

There were two men on the narrow, irregular path that came down out of the woods to the immediate right of the shed. One was several steps in front of the other, moving with purpose and what appeared to be anger. I didn't know him, but the second man was Harry Burroughs.

The grim-looking guy came up to where Cody and I were and stopped and planted his feet. He wore beige corduroy slacks and a thin cotton pullover and a fisherman's hat festooned with flies, patches, bits of felt, and buttons that said things like You Should Have Seen the One That Got Away; held easily in the crook of his right arm was a Winchester automatic shotgun. He was big and heavy-chested, with a tangle of unruly black hair and penetrating gray eyes that looked a little wild just now. White ridges of muscle made half-crescents at the corners of his clamped mouth; his face was glossy with beads and runnels of sweat.

He looked straight at Cody, and I was not even there. “All right,” he said thickly, “where's Angela?”

Cody seemed amused. “How would I know, Jerrold?”

“You haven't seen her, is that it?”