Билл Пронзини - In an Evil Time

“I’m well aware of that.”

“The cottage, then. Two o’clock. It’s what she wants, can’t you bend a little for once to get what you want?”

Faint smile. Smug, condescending. Hollis could almost read his mind: I always get what I want .

“Very well,” the son of a bitch said. “Two o’clock at Tomales Bay. How do I get to this cottage of yours?”

In the car, on his way across the city to the Golden Gate Bridge, Hollis used his cell phone to call North Bay Transit in Santa Rosa. The woman who answered said yes, there was regular bus service on Sundays, San Francisco to Los Alegres. Leaving from the Transbay Terminal, Mission and First Streets, every half hour from noon until 7 P.M.

Okay. One more arrangement to make, and he’d have the problem of what to do about Rakubian’s car solved.

He took care of that arrangement as soon as he reached Mannix & Hollis. Gabe was out at a meeting, which made it easy to brace Gloria. Easy to weave another little web of lies around someone he cared about.

“I hate to ask this,” he said, “but are you free for a couple of hours Sunday morning?”

“What’s up on Sunday?”

“I need a ride to Tomales Bay. Our cottage out there. The foundation’s shaky, needs shoring up, and I’m scheduled to meet a local contractor at noon. And now my car’s acting up.”

“If it rains, it pours,” Gloria said sympathetically.

“He’s got something going on in the morning, the contractor, I mean, so he can’t come in and pick me up. Cassie and Angela are both tied up, too. I suppose I could cancel out...”

“Hey, no problem. I’ll be glad to do it. We’re always home from church by ten-thirty and no plans after that. How long do you think it’ll take?”

“No need for you to wait. Just drop me off. Contractor’ll drive me home when we’re done.”

“You sure? I don’t mind waiting...”

“Running me out there is enough of an imposition.”

“Imposition, my fat ass. Pick you up at your house at eleven?”

Better if it was someplace other than the house, but he couldn’t think of a place or an excuse. “Eleven’s fine. Thanks, Gloria.”

“De nada. What are friends for?”

Late Friday Afternoon

When he got home Cassie was already there, sitting in the living room with Fritz alert at her feet, one of their big spiral-bound photo albums open on her lap. Angela and Kenny were upstairs. The reason she was home early, Cassie told him, was that she’d agreed to work until two at the clinic tomorrow so one of the other vets could visit an ailing relative. He took the opportunity to mention that he’d be working tomorrow afternoon himself, some last-minute design changes at their Larkfield site. Her only comment was that it was too bad they wouldn’t be able to spend the entire day with the kids.

He gestured at the photo album. “How come?”

“No particular reason. Feeling nostalgic, I guess.”

“Which one is it?”

“Come sit and look. Yosemite,” he said, sitting beside her.

“And Mono Lake and Virginia City. One of our best trips.”

“I remember. Must’ve been... what, nearly twenty years ago?”

“Eighteen. Angela was seven, Eric four.”

“Time,” he said, and shook his head.

They flipped pages, pointing out individual snapshots that triggered memories: El Capitan, the Ahwanee Hotel, Tuolumne Meadows, the tufa towers at Mono, the Bucket of Blood saloon in the old mining town. By the time she closed the album Hollis felt almost calm. A rush of tenderness filled him; he tilted her chin toward him and kissed her, deeply.

“Hey,” she said, smiling, “what was that for?”

“Twenty-six years of putting up with me.”

“And counting.”

“Yes, and counting. I love you, Cass.”

“I love you, too.”

“Why? I mean, what did you ever see in me?”

“You can’t imagine the number of times I’ve asked myself that question.”

“Seriously.”

“Well, for one thing you’re terrific in the sack.”

“Seriously, Cass.”

“All right. You’re gentle, sensitive, caring. A good man in all the ways that count. You’re also pigheaded, moody, and inclined to jump to conclusions, but hey, nobody’s perfect.”

“You come pretty close.”

“Uh-huh. My list of faults is longer than yours and you know it.”

“I can’t imagine my life without you. Without the kids.”

“Devoted family man. That’s another of your good points.”

“I mean it,” he said.

“I know you do. Don’t you think I feel the same way?”

“Yes. I just wanted to say it.”

“We’re a team, buddy,” she said. “And we’re going to keep on being a team for a lot more years.”

“A lot more,” he agreed, and wondered if she believed it any more than he did.

Friday Night

Eric called from Colma, south of San Francisco, a little before six-thirty. He’d made better time through the San Jose commuter bottleneck than expected and he thought he’d be home before eight. They agreed to wait dinner. Cassie and Angela were both in upbeat moods — because Eric was coming and Rakubian had left them alone for the day, and on Angela’s part because her friend’s Utah relatives had agreed to act as short-term landlords and because she’d met with Pierce today and the meeting had gone well. At least Pierce was being understanding and supportive, a positive force in her life for a change.

Eric arrived at ten of eight. On close inspection Hollis liked what he saw. His son was lean and fit and sun-browned: tennis, jogging, hiking. He seemed more self-confident, too, with a ripening sense of humor — both signs of maturity. He hadn’t completely lost the sudden broody lapses into silence, or the vaguely defensive, combative attitude when he was alone with Hollis, but these traits were less pronounced every time he came home. If the father-son closeness still wasn’t what it should be, the distance between them had narrowed so that they were within touching distance. Being out on his own had been good for Eric. At eighteen he’d been a difficult boy; at twenty-one he was developing into a man to be proud of.

Dinner. All of them trying a little too hard to be cheerful, Eric teasing Kenny and making him the giggling, chattering center of attention. But the strain was there, a faint but tangible presence at the table even though they avoided mentioning Rakubian or Angela’s moving away. Still, it was good to see his kids laughing again, even if some of the laughter was forced. A foretaste of the way things would be once the David Rakubian threat had been neutralized.

Hang on to that thought, Hollis. Hold it close tomorrow and there won’t be any buck fever this time, you won’t have any trouble doing what needs to be done.

But he slept little that night. And when he did drop off, his dreams were horrorscapes sprinkled with blood.

Saturday Afternoon

The Tomales Bay cottage had been part of his inheritance after Pop’s death. It was also where the old man died, of a sudden heart attack at the end of a day of fishing near Hog Island — keeled over on the dock float after tying up his dinghy, fifty-eight years old and nobody around to see it happen but the sea gulls. The cottage had been his getaway spot, his pride and joy, built with his own hands in the fifties on the wooded stretch of land south of Nick’s Cove. Hollis’s memories of the place when the old man was alive were mixed. He’d never much cared for fishing or boating, hadn’t enjoyed being dragged along for long weekends alone out here with Pop. On the other hand, there had been some good times; he remembered huge plates of both raw and barbecued oysters, long walks on the headlands and along the shore, curling up with a book in front of a blazing fire, the three-room box smoky and warm, on nights when fog blanketed the water and pressed in close against the windows.