Билл Пронзини - In an Evil Time

“And I’m telling you, this is the wrong time to pressure her into a committed relationship.”

“I won’t pressure her. I wouldn’t do that. I’ll let her set the date when she’s ready. Until then, I’ll be there for her — however she wants me, anytime she wants me.”

Hollis waited until he was sure he could speak normally before he said, “Don’t say anything about marriage to her now. Give her time. She needs time, Pierce.”

“I want her to know how I feel, same as I wanted you to know.”

“Listen to me. I’m warning you, if you upset her, make her life difficult again—”

“I won’t. I told you that, and I meant it. Take care of yourself, Mr. Hollis, okay? You can’t take care of Angela anymore, but I can. And I will.”

After he was gone, Hollis trudged back to the patio. Weary, shuffling steps. You can’t take care of Angela anymore . Damn Pierce! Damn him because he was right.

Friday Afternoon

The second note came in Friday’s mail.

He didn’t see it until almost four o’clock. It had been one of his better days; no queasiness or discomfort when he woke up, mental faculties in sharper focus, some of his old energy. As long as he didn’t think about it too much, he could pretend that he was just another reasonably healthy, forty-six-year-old man. He left the house when Cassie did, surprised Gloria by showing up at the office at his usual time, surprised himself by putting in better than six hours of work on the site plan and conceptual designs for the Dry Creek Valley project. It was three o’clock before fatigue and a dull headache caught up with him. He considered pushing it another hour, decided that would be foolish, and left for home at three-thirty.

The envelope was the top one in the box. Same type, no return address. He was neither surprised nor upset when he saw it; he’d expected that there would be more. There was a sense of fatalism in him, of things going and already gone irreparably wrong. Buried under sublimating layers of hope and evasion most of the time, now up and crawling close to the surface again.

One thing to be grateful for, he told himself as he took the mail into the house: he’d gotten home before Cassie. She would not have opened a piece of mail addressed only to him — respect of privacy was part of their mutual respect for each other — but she’d have wondered and probably asked him about it, and then he’d have had to lie to her again.

In the kitchen he opened a bottle of Sierra Nevada, emptied half of it in two swallows. Then he tore the envelope open.

YOU WON’T GET AWAY WITH IT. YOU’LL SUFFER FOR WHAT YOU DID.

He sat at the dinette table. Drank more ale, made a face and set the bottle down; it tasted foul now, as if by some alchemy it had been changed into dog piss. He peered at the postmark on the envelope. Smeared, as sometimes happened when the post office machines were freshly inked. It might have been North Bay again, but he couldn’t be sure.

He forced himself to think clearly, logically. Would Eric have sent a message like this one? It didn’t read like a plea for help; it seemed to be both accusation and threat. No sane reason for Eric to threaten him... no sane reason. Or maybe it wasn’t meant to be a threat. There was another way to interpret it. If Eric was too guilt-ridden to admit the truth outright, he might conceivably switch pronouns, substitute “you” for “we.” We won’t get away with it. We’ll suffer for what we did . Accusing himself as well as his father; threatening himself, if anyone, because at some visceral level he sought punishment and expiation.

And maybe, Hollis thought, that’s what I want, too. Punishment and expiation for my sin.

But not like this. Not by Eric, and not by party or parties unknown.

Bad enough if Eric was responsible, but in that case at least he understood the reasons behind it — he could find some way to help him. Worse if it were someone else, because it was like fighting blind. Even Rakubian had been a known quantity; it had been clear what needed to be done in order to protect his family and himself. How do you stop, what safeguards do you take, against a phantom?

Friday Evening

The doorbell rang a few minutes past five.

Hollis was in the living room, hiding himself and his bleak thoughts behind the Examiner; Cassie, home just fifteen minutes, had gone upstairs to shower and change clothes. He put the paper aside as the bell sounded again. It rang twice more as he crossed to the hall, an urgent summons that quickened his steps. He pulled the door open without checking through the peephole.

Angela stood there.

He blinked at her; she had a key, she didn’t need to ring the bell. Then he saw her, really saw her. White-faced, eyes slick-bright, one hand on the doorjamb as if for support, the other clutching her purse against her chest. He felt an inner twisting, a spurt of fear.

“Daddy,” she said, almost moaning it.

She was alone, he realized. “Kenny? Is he—”

“He’s all right, I haven’t picked him up yet. I drove straight here. I couldn’t... I had to...”

He looped an arm around her shoulders, felt the quivering tension in her, and drew her inside. There was a creaking and thumping on the stairs as he shut the door: Cassie had heard them and was coming down. He maneuvered Angela into the living room, sat her down on the couch. Sat beside her with his arm still around her shoulders. Before he could say anything, Cassie came hurrying in.

“What’s going on? Honey, what—”

“He’s back,” she said.

“Back? Who’s back?”

“David. He’s alive and he’s back.”

Hollis heard Cassie’s breath suck in. He didn’t, couldn’t look at her. He knew then what had happened, what was coming, and with the knowledge the feeling of fatalism returned, stronger, darker, like a black hole opening in his mind.

“My God,” Cassie said, “you mean you saw him?” She sat heavily on Angela’s other side. “He showed up at school or your apartment—”

“No, but he knows where I’m living.”

“How could he know?”

“He knows , Mom. He’s after me again.”

“Did he call you, is that it?”

Angela shook her head, fumbled at the catches on her purse and rummaged inside. The taste of ashes was in Hollis’s mouth as he watched the crumpled sheet of paper materialize in her hand.

“This was in my mailbox when I got home.”

He snatched it from her, uncrumpled it. Same paper, same typeface. Two lines, identical to the ones on the note he’d received today. You won’t get away with it. You’ll suffer for what you did .

Cassie reached for the paper. He couldn’t prevent her from reading it; he let her take it without protest. She scanned the lines, kept staring at them as though trying to digest their meaning.

“I almost believed he was gone for good,” Angela said dully. The hunted look had returned to her eyes; her face was bloodless. She’d come so far, almost all the way back, and now this. “It seemed he must be after so much time. But he’s not, he’s somewhere close by, and he wants me to suffer...”

“No,” Hollis said.

“Hurt me, hurt Kenny...”

“No! Rakubian didn’t send that note.”

The words were out before he realized what he’d said. Angela and Cassie were both looking at him, their gazes like a pressure against his face; he still could not meet either one.

“Who else could it be?” From Cassie.

“I don’t know. Somebody’s sick idea of a joke...”

“It’s not a joke,” Angela said, “it’s David, you know it is.”

“It doesn’t sound like him,” he said lamely. “Two lines, no mention of your name, no signature... it’s too impersonal. Why would he send an anonymous note instead of calling, making the same demands as before?”