Билл Пронзини - In an Evil Time

“Gabe Mannix.”

“Gabe?” he said incredulously. “That’s ridiculous.”

“He’s in love with Angela, you know that.”

“So he’s in love with her. From a distance. My God, we’ve known the man more than twenty years. He’s my best friend. You can’t honestly believe he’s capable of all this lunacy?”

“Of course not. Any more than I believe it’s Ryan. That’s my point.”

“I still think Pierce is the one.”

A little silence. Then Cassie said, “You’re forgetting something. Angela had a date with him the Saturday Rakubian was murdered. She left the house the same time Eric did, remember?”

“She wasn’t with him all afternoon, was she? He could’ve driven to the city after he left her.”

“There wasn’t time.”

“There was time. It was two-thirty or so when you called me, and after four by the time I got to St. Francis Wood. If Pierce left town right after he left her, he had nearly two hours to get down there, kill Rakubian, and disappear before I showed up.”

“I suppose so,” she admitted. “But that’s cutting it pretty close.”

“Not if he went there planning to kill him.”

“So what do you want to do? Confront him, accuse him?”

He hesitated. “It seemed like the best way to handle it.”

“But now you’re not so sure.”

“No.” Because she had put doubts in him, not only about Pierce’s guilt but about himself, his judgment. “What do you suggest I... we do?”

“Talk to Angela before making any decisions,” Cassie said. “Right now that’s the most important thing.”

The aura of violation was strong in the house. They took plastic trash containers, brooms, dustpans, a mop, spray cleaner, and a handful of rags into the living room, and made an attempt to clean up the wreckage. It gave Hollis a sick feeling of déjà vu; he kept having memory blips of Rakubian’s library, the blood and gore he’d swabbed off the floor. Futile, wasted effort here. The living room would have to be gutted completely, repainted and recarpeted and refurnished, and even then, as Cassie had said, it would never be or feel the same — the house itself might never be the same comfort zone as before. They managed to wipe most of SUFFER! off the one wall, righted some of the chairs and tables, swept up the worst of the breakage. As they worked they talked in fits and starts, the strain still there between them. That, too, was wasted effort.

When they gave it up, finally, Cassie insisted he go upstairs and lie down. He didn’t argue; he needed to be alone as well as to rest. He lay in the semidark of their bedroom, his eyes shut, his thoughts jumping here and there until they settled on Cassie’s accusations. No, not accusations, not indictments — facts, insights. What he’d been slammed in the face with were harsh truths, and he’d never been one to run from the truth.

Anger and. fear at the betrayal of his body. Yes, he had both those feelings. The need to lash out at something or somebody. Oh yes, he had that, too — it had fueled his plot to kill Rakubian. Might be fueling his dislike of Pierce, his desire for Pierce to be guilty. Rage was a powerful motivating force. And a notorious clouder of reason, just as Cassie had said.

And then there was Pop. Tough-as-nails Bud Hollis, the last man he’d ever wanted to be, the man he’d fought so hard not to be... the man he’d turned into in spite of himself. It explained a lot of things. Why he and Eric had never been as close as they should have been, Eric’s teenage rebellion. At crucial moments he’d treated his son the way Pop had treated him, with an iron fist instead of a gentle hand, blunt censure instead of sensitivity and love, a closed mind instead of an open one; and Eric had gradually drawn away from him, as he’d drawn away from the old man. Angela’s dependence... his fault, too. Daddy’s little girl, run to Daddy every time there was a problem and he’d make it all right. Same thing with the other men in her life, weak men like the younger Pierce, dominant men like Rakubian. One or the other, the weak or the controlling, or both together like her father. And Cassie... shutting her out, pushing her away, when he should have utilized her strength and trusted her intelligence and her wisdom. I’m just as angry as you are, just as tough and capable, and more clearheaded in a crisis . If he’d confided in her from the beginning, some or all of this crisis could have been avoided.

His fault, his weakness, his mistakes. His failures. Admit it, Hollis. You’re not much better than Bud Hollis, as a father, a spouse, or a human being.

The thoughts had become too painful; he made an effort to shut them off, succeeded, and then slept fitfully. When he awoke Cassie was in the room, standing near the bed. She saw that his eyes were open, came over to sit beside him.

“I just spoke to Angela,” she said. “We’re seeing her at five. Ryan won’t be there — he’s taking Kenny to a movie.”

“Okay.

“I called Eric, too. I thought it was a good idea.”

“What’d he say?”

“He’s worried, of course. Mostly about you.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That we’re dealing with the situation. Both of us. He wants us to call him if there’s anything he can do.”

“He’s a good kid. No, hell, a good man. Better man than I am, as young as he is.”

“That’s not true and you know it.” She stroked his forehead, pushing damp strands of hair out of his eyes. “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “I’m sorry I said all those ugly things to you. It wasn’t fair — it was cruel and selfish.”

“You were right,” he said.

“Yes, but it was the wrong time, the wrong words. I was too upset. I should’ve waited.”

“Better it’s out in the open.” His mouth quirked. The whole truth and nothing but the truth, he thought.

“Still,” she said. Then, “I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for you, finding Rakubian, all the rest of that day.”

“I don’t remember most of it,” he lied.

“It took more courage than I’ll ever have.”

He didn’t answer. What was there to say? She was only trying to make him feel better, make amends where none were needed.

She kissed him. “I don’t want you to think I’ve stopped loving you.”

“I don’t. Not for a minute.”

And he hadn’t, even when she was berating him in the kitchen. It was the one thing he’d never doubted, the one constant he had to cling to.

Sunday Evening

Telling Angela was not quite the ordeal he’d feared. She took it well enough, crying a little with relief and a measure of sorrow. She was nothing if not compassionate, his daughter; she’d cried once as a child, he remembered, over a dead mouse she’d found partially mummified in the garage. Even after all that Rakubian had done to her, there was a small part of her that was able to grieve for the man she’d once loved or tried to love.

If she blamed Hollis for covering up or withholding the truth, she didn’t express it. She seemed to understand why he’d done it, to sympathize with what he’d been through. Would she have felt the same if he’d followed through with his original plan, if it were his hands stained with Rakubian’s blood? Probably not. It would’ve been a betrayal of her trust, and what he’d be facing now was disillusionment, censure, even horror. All death diminished her; she’d told him that once. Anyone who committed murder, no matter what the motivation, was automatically diminished in her eyes.

They told her about the vandalism, too, minimizing the extent of the damage, but he said nothing of his suspicions of Pierce. They let her believe, for now, that they had no inkling of who the new stalker was, what his motives might be, or even if he was the same person who had killed Rakubian. If Pierce was responsible, they’d know it soon enough — and with any luck they’d be able to spare her the truth of that until after he was long gone.