Bill Pronzini: Vixen

Runyon started in Half Moon Bay, moved from there to the mid-Peninsula area, then down to San Jose and the rest of the South Bay. No luck.

Stockton, Antioch, Rio Vista, Martinez, Suisun City, Vallejo. No luck.

The North Bay next, beginning with Sausalito, even though it was just across the Golden Gate Bridge, because of the town’s large number of boating facilities. Another blank there.

And one more in San Rafael.

On up to Port Sonoma. And that was where, on the morning of the fifth day, he finally got his fix on the subject’s whereabouts.

The Port Sonoma marina was located in a wetlands area along the Petaluma River near where it emptied into San Pablo Bay. Good-sized place with a ferry landing, a fuel dock and pump-out station, bait shop on one of the floats, and several rows of boat slips. The craft berthed in the slips were all sailboats and small inboards — no big yachts.

The day, a Saturday, was warmish for late November, and the marina was doing a moderately brisk business — individuals and groups getting their craft ready to join those that already dotted the bay and the winding upland course of the river. Runyon went first to the bait shop, but nobody there recognized the photo of Kenneth Beckett. Same at the fuel dock. He walked down through an open gate to the slips. The first half-dozen people he buttonholed had nothing to tell him; the seventh, a lean, sun-bleached man in his mid-fifties working on the deck of a Sea Ray Sundancer, was the one who did.

The boat owner took a long look at the photo before he said, “Yeah, I’ve seen this kid. How come you’re looking for him? He do something he shouldn’t have?”

“Yes, and he’ll be in more trouble if I don’t locate him soon. When did you see him?”

“Last weekend. No, Friday, actually — week ago yesterday.”

“Here?”

“Right. Looking for work, he said. Seemed to know boats pretty well. But nobody’s hiring, so I told him to check up at Belardi’s.”

“Where’s that?”

“Upriver six or seven miles.”

“What kind of place?”

“Wide spot on the river — sandwich and bait shop, a few slips, some old fishing shacks. I heard the owner, old man Belardi, was looking for a handyman to fix up the rundown pier they got there.”

“How do I get to Belardi’s by car?”

“Easily. Go east on the highway, turn left at the first stoplight — Lakeville Highway. Six or seven miles, like I said. Can’t miss their sign.”

Belardi’s turned out to be one of those little enclaves that look as though they’ve been bypassed by time and progress. The restaurant and bait shop, the pier and sagging boathouse, the handful of slips, the scattering of small houses and even smaller fishing shacks nearby all had a weathered, colorless look, like buildings in a black-and-white fifties movie. The Petaluma River — a saltwater estuary, Runyon had heard somewhere, that had been granted river status so federal funds could be used to keep it dredged for boat traffic — was a couple of hundred yards wide at this point, its far shore a long, wide stretch of tule marsh threaded with narrow waterways. More tule grass choked the muddy shoreline on this side.

Several cars were parked in the gravel lot in front, none of them a dark blue Dodge van. Runyon crossed past the restaurant to a set of rickety stairs that led down to another gravel area, this one used as a combination boat repair and storage yard. From the stairs he could see that some recent work had been done on the short, shaky-looking pier that extended out to the slips. Two men were on board an old sportfisherman, one of five boats moored there; another man was just climbing up onto the pier from the float between the slips. None was Kenneth Beckett.

Runyon braced the man on the pier first, got a couple of negative grunts for the effort. The two on the sportfisherman didn’t recognize the subject’s photo, either, but one of them said, “Talk to old man Belardi inside. Maybe he can help you.”

Old man Belardi was an overweight seventy or so, cheerful until Runyon showed him the snapshot; then his round face turned mournful. “Don’t tell me you’re a cop.”

Runyon said, “Private investigator,” and proved it with the photostat of his license.

“Well, crap,” Belardi said lugubriously. “I get somebody I can rely on, hard worker, don’t give me no trouble, and now you’re gonna tell me he’s a thief or molester or some damn thing.”

“You did hire him, then?”

“Yeah, I hired him. Minimum wage and a place to stay. Seemed like a good kid, hard worker like I said—”

“A place to stay. Where?”

“Here. One of the river shacks.”

“Which one?”

“Last to the north.”

“He there now, would you know?”

“If his van’s there, he’s there. I don’t pay him to work weekends. Plenty of business, good weather like this, and the customers don’t want to put up with noisy repair work.”

Runyon nodded his thanks and started away.

“Hold on a minute,” Belardi said. “What you gonna do? Haul the kid off to jail or something? Leave me with nobody to finish his work?”

“He’ll be going back to the city, one way or another.”

“I’m too old to make those repairs myself and a regular handyman costs too much. I don’t suppose you could hold off a few days, let him get the hard part of it done?”

“No. Not possible.”

Belardi sighed. “No damn luck, me or the kid.”

A paved driveway led downhill to the boatyard, and a rutted, weed-choked track from there along the river to where the shacks squatted on the marshy ground. They were small, board-and-batten structures of one large or maybe two small rooms that must have been there for half a century or more; a short, stubby dock leaned out into the muddy water in front of each. There was no sign of life at the first two. The third also appeared deserted until Runyon rolled up in front; then he could see the van pulled in close to its far side wall — Dodge Ram, dark blue, with a dented rear panel.

The sister’s instructions were to notify her as soon as Kenneth Beckett was found, without contact with the subject, but Runyon was too thorough a professional to act prematurely. He’d make sure Beckett was here and would stay put before reporting in.

He pulled up at an angle so the nose of his Ford blocked the van, got out into a stiff breeze that carried the briny scent of the river and marshland. A long motionless row of blackbirds sat on a power line stretched across the hundred yards of open land between Lakeville Highway and the river, like a still from the Hitchcock movie. Somewhere upriver, an approaching powerboat laid a faint whine on the silence.

Runyon followed a tramped-down path through the grass to the shack’s door. A series of knocks brought no response. He tried the knob, found it unlocked. Pushed on it until it opened far enough, creaking a little, to give him a clear look inside.

Half of the riverfront wall was a curtainless sliding-glass door; it let in enough light so that he could make out a table, two chairs, a standing cabinet, a countertop with a hotplate on it, and a cot pushed in against the side wall. Kenneth Beckett lay prone on the cot, unmoving under a blanket, one cheek turned toward the door and draped with lank black hair half again as long as it had been when the snapshot was taken. The one visible eye was shut. No sound came out of him.

From the doorway Runyon couldn’t tell if he was asleep or unconscious. Or even if he was breathing.

He went inside. The interior was full of odors — dampness, mustiness, stale food, soiled clothing. None too tidy, either: empty cans of pork and beans and beef stew, empty milk cartons, unwashed glasses, plates, utensils in the sink and on the drainboard. Beckett, on his own without supervision, seemed to care little about cleaning up after himself.