Bill Pronzini: Spook

“It won’t do you any good.”

“Goddamn it, I’m not going to screw around with you people anymore, I want a name!” Growing agitated, fingertip beginning to slide back and forth along the weapon’s trigger, veins bulging in his forehead, cords bulging in his neck, eyes like holes in the wall of a furnace. “Give me a name, now!”

“Ray Chandler,” I said.

“Chandler, all right, Chandler, call him up, get him over here.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I won’t tell you again, call him up!”

“He won’t be there. Nobody’s at Human Services now.”

“What kind of crap is that?”

“It’s after three. Their offices are closed.”

“I warned you, no more bullshit!”

“It’s Christmas week. All city offices close early this week.”

Fiery stare, his teeth clenched so tight I could see white ridges of muscle on both sides of his jaw. If he called the bluff, demanded one of us make the call, I’d be the one to do it; he didn’t know the number over there, and there were a couple of other offices I could call that would likely be empty this time of day. But if he checked first to make sure it was the right number...

He didn’t call the bluff. He said, “Lousy government bastards, take everything away from other people, average joes, people just trying to get along, keep all the perks for themselves. Christ, I wish I could fix them all, line ’em up and shoot ’em down one by one.”

Thought processes muddied by his hate; reacting with some clarity of focus but not anticipating, not thinking things through logically. And not quite ready yet to begin his killing spree. Thin thread of something — humanity, conscience, sanity — holding him back for the moment. But only for the moment. That thread would snap before long. A word, an action, something would break it, or it would just disintegrate from the strain.

Keep him talking. Talk had bought time already or Tamara and Runyon wouldn’t still be alive. There was still a chance he’d make a mistake, as keyed up as he was, or that one of us could figure a way to neutralize the threat. So far I couldn’t see any gamble worth taking. If Runyon had, it didn’t show on his face.

I said, “What did they do to you, Thomas, that you hate them so much?”

“Don’t call me Thomas, I don’t like it.”

“Tom, then. That okay?”

“No, it’s not okay. You want to call me something, you call me Mr. Valjean.”

“What did the government do to you, Mr. Valjean?”

“Ruined my life, that’s what they did.”

“How did they do that?”

“Took everything away from me for back taxes. Lousy economy, bitch wife of mine always throwing money away, bastards wouldn’t let me have another extension, kept tacking on penalties, then they slapped a lien on the house, on my business, forced me into bankruptcy. What they didn’t get Marjorie got when she walked out on me. But I took care of her, all right, I fixed her wagon.”

“How’d you do that?”

“Figure it out, smart guy. What you think I did when I went over to her apartment this morning, before I came here? Huh? You tell me.”

Runyon said, “So now you’ve killed three people. Same as Anthony Colton.”

“So what? You think I’m no better than he was?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Wasn’t justified, what he did. My three are. Three of you will be too. And all the rest after you, three more or thirty more.”

Get him off that. He was agitated again, increasing tension on the thread. I threw a non sequitur at him: “How’d you find out about Colton?”

“What?”

“Colton. Spook. How’d you find out he was alive, living on the streets?”

“Why do you care how?”

“I’d like to know myself,” Runyon said. “You bump into him one day, recognize him?”

“Smart bastards didn’t figure out that part? Not so smart after all.” Valjean’s finger had quit moving, eased off pressure on the machine pistol’s trigger. Thread still holding. “All right, you want to know, I’ll tell you, then you can all die happy. No, I never bumped into him, I thought he was dead a long time ago. It was that blackmailing son of a bitch, he’s the one found out.”

“Big Dog?”

“Yeah, Big Dog. Found some crap belonged to Colton, newspaper stories about what he did to Luke and Dot.”

“Spook’s stash.”

“Colton talked to them like they were still alive, Big Dog heard the names, same names in the newspaper stories. Even a stupid bastard like him could put two and two together.”

My desk chair gave a sudden low squeak. Runyon shifting position, lifting his hands to drywash his slick face. It didn’t mean anything to Valjean, but it struck me as an uncharacteristic gesture. I positioned my head so I could look at Valjean and watch Runyon at the same time.

I said, “How’d he know to contact you?”

Valjean didn’t seem to hear that. He muttered, “Talked to them, for Christ’s sake. Blew them away that day, walked in there and emptied that Colt into them. My brother... wasn’t anything left of his face, one of the slugs took his head half off. Killed them and got away with it, seventeen years, and he was still talking to them like they were alive!”

When Runyon lowered his hands again, he let the left one drop to his lap and the right one rest on the edge of Tamara’s desk. The only things within his reach were her computer screen and keyboard, the keyboard on the sliding panel just below desktop level. His gaze slid my way long enough to tell that I was watching, then eased the other way to catch Tamara’s. She was looking, too.

I repeated my question to Valjean. “How did Big Dog know to contact you? Something else in Spook’s stash?”

“Not me, smart guy. He didn’t come to me, not the first time.”

“Robert Lightfoot?”

“Yeah, Bob. He used to sell cars, had business cards and Colton kept one, who the hell knows why. Big Dog tracked Bob down, said he knew where Colton was, wanted five hundred bucks to say where. Bob called me. We didn’t pay him, not right away. He spilled just enough to Bob, we figured we could find Colton ourselves.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No. We decided it’d be quicker to just pay the five hundred, so I met the bastard and gave him his blood money. Stupid. Should’ve punched his ticket for him then and there.”

Runyon’s hand was moving on the desktop, so slowly you wouldn’t notice unless you were paying close attention. When it crawled down a few inches onto the sliding panel, I realized what he was after: the mouse attached to the keyboard. His fingers came to rest next to it, near enough for him to lift his index finger and tap it once. He was looking at Tamara as he did it. I thought I saw her give a slight nod in return.

“You do it alone, shoot Colton?” I said. I moved a cautious half pace to my left as I spoke. Valjean didn’t seem to notice that, either.

“Yeah, alone. Bob wanted to be there to see it but he couldn’t, he’s in a wheelchair, so I did the job myself. Finally gave Colton what he had coming for what he did to Bob and me, Luke and Dottie and my folks, all of us, finally some justice after seventeen years. Payback, by God, eye for an eye. Colton and Big Dog and Marjorie and you three and anybody else gets in my way.”

Abruptly he began to pace. Crosswise behind my desk to within a couple of paces of the far side wall, turn, back across to the near side wall, turn. Head tilted sideways, eyes flicking watchfully over the three of us as he moved, his lips forming words that now only he could hear. Working himself up to it, the thread getting closer to the snapping point. I had the clear, chill feeling that when he decided to stop pacing, he would start shooting.