Bill Pronzini - Snowbound

Two unwanted and unexpected visitors yesterday. First that old man, the retired county sheriff named Coopersmith: pleasant, apologetic, asking politely if he knew anything about a door having been jimmied open at the Valley Cafe. It hadn’t been the indirect implication that he was a malicious vandal which had caused him to snap angrily at Coopersmith; it had been the visit itself, the intrusion on his aloneness. The same was true of Rebecca Hughes’ appearance last night. Perhaps she had come simply because she was lonely and wanted some innocent companionship, but that had not mattered at the time. He had only wanted to be rid of her; he didn’t want conversation, and he particularly didn’t want conversation centered on the subject of loneliness; so he had made the obvious insinuations, he had treated her, cruelly, like a tramp.

But this morning when he’d reexamined the incident not long after being awakened by the still-unidentified earth-quakelike concussion, he had felt a sense of shame. He’d hurt her, her tears had been genuine when she’d run out, and the last thing he truly cared to do, after what he had done to his own family, was to inflict pain on anyone. Alone and fully sober, he’d thought that he could have got her to leave some other way and was sorry he hadn’t. Briefly he’d considered going down to the Hughes’ house and apologizing to her, but the embarrassed intimacy of a personal apology was something he simply couldn’t face. And if yesterday were any indication, it would become necessary to leave Hidden Valley. There were plenty of similar places in the Sierra; it made no difference at all in which of them he lived just as long as he was left alone.

Cain returned to the cabin in late afternoon-and discovered ten minutes after his arrival, when he went into the kitchen for a fresh package of cigarettes, that the carton there was empty. His mouth twisted ironically; all the walking today, empty walking, and now, because tobacco had become a necessity rather than a habitual indulgence, he would have to walk yet another half mile or so round trip to the Sport Shop.

There was no need for snowshoes on Lassen Drive; he donned only his coat and a muffler before leaving the cabin again. The sun was well hidden now behind the mountain slopes to the west, but the sky in that direction held a faint lavender alpenglow. The temperature had dropped considerably, as it did every day around this time. There was still no wind.

When Cain reached the Hughes’ house and drew parallel with the entrance drive-eyes cast down on the icing snow beneath his feet-an awareness touched him and he paused, raising his head, looking into the front yard. Rebecca Hughes had just come out of the house and was moving toward the road.

She saw him at almost the same instant, stopped, and visibly stiffened. One hand came partway up in front of her breasts in a gesture that might have meant anything or nothing. They stood fifty feet apart, motionless, for a long awkward moment. The sense of shame nudged Cain’s mind again, and he thought once more of apologizing to her; happenstance had created the situation for it. But he could think of nothing to say; he still did not want a connection of any kind.

She was the first to move. Her hand dropped, and then she turned sharply and went back to the house with quick, jerky steps. At the Dutch-doored front entrance, she fumbled a key out of her purse, got it into the lock, and disappeared inside. The door made a dull slamming sound.

Cain was immediately thankful that there had been no dialogue between them; and yet at the same time he was contrite for not having spoken. More ambivalence-damned ambivalence! With an effort he forced Rebecca Hughes from his mind and continued down Lassen Drive.

He had gone five hundred yards farther, nearing the job in the road which would bring him into the village proper, when he heard the sound of a car approaching. He did not glance up. The sound grew louder, and the car came around the job and pulled abreast of him. It braked to a halt, and the driver’s door opened, and Frank McNeil stood up, peering over the roof. His mouth was drawn so thin that it appeared lipless.

“You-Cain!” he shouted.

Cain kept on walking.

“Listen, goddamn it, I’m talking to you!”

He felt the muscles bunch on his neck and across his shoulders, and irritation came thickly into his throat. Finally he stopped and turned and looked at the car, recognizing McNeil vaguely, recalling the man’s name. He said, “What do you want?”

“Where you been all day? I been up here three times now.”

“What business is it of yours?”

“You think I don’t know who’s been doing it?” McNeil said in a voice that quivered with outrage. “Two nights in a row now, and you think I don’t know it has to be you? Well I know, Cain, and I want you to know I know. I want you to sweat, because as soon as the pass is open, the county deputies will be here to arrest you. I’ve already called them, and the hell with Lew Coopersmith. You hear me, Cain? You hear me?”

Cain stared at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know, damn you, and you’re going to pay.”

The irritation boiled over into anger. Cain took several steps toward the car. McNeil slid back inside, and the door banged shut, and the rear wheels sprayed freezing slush in a long grayish fan as it skidded forward. Well up the road, it swung into the Hughes’ driveway, backed and filled, and came down toward Cain at an increased speed. He moved deep onto the shoulder as it passed, but the wheels churned up more slush and flung it at him in an icy spume, spattering his jacket and trousers.

Cain stood trembling, watching the retreating car. Nothing McNeil had said made immediate sense to him; it seemed like gibberish. Then he remembered Coopersmith’s visit the day before: somebody breaking into the Valley Cafe. Two times, McNeil had said. It must have happened again last night, and for some reason McNeil thought he was the one who’d done it. For Christ’s sake, why would he do anything like that? Why single him out for the blame? He’d done nothing to give these people the idea he was that kind of man; he’d never bothered them at all.

And now there would be police, and there would be questions-further intrusion on his privacy-and while they would realize his innocence sooner or later, it might take days before they were convinced. The bastards, the bastards, why couldn’t they let him be?

Why couldn’t he be left alone?

Late Thursday morning Lew Coopersmith sat in front of the quartz-and-granite fireplace in his living room, drinking hot, fresh coffee with John Tribucci.

An hour and a half earlier he had gone to the Mercantile on an errand for Ellen, and Tribucci and Matt Hughes had been discussing slide developments. The latest report from County Maintenance was that a second dozer had been brought in-there was also a rotary snowthrower on hand — and the crews were beginning to make some progress. But at a conservative estimate it would still be the day after Christmas before they had the pass road cleared, weather permitting. Coopersmith and Tribucci had eventually left the store together and then walked up to the slide. You could hear the sound of the machines from there, although the work itself was invisible from within the valley.

After a short time they came back down again, and Coopersmith invited the younger man to the house for coffee since Frank McNeil had decided to keep the Valley Cafe closed as long as they were snowbound and Walt Halliday did not open the bar in the inn until 4 P.M. Tribucci had readily consented, saying smilingly that as much as he adored his sister-in-law, her coffee was on the same qualitative level as that of an Army mess cook’s.