Bill Pronzini - Snowbound

Sunday, today was Sunday. And on Sundays he and Don Collins would go out to Sharp Park or Harding and play eighteen holes of golf. On Sundays he would watch that intricate war game known as professional football on television. On Sundays he would take Angie and the kids to Golden Gate Park, where they would eat a picnic lunch at Stow Lake and then visit the De Young Museum or the Steinhart Aquarium or the Japanese Tea Garden or the Morrison Planetarium. On Sundays Shivering, Cain got a broom from the closet and swept out all the rooms; emptied an overflow of garbage into the can outside; made the bed and straightened the bedroom; washed the bathroom sink and shower stall and walls and floor. In the front room again he put more wood on the fire-and was acutely aware of how incredibly still it could get in there, how sterile and empty the surroundings actually were. He found himself wishing that he had a radio, that he could listen to some music or the news; realized he had not heard a newscast or read a paper in all the months he had been in Hidden Valley; realized he did not know, except for snatches of disinterestedly overheard conversation between valley residents, what was happening anywhere in the world.

I need to talk to someone, he thought, like I talked to Rebecca Hughes last night. I need-I need…

He made a sandwich and forced himself to eat it. He could not think of anything else to do after that, and spent five minutes smoking six cigarettes and coughing up as much smoke as he exhaled normally before he remembered that there wasn’t any more kindling. He got the hatchet then and came around here to the lean-to and began splitting logs.

There was, now, enough kindling lying in the snow at his feet to last him for weeks.

Cain buried the hatchet blade in the stump, wiped perspiration from his forehead with one gloved hand. Take all this inside, come back and carry in more halved logs to stack by the fireplace; keep busy, keep finding things to do. Stooping, he gathered up an armful of the kindling; straightened again, turned, took two steps-and came to a standstill.

Rebecca Hughes and two men he did not recognize were standing in the falling snow just outside the lean-to.

Cain opened his mouth to speak, closed it when he saw that the darker of the men, positioned well apart, was grinning oddly and holding a gun. The other one had his arms down at his sides, fingers curled in against the palms. As still and pale as a piece of marble statuary, Rebecca looked at Cain with eyes that were wide circles of fear. A feeling of unreality fled through him, as though the three of them had been conjured up from his subconscious-a kind of snow mirage.

“Drop that wood and get over here,” Kubion said.

Cain found words, pushed them out. “Who are you? What’s going on here?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. Now shut up and do what you’re told.”

“What do you want with me, with Mrs. Hughes?”

“Get the fuck over here, I said!”

Cain sensed, incredulously, that the man would not hesitate to shoot him if he failed to comply; the feeling of unreality modulated into one of surreality. He let the kindling fall out of his arms in automatic reaction, walked forward stiffly and came out from under the roof and stopped again. Kubion’s eyes followed him, and when Cain stared into them he saw unmistakable dementia shining there. His stomach contracted, and a brassy taste came into his mouth; he could not seem to think clearly.

“That’s better, that’s fine,” Kubion said. “Now we go for a ride.”

He gestured with the gun, and the second man-tight-mouthed, sane-looking-prodded Rebecca’s shoulder. She moved forward, paused in front of Cain, and there was bewilderment commingled with the fright in her expression; she seemed to have no more idea than he of the two men’s motive or intent. Her dread was palpable; he could feel it as he could feel the knife-edge of the wind blowing along the cabin’s side wall, and a rush of anger took away some of his own confusion-caring anger, an emotion (like the brassiness in his mouth) he had not experienced in a great long time.

He did not want her to be hurt; he did not want to be hurt himself.

I don’t want to die, he thought almost detachedly. It’s true, I really don’t want to die…

“Step out!” Kubion yelled at them. “Move!”

Rebecca edged close to Cain as they trudged forward through the snow. He said in a low voice, “Are you all right? They haven’t hurt you?”

“No. No. But God, I-”

“Shut the hell up,” from behind them. “I don’t want to have to tell anybody again, you understand?”

Cain clamped his teeth together; Rebecca stared straight ahead, walking like a life-size windup toy. They went around to the front and across the yard to where an old Ford pickup was parked nose downhill on Lassen Drive. Brodie half circled it and got into the cab on the driver’s side, and Kubion came forward then and said, “Both of you now, woman in the middle.”

When Cain had pulled the door open Rebecca climbed awkwardly onto the front seat, drawing up a full twelve inches away from Brodie. The door slapped against Cain’s hip as he wedged in after her, then latched under the pressure of Kubion’s hand. Kubion swung onto the running board, over into the bed, and his face appeared in the broken-out rear window. He said to Brodie, “Nice and slow, Vic, you know how to do it.”

“Yeah,” Brodie said, and reached out to switch on the ignition.

Like a child huddling impersonally for warmth and support, Rebecca leaned against Cain with hip and thigh and shoulder and one breast-soft, yielding flesh through the parka she wore and despite the trembling tension in her. It was the first time he had been in physical contact with, conscious of, a woman’s body since Angie, and defensively he felt his muscles stiffen.

But he did not withdraw from her as the truck glided forward and down through the empty afternoon.

Coopersmith was one of the first to move when the three gunmen left the church and the key turned in the outside lock. He hurried to where Webb Edwards was bending over the still-unconscious form of the Reverend Mr. Keyes and holding his limp left wrist between thumb and forefinger.

“How is he, Webb?”

“Pulse is holding steady,” Edwards answered shortly. “Get me a couple of coats, Lew. Only thing we can do is keep him warm.”

At the front wall, Coopersmith dragged two heavy winter coats off the canted wooden pegs. Others were milling about now, as if in a kind of posthypnotic confusion. You could smell the sour odor of fear, Coopersmith thought; and you could feel the ripplings of panic like a dark undercurrent beneath the surface of sound and movement. Voices shrill and questioning assailed his ears as he took the coats to Edwards.

Judy Tribucci: “How can a thing like this happen, how can it happen to us… ”

Minnie Beckman: “A spawn of the devil, did you see his eyes, those terrible eyes…”

Harry Chilton: “Why are they doing it? Why, for God’s sake, why, why…”

Verne Mullins: “Who are they, they’re not businessmen, where did the third one come from…”

Maude Fredericks: “Matt can’t be dead, he can’t be…”

June Novak: “Oh my Lord please don’t let Greg be harmed, please…”

Sharon Nedlick: “Dave, Mother’s heart won’t stand any kind of shock, if they break into the house and try to bring her here even after what we told them…”

Agnes Tyler: “Peggy has to be all right, they haven’t hurt her, they haven’t hurt her… ”

Edwards’ nurse, Sally Chilton, had joined him at the minister’s side. She took one of the coats from Coopersmith, folded it, and carefully pillowed Keyes’ head; Edwards covered him with the second and then began unwrapping the blood-soaked handkerchief from his torn right hand, telling Sally to find a clean scarf or something to use as another makeshift bandage.