Bill Pronzini: Snowbound

Sitting there with Ellen’s head against his shoulder, he was very tired-a physical weariness, nothing more. When the hate and terror drained away, they had carried with them the inner tiredness and the last remnants of those earlier feelings of uselessness and incompetence and emptiness. And he would not let them come back, any of them. He was sixty-six years of age, that was true, but he had lived a long and rich and fruitful life, and he was still living it, and he had his health and all his faculties, and he had the capacity to love, and he had the reciprocal love of an unselfish woman who had shared his bed and his dreams and his rewards for more than forty years. He hadn’t realized it before, but that was so much more than some men had. So much more.

He smiled wanly across at Vince and Judy, gave them an encouraging nod, and they returned both in kind. Like him, they seemed to know that death and tragedy would not touch any of them again for some time to come.

And within the semidarkened church, sitting slumped and thinking about many things and about nothing at all, Cain did not hear the doors open or the soft steps come forward to the pew. But after a time he sensed that he was not alone and turned his head, and Rebecca was standing there watching him.

“Hello, Zachary,” she said. She was drawn and grave, but there was a kind of self-assurance, a kind of pride, in her eyes and in her carriage. “I thought you might still be here.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I was going to leave pretty soon, I want to find out how Tribucci is.”

“I just came from Dr. Edwards’ house. He’s operating now to remove the bullets. He wants Johnny in a hospital as soon as possible because of the threat of pneumonia; Greg Novak is taking one of the snowmobiles to Coldville at dawn, so there’ll be helicopters in some time tomorrow.”

“He’ll live,” Cain said positively. “He’ll live,”

“I know he will; we all do.”

“He’s a fine man. They don’t come any finer.”

Rebecca sat down beside him, turning her body so that she was facing him directly. “You look exhausted, Zachary.”

“I killed two men tonight,” he said. There was nothing, no expression, in his voice.

“And saved seventy-five other lives. That’s the only really important thing, isn’t it?”

“Yes-it has to be.”

“I don’t suppose any of us will ever really forget what happened today,” she said. “But I’ve got to believe that things do stop hurting after a while.”

“They do,” Cain told her. “After a while.”

“Will you… keep on living here in the valley?”

“No,” he said. “No.”

“Where will you go?”

“Back to San Francisco.”

“And then what?”

“See if I can get my old job back, or one like it. Start rebuilding my life.”

“I’m not so sure I can keep on living here either. Too much has happened, too many things have changed.” She paused. “What’s San Francisco like?”

“It can be a beautiful city-the most beautiful city in the world.”

“Would I like it if I came there?”

He looked at her for a long moment. “I think so,” he said finally. “I think you might.”

“I’ll be staying at the Tribucci house for a few days,” she said, “with Judy and Ann and the baby. Vince will go with Johnny. Now especially it’s a time none of us should be alone.”

He waited, not speaking.

“Will you come for dinner tomorrow?”

“Yes,” he said, “I’d like that.”

“Will you walk me there now?”

Cain nodded, and they stood together and strode slowly out of the church. It was still snowing lightly, but there was very little wind; the clouds overhead had begun dividing, and you could see patches of deep velvet sky through the fissures. The storm was nearly over.

In a few short hours it would be the day before Christmas.