Jeffery Deaver - Bloody River Blues

"Can I get you anything?" Weiser asked.

He shook his head, gasping.

He didn't want her to see him this way. The beautiful, breezy doctor with the spaghetti-strap bikini and the twenty-foot sailboat. The doctor with the boyfriend and her twelve-year-old daughter. But he was out of control, gasping for breath and crying like a swatted newborn.

She asked if he wanted to be by himself and he shook his head and threw his arm over his face. After a few minutes he began laughing softly. "I'm a nut case," he wheezed.

"You don't have any idea the kind of stress you're going through."

Buffett felt no Terror and no Depression but instead a roaring mania. "I don't know why I'm crying, I don't know why," he whispered as the sobbing began again. "I don't know why…"

Weiser did not offer any explanation. She sat for a moment, watching him, then stood, opened the window, and lit another cigarette.

Afternoon in Maddox, Missouri.

Pellam had spent hours wandering around again, playing bait. He walked through antique stores, up and down the streets, had a beer at each of three interchangeable taverns, walked some more, looking from behind his Ray-Bans for the man who was looking for him.

As he walked, he stayed apart from the crowd, he wandered slowly, he put his back toward several alleys and many cruising cars.

Pellam decided he had gotten very good at making himself a target.

At 5:00, after eight hours on his feet, he found himself in the crowded farmers' market off River Road. The dusty parking lot was filled with stalls where farmers- traditional ones as well as past and present hippies-from Missouri and southern Illinois sold cheese and veggies and muffins and apples and-sure enough- northern watermelon. Pellam looked at the bleak gaiety of the place with its faded banners and a doleful clown tying balloon animals for a small crowd of children with soiled hands and cheeks. He heard twangy country western music vibrating out of cheap speakers.

A half hour later, Pellam decided it was time to return to the camper. He bought a bottle of wine, some cheese, crunchy Dutch pretzels, and two plums.

He clumsily discarded his boots and jacket when he entered the Winnebago. He washed his face and sat in the back bunk, eating the cold supper. Pellam did not care for apples but the only liquor for sale at the market had been apple wine. He bought it reluctantly, hoping that alcohol would be more prominent than the apple taste. This was somewhat true though it was overwhelmingly sweet. He drank half of it down, three straight glasses, and shivered hard at the sugar hitting his bloodstream.

He had an urge to see Nina but he dared not, for fear of imperiling her again. This happened so often in his life-wanting, then pursuing, regardless of the danger. Oh, John Pellam did not like this aspect of himself- how he welcomed risks. This nature had led him to be a stuntman for a time, had prodded him to make movies that critics may have loved but that lost big money for many people. He easily forgot that others might get hurt because of him. John Pellam believed in his darker moments that he carried in his heart more of his gun-fighting ancestor than was good for him. And for those around him.

He rose, poured another glass of wine and, carrying the bottle, returned to the bunk. Apple wine. Disgusting. He looked at the label, a picture of attractive, thirty-ish farmers, a husband and wife couple, hefting a bushel of apples onto a flatbed. He decided he detested these particular farmers and their natural, no-preservative, rosy cheeks.

He put on a Patsy Cline tape.

No. Too sappy.

He put on a Michael Nyman. Better. He noticed a magazine on the floor. It had fallen open to the horoscope page. He tried to read his and lost interest. He lay back onto the bunk.

Taurus. April 22-May 21. A bad time for investments. Career plans may go awry. Control your temper and don't wander the streets of small cities with a loaded pistol.

When Pellam woke an hour later he couldn't find the wine bottle. Because of the intense throbbing in his temples, he assumed with some remorse that he had finished it.

But he was wrong.

The man who stood in the middle of the camper was holding the bottle to his lips, taking a long drink. His head tilted back as he gulped, but his calm eyes studied Pellam curiously.

The man winced-maybe at the sweetness of the wine-and set the bottle down on the table. He wiped his mouth with his fingers, the same fingers that picked up the Colt Peacemaker from the dining table and slipped it into his pocket. He walked forward toward where Pellam lay. He was handsome and young and he was wearing a suit.

Pellam was surprised at only one thing. At how much the birthmark on his cheek did look exactly like the spot on Jupiter.

He thought of many things to say. They came to him quickly. Some funny, some ominous. But he was drowsy and he had a serious headache; he didn't feel like talking. Pellam opened his slurred eyes wide to help him focus and continued to stare.

The visitor touched the rim of the wine bottle and moved his finger in a slow circle around its perimeter. Outside, water lapped on the revetment, a truck diesel chugged in the distance.

Neither man said a word.

Pellam swung his feet around to the floor. The intruder's hand left the bottle and strayed toward his hip, where presumably a pistol rested. Pellam moved slowly-not in fear that he might startle the man but because of the pain in his temples.

He yawned again.

The man said, "You went to Peterson."

When he had yawned, Pellam's eyes watered. He wiped the tears away.

The man said, "Didn't the girl give you the message?"

"She told me."

"Mr. Crimmins isn't real happy you went to the prosecutor. He hasn't been arrested so he can only assume you kept your mouth shut."

"I don't have anything to say about Crimmins."

"He knows you saw him in the Lincoln that night."

"What do you want?"

The man was big-six two or three. The clothes fit tight, as if he had very good muscles. Pellam wondered if he had had an erection when he touched Nina.

"I want to be sure you forget you saw him."

Oh. Was that it? Was he going to leave now? Just like that? Make sure you keep telling people you didn't see Peter Crimmins? Have a nice night.

The birthmark man buttoned his jacket and pulled on gloves.

He's leaving.

But why the gloves? It isn't that cold outside.

The man stepped forward quickly. Before Pellam could lift his arm to deflect the blow, the fist caught him in the side of the head. Pellam fell backwards and landed heavily in the bunk. It had been a glancing strike but on top of an apple wine hangover, the pain howled through his head. He moaned and shook more tears from his eyes.

"Damn," Pellam gasped. "Why'd you do that?"

He struggled to his feet, grasping toward a cabinet to steady himself. Then his wrist was snared, painfully, by the man's powerful hand and he was yanked forward into the man's right fist once again. It connected with jaw. Pellam sank down again, stunned.

"That girlfriend of yours, her face is real pretty. The rest of hers probably pretty nice, too."

Pellam stood slowly and touched blood away from his cheek. He nearly fainted from the pain. When the black dots in his eyes settled and his vision returned, he leaned against the camper wall for a moment. Then he made his way unsteadily toward the bathroom.

He mumbled, "Excuse me," as he walked past the man. He sounded polite.

"Watch it." A pistol appeared, a dark blue revolver. He showed it to Pellam in profile, opening his hand quickly and then closing the large, still-gloved fingers. He replaced it.

Pellam leaned against the door to the bathroom. He clicked the light on, but he did not enter. He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning against the doorjamb. He heard the feet come toward him. The familiar Morse code of the camper floor creaking under the man's weight. He smelled sweet aftershave. (Was this what Nina had smelled? Stile had smelled nothing at all, except oil and gas and asphalt and then blood, blood, blood…)