Bill Pronzini - The Stalker

A person is able to endure just so much—emotionally as well as physically—wasn’t that a true fact? Alone in the apartment last night—listening to silence, waiting for Steve to call and knowing that he hadn’t gotten the cannery job, of course, that he was brooding childlike in his motel room the way he had done before—Andrea had been struck with the realization that since this was by no means the final failure, was in fact simply another link in the chain, it was also by no means the final night she would be left listening to silence, waiting for him to call or to come home with the news that still another job hadn’t gone through, still another opportunity had been cast adrift on the wind. She saw herself twenty years hence, hair graying, skin already crosshatched with furrows and lines and purplish wrinkles; she saw herself without hope, dying inside by degrees—the way it had already become with Steve—and she was terrified.

Even though she still loved him deeply, the thought of watching him become less and less of a man through the coming days and months and years was inconceivable. And there was nothing she could do to prevent it; failure in the past precluded success in the future, how long could you beat your head against the proverbial stone wall without even so much as chipping the mortar? She had to leave then, quickly and quietly, like a thief in the night, without tearful good-byes, bitter good-byes, without the painful, useless explanation. Andrea knew that if she waited for Steve to come back, and came to that final confrontation, she would not be able to handle things, would not, very possibly, be able to leave at all. She had tried to write him a short note, but the right words refused to come; after five attempts, five “Steve darling” salutations, she had given it up. When she had had time to prepare herself, after a few days alone to put it all together, she would call him and tell him the simple truth—even though he wouldn’t believe it. Then ...

Well, she would have plenty of time in the next few days to consider then .

Shivering a little, even though the windows were tightly rolled up and the Volkswagen’s heater was turned to high, and with a conscious effort of will, she gave her full concentration to driving.

It wasn’t until she had gone another five miles, leaving San Rafael behind her, that Andrea felt the wetness on her cheeks and realized she was crying.

3

It was a voice out of the past, dimly remembered in that first groping effort at placement but then becoming violently, jarringly, familiar; an insinuating, phlegmatic voice saying very distinctly over a telephone wire, “Steve? Steve Kilduff?”

Standing in the hallway, between the kitchen and the bedroom, Kilduff gripped the receiver so tightly that the tendons in his wrist began to ache. The back of his neck had suddenly grown cold.

“Steve?” Drexel asked again. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” he answered finally. “Hello, Larry.”

“A long time, baby.”

“Not long enough.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no.”

“Our agreement is still binding.”

“Not now, it isn’t ”

“What makes now special?”

“I think we’d better get together, Steve.”

“Why?”

“I can’t go into it over the phone.”

“Granite City?”

“Granite City.”

“How important?”

“Damned important.”

“Discovery?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.”

Dear God, Kilduff thought.

Drexel said, “But not the way you’re thinking.”

Steve transferred the receiver from his left hand to his right, wiping the moist palm on the leg of his trousers. There was a dry, lacquered taste in his mouth. “All right,” he said slowly. “When?”

“Tonight.”

“Where?”

“We’d better make it your place,” Drexel said. “Can you get rid of your wife for the evening?”

“She’s already gone,” Kilduff said, a trace of bitterness coming into his tone. He didn’t offer to elaborate. “Why does it have to be here?”

“Halfway house.”

“I don’t get you.”

“Between Bodega Bay and Los Gatos.”

“Where are you?”

“Los Gatos.”

“And Bodega Bay?”

“Jim Conradin.”

“Will he be here, too?”

“If I can reach him.”

“What about the others?”

“No, just the three of us.”

“If it’s Granite City, it concerns them, too.”

“Not any more, it doesn’t ”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Drexel said, “Eight o’clock.”

There was a soft click from the other end of the line.

Kilduff stood holding the phone for a long moment, and then, carefully, replaced it in its cradle. He returned to the living room and stood in the middle of the buff-colored carpet. Discovery? he had asked. Maybe, Drexel had said; but not the way you’re thinking. What had he meant by that? Was it possible, after eleven years, eleven years, that somebody could have tied them to Granite City? No, that was completely inconceivable; the investigation had been dropped long ago, the Statute of Limitations had long since run its course. And even if it were somehow incredibly true, there was nothing the authorities could do, was there? Oh, they could bring it all out into the open, expose them all to the publicity, but that was really all, wasn’t it? Unless they would be able to demand repayment of the money, in spite of the fact that there was no chance of actual criminal prosecution. He couldn’t remember. Gene Beauchamp had been the legal expert, he had figured all the angles, all the probabilities and potentialities; he had been the one who told them that they had to remain in Illinois until the Statute ran out—three years. If you left the state during that time, and you were ever caught, you were still liable to Federal indictment for interstate flight to avoid prosecution for armed robbery.

What about Beauchamp? he wondered. And Cavalacci and Wykopf? Why had Drexel said it didn’t concern them any more? Had something already happened, had the others somehow been taken into custody? Christ, if ... No, no, no. If the authorities had learned of three, they would have learned of all six; if they had gotten three, they would have gotten all six. It was something else then, something else ...

Kilduff went into the bathroom on rubbery legs and ran some cold water into the shell-pink basin and splashed it over his face and neck. He looked at himself in the medicine cabinet mirror. His face had a grayish, unhealthy cast; fear, the old fear, the trapped fear, had replaced the dullness in his eyes. He looked away, reaching mechanically for one of the velour towels on the rack next to the shower bath. Another thought came into his mind, then: How had Drexel known where to find him? How had he known he lived in San Francisco? After the Statute of Limitations had run out, and they were able to leave Illinois, they had all gone their separate ways, none of them telling the others what their plans were, what their eventual destinations were. That had been an integral part of their agreement, just as their pledge never to contact one another had been an integral part. Since Drexel lived so near him—in Los Gatos, hadn’t he said? less than fifty miles away—it could be that he had somehow run across Kilduff during the past eight years. Still, the telephone was listed in Andrea’s name, he had insisted upon that, and he hadn’t been married, hadn’t even known Andrea, in Illinois. And there was the fact, too, that Drexel knew about Jim Conradin living in Bodega Bay ...

Kilduff’s temples began to throb rhythmically, achingly, and there was the distant half-realized sound of surf in his ears. Robot-like, he went into the living room again and sat on the chair he had occupied earlier. It’s all beginning to crumble, his mind said; first the money running out, and then Andrea leaving, and now Drexel coming impossibly out of the past—it’s finally beginning to crumble.