Bill Pronzini - The Hidden

At first she thought there was enough separation between the two gate halves for her to slide her body through, but as soon as she tried it she knew she’d only succeed in getting herself stuck. Up and over, then—no time to waste. The gates were only six feet high and she’d always been adept at climbing.

She got one foot on the chain, both hands on the soaked top bar of one half; pulled herself up, swung her legs over, managed to scramble down inside without hurting herself. The flashlight was in the slash pocket of her raincoat; she dragged it out, switched it on.

The deluge was so intense it was like trying to push her way through something semisolid. A wind surge sent a three-foot-long branch skittering against her legs as she followed the beam across the parking area, nearly tripping her. She braced herself and kicked it away; plowed ahead to the porch.

More than a minute of leaning on the doorbell brought no response. She tried hammering on the door with her fist, thumbing the bell again at the same time. Futile. The storm made too much noise for her to hear anything from inside, but she had the prickly feeling of being watched through the peephole. She lifted her face close to the convex glass eye, mouthed the words, “Help, I need help.”

Nothing. The door stayed shut.

Damn Brian Lomax and his paranoia!

Desperation drove her off the porch, around onto a brick path that paralleled the south side of the house. Thick manzanita shrubs made close borders along the path, their thin, coarse branches scraping at her as she passed. Three windows on that side, all of them shaded, only the farthest one shielding light. She pawed through the shrubbery and tried the latches on all three, knowing they’d be locked tight, doing it anyway.

When she reached the back corner, the flash beam showed her a low, railed deck running the width of the house, steps bisecting it in the center. As she stepped out and around the end of the deck, a sharp burst of bitter-cold wind and rain shoved her off-balance against the planking; she had to hang on to the railing posts to remain upright.

She aimed the torch at the back wall. The drapes were drawn across picture windows and sliding glass door, but behind the door there was a thin gap where the cloth folds didn’t quite meet, letting a strip of light leak out.

Up the steps, her body bent almost double; the squall, like a hand in her back, thrust her forward against the door glass. She darkened the flash and slipped it into her pocket; sleeved her eyes clear and sluiced water off the glass so she could squint through the gap between the drapes.

Brian Lomax was standing statuelike near the fireplace, his big hands flat against his sides—directly in her line of sight. Tucked into the waistband of his trousers was the handgun he’d displayed two nights ago. If Claire was anywhere in the room, Shelby couldn’t see her.

She clung to the door handle with one gloved hand, made a fist of the other and banged it hard on the glass, making the pane rattle in its metal frame. No response. She ground her molars in frustration, peered through the opening again. Lomax still stood in the same spot, in the same posture, his beard-shadowed face like a stone mask.

She had a quick flash of Jay lying sick and alone in the dwindling firelight, and a frenzied wildness took hold of her. She pounded on the glass with all her strength, she didn’t care if she shattered or spiderwebbed it. Kept pounding, pounding. How long could he resist opening the door?

Not much longer. All at once the drapes were swept back and Lomax was there, staring out at her through the glass.

But he still didn’t open the door.

Again she mouthed the words, “Help, I need help,” and added a “please” that had the taste of camphor on her tongue.

Lomax kept on staring, shaking his head now.

Furious, Shelby hammered on the glass again, directly in front of that stone-mask face. She kept it up until the mask began to slip a little—mouth and jaw tightening, eyelids pinching down. Finally got through to him, made him realize that ignoring her wouldn’t make her go away. He reached down to snap the lock free, slid the door open a few inches. Blocking it with his body, the fingers of his right hand resting on the automatic’s handle: He wasn’t going to let her into the house.

“What’s the idea? I could have you arrested for trespassing.”

She could barely hear him over the storm’s shrieks and wails. Rain blew in past her, splattering droplets against his face; he didn’t seem to notice. She leaned up into the opening, close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath. His eyes had a hard fixity, like cat’s-eye marbles, but he didn’t seem to be drunk—at least not drunk enough to slur his words or impair his ability to function.

“Let me come in.”

“No. What do you want?”

“I need your help, yours and Claire’s.”

“… What kind of help?”

“My husband’s had a heart attack.” Shouting to make sure he heard and understood what she was saying. “I’ve got him stabilized for now, but I can’t go for help because the lane’s blocked on the far side of the cottage—the storm blew a tree down across it.”

Nothing changed in Lomax’s expression. His voice remained flat and cold when he said, “That’s too bad. What do you want me to do?”

“You have a chain saw? I thought maybe you could—”

“No. No chain saw.”

He was lying. She couldn’t have said how she knew, but she was immediately sure of it—lying through his teeth. Why, for God’s sake?

“All right, then, we can try moving the tree with your SUV—”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“It’s not any good for that kind of thing. Sits too high.”

“You haven’t even seen the fucking tree! Come with me, take a look.”

“No. There’s no use in it.”

Shelby controlled a savage impulse to reach through, grab him by the throat and choke him. “Listen to me,” she shouted. “Jay could die if he doesn’t get emergency treatment ASAP. You understand? He could die!”

“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do.”

“Yes there is.” Spitting the words at him now. “You or Claire can stay with him until I get back with a doctor or EMS unit. Keep the fire going so he stays warm— Why the hell are you shaking your head?”

“Claire’s sick. I can’t let her go out in this storm.”

“Sick?”

“She’s in bed. Flu or something.”

“Then you come stay with Jay.”

“I can’t do that. I can’t leave her alone.”

“God damn you, can’t you get it through your head my husband might die unless—”

Lomax said, “There’s nothing we can do. Get off my property,” and backed up a step and slid the door shut and snapped the drapes closed again, tight this time—all in one continuous motion.

A surge of impotent rage made her yell, “You miserable son of a bitch!” and beat on the glass a few more times. Then her control came back, and along with it a redoubled need for urgency.

She shoved away from the glass, thumbed the flashlight back on, fought the wind down the steps and back around to the brick path. A bone-white dazzle of lightning flashed as she emerged onto the parking area, followed by more rolling echoes of thunder when she reached the gates. Up and over and back into the car. Moving again.

The rage still stalked her mind. What kind of man was Brian Lomax, to blow her off the way he had? Sub-fucking-human. If Jay died or suffered permanent damage because of him, she’d make him pay somehow. There wasn’t anything the law could do to him—he was within his rights to refuse her admission to his house, refuse to help her because his wife was “sick”; could even bring charges against her for illegal trespass. But she could let the world know how he’d acted tonight. Make him suffer through the media if not in a courtroom.