Bill Pronzini - The Hidden

His head had started to ache. A dull throbbing centered behind his eyes. He squeezed them shut and knuckle-rubbed them, then dug the heels of his hands hard into his temples.

“Well?” she said.

Opened his eyes again, quick, but she hadn’t moved. “I don’t like this any more than you do.”

“But that’s not going to stop you, is it.”

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “I don’t know !”

And he didn’t, he still didn’t. It was like being back in Iraq, having to make another in a string of hard and fast decisions in order to survive. He’d handled it all right on the first tour, no problem, but on the second, after Georgia lost her arm and Charley got wasted and he had to scrag those two Iraqi civilians, it got harder and harder. To the point where he didn’t know what was right and what wasn’t, didn’t know what to do, didn’t want the responsibility, just wanted it to be over and done with one way or another.

He’d felt bad then and he felt bad again now. Harder and harder. Too much responsibility. Made him feel the way he had when they stuck him in that clinic over in Iraq—as if he’d lost part of himself, the way Georgia had lost her arm. And that it didn’t really matter what he did tonight or from now on, shot the woman and the deputy or didn’t shoot them, shot any more of the spoilers or not, because there was no way he could ever get it back.

T W E N T Y - S E V E N

HE WAS NOBODY SHELBY had ever seen before. Somewhere between twenty-five and thirty, lean and muscular, with a round baby face and thin blond hair wet and tangled from the rain. He didn’t look dangerous; he looked like the boy next door all grown up. There wasn’t enough light in the cabin for her to get a clear look at his eyes, but his expression—flat, almost placid—was not that of a homicidal lunatic. He didn’t talk or act like one, either. Soft-voiced, except for flashes of anger that lasted for only a few seconds. Hadn’t touched her or even come close to her, just ordered her to sit on the sofa and then sat down himself at the table across from it. Seemed almost apologetic each time he said he didn’t know yet what he was going to do about her and the trussed-up deputy.

The Coastline Killer. She’d realized that must be who he was as soon as he caught her and now he’d confirmed it. Hiding out right here the whole time she and Jay were at the cottage. The Coastline Killer on one side and another violent weirdo, Brian Lomax, on the other. Sandwich meat between two slices of crazy.

Shelby kept trying not to look at the silver-framed automatic on the table in front of him, but her eyes were drawn to it mothlike. He’d killed a bunch of people already with that gun, for some warped reason that had to do with preserving the coastal environment, and pretty soon now, when he worked himself up to it, he would add two more to the list.

She was terrified, but she had the terror tamped down under the calm she had learned to adopt in crisis situations. If she let him see any sign of fear, it might be the impetus he needed to go ahead and use that automatic. All she could do was keep him talking, try to postpone it as long as she could while she continued to look for some miracle way to prevent it from happening.

She kept chafing her hands together to try to restore circulation; she’d stripped off what was left of the torn and sodden gloves when she first sat down. The cuts on her palms and her cheek stung like fury. But the rest of her felt numb, stiff from the wet and the cold. She had to clench her jaw muscles to keep her teeth from chattering.

The blond man’s eyes were downcast now, in a squint that ridged his forehead with horizontal lines. Again Shelby made a surreptitious eye-sweep of the cabin. There was a wood box next to an old-fashioned woodstove, some sticks of cordwood stacked inside. Maybe, if she could get him out of that chair and closer to her …

“It’s cold in here,” she said. “The fire’s almost out and I’m freezing.”

He didn’t respond. He was massaging his temples again, as if he had a headache.

“Maybe you could put some more wood in the stove?”

“No.”

“Or let me do it—”

“No. You just stay where you are.”

No use. The cut logs were ten feet away, the deputy was on the floor between her and the table, and any sudden movements she made were bound to be clumsy. As soon as she came up off the lumpy sofa, he’d have the weapon in his hand—and one or two seconds after that she’d be dead.

Ferguson’s limbs spasmed again, but his eyes remained shut. She hadn’t gotten an answer to why he was here, what had happened between him and the blond man, but it didn’t really make any difference. Even if his arms and ankles weren’t bound, he’d be of no help to her or to himself. Nasty head wound—blunt force trauma, probable concussion. Likely he’d be so disoriented when he regained consciousness he wouldn’t even know his own name.

Another groan brought the blond man’s eyes back up. They flicked over Ferguson, lifted to resettle on her.

She said, “I don’t know your name.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I’d like to know. I told you my name.”

“Shelby Hunter. I like that, it’s kind of appropriate.”

“Why appropriate?”

“The Hunter part, I mean.”

“I’m not a hunter. I don’t like to kill living things.”

“Neither do I, but sometimes it’s necessary.” Then he said, “Soldiers are hunters, that’s what I meant. Were you ever a soldier?”

“No.”

“You could’ve been. You’ve got the courage.”

She ignored that. “I’m an EMT.”

“Medic? That’s good. Can’t do without medics.”

“It’s how I know my husband needs medical attention. If I hadn’t been there to stabilize him after his heart attack, he might’ve died then.”

“You told me that before. I’m sorry.”

“The deputy needs attention, too,” she said. “Why don’t you let me look at his wound?”

“No.”

“Maybe there’s something I can do for him—”

“I said no.”

Shift to another subject. Soldiers, the military.

“What branch of the service were you in? Army? Marine Corps?”

“Army infantry.”

“NCO?”

“What else? I made corporal.”

“Serve overseas? See combat?”

“Iraq, two tours,” he said. “I hated it over there.”

“I can’t imagine what it was like.”

“No, you can’t. It was hell. But once you’re there, all you can do is embrace the suck.”

“Do what?”

“Make the best of it. Deal with all the shit until you …” His voice trailed off; he shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about Iraq.”

Keep him talking about something!

“Where are you from?”

“Nowhere,” he said.

“You were born someplace, grew up someplace—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Do you have family? Brothers, sisters?”

“No.”

“What about your mother and father?”

“I never knew him and the old bitch is dead.” He was becoming agitated; his voice had risen, taken on a sharp edge. “There’s no point in asking me all these questions. It won’t work.”

“What won’t work?”

“Trying to distract me. You can’t overpower me and you can’t get away.”

“I know that. I wasn’t trying to distract you—”

“Don’t lie to me. I don’t like to be lied to.”

“All right.”

Silent stare for several seconds, his face showing the bunched effects of his headache. Then abruptly it smoothed; he pushed his chair back, picked up the automatic, and got to his feet. Resolute expression now, as if he’d made some kind of decision. Shelby tensed, but he didn’t turn the weapon in her direction; held it straight down along his side.