Bill Pronzini - The Hidden

“Deputy’s still sitting there,” Jay said. “What’s he waiting for?”

“Us to go inside, probably.”

“Why?”

“To make sure we belong here.”

“Christ. Why would he think I lied to him?”

Edgy Jay. Worrywart Jay. He hadn’t always been like that. He’d had self-assurance, self-esteem when she met him; he’d been grounded and motivated their first few years together, before all the misfortune began to wear him down. Qualities that had made it easy for her to fall in love with him. She’d believed then that he was the first important person in her life she wouldn’t end up having to take care of. Not that she blamed him that it had turned out otherwise; none of the bad luck was his fault. But his moodiness, his defeatest attitude, his increasing dependency, put a strain on her tolerance.

“Why don’t you go ask him?” she said.

“Oh, sure, and make him even more suspicious.”

“All right, then. Let’s go on in.”

On the way from the carport to a locked gate in the fence, she pulled the hood of her coat over her head. The cold rain seemed to stream inside anyway, stinging against her face, chilling her after the warmth of the car. Jay fumbled with the key Ben had given him, got the gate open. A short walkway opened into a kind of patio floored with wooden squares, like a patterned inlay, black now from the rain and strewn with small pine boughs and needles torn loose and deposited by the wind. Beyond the patio an area of open ground sloped downward, flanked by bent and swaying pines. Above the wind’s shriek she could hear the boom of surf, but the ocean was invisible behind a shroud of misty blackness.

They hurried across the patio, up a few steps to a low, open deck that stretched around the side and probably extended the full oceanfront width of the cottage. Jay did some more fumbling with the door key—“My fingers are numb”—and when he finally got the lock to turn, she all but pushed him inside.

A damp, musty smell dilated her nostrils. How long since Ben Coulter and his family had been up here? Last summer sometime?

The interior jumped into pale focus: Jay had found the light switch.

Shelby looked around, expecting the worst but not finding it. The cottage had been built in the early seventies, Ben had told Jay, but the furnishings and decor were neither old nor shabby-chic. The living room was good-sized, the fireplace at the opposite end with a comfortable-looking leather sofa and a couple of chairs grouped in front of it. The beige rug on the floor looked new. There were several oddly shaped pieces of driftwood on the fireplace mantel and seascapes on two walls, but mercifully, none of the tacky stuff like fishnets and fake glass floats and whale lamps and dolphin sculptures that infested so many seaside homes. Two big recliners were arranged in front of a pair of windows facing the sea; blinds covered the windows now, but she could hear the harsh beat of rain against glass.

“Nice, Shel, don’t you think?”

“Very homey. Rustic as hell.” He gave her one of his hurt-puppy looks. Heart melters, she called them, and they still had the capacity to soften her. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound bitchy. It is a nice place.”

“I’ll start getting things out of the car. You stay here where it’s dry.” A blast of cold swirled into the room as he went out.

Next to the fireplace was a wood box filled with newspaper, kindling, and cut logs. Let Jay make a fire, she thought. It would probably wound what was left of his ego if she did it. There had to be some other source of heat … yes, a baseboard heater that stretched along the front wall under the blind-covered windows. She found the controls, turned the heat up as high as it would go.

A small kitchen and dining area opened off the living room, separated from it by a breakfast bar. Beyond, a short hallway led to bedrooms and bathrooms. Two bedrooms, one and a half baths.

The front door blew open again, literally, letting in another blast of wind and rain. Jay struggled through with two cartons of the food and liquor they’d brought with them, shouldered the door shut behind him. He was panting a little, as if he’d been carrying a heavy load uphill. Out of shape. He hadn’t gone running with her in more than a year, and he’d given up going to the gym to work out because the membership cost too much. He still walked a couple of miles every day, or said he did, and watched his carb intake and his cholesterol, but—

“He was still there when I went out.”

“Who? The deputy?”

“He backed in next to the car while I was getting this stuff.” Jay set the cartons on the breakfast bar. “Rolled down his window and stuck his head out. You know what he said?”

“How could I? I wasn’t there.”

“He said, ‘You folks be careful while you’re here.’ What do you suppose he meant by that?”

“He probably didn’t mean anything by it. Just one of those things law enforcement people say.”

“No. He made it sound like a warning.”

Trying her patience again. Sometimes Jay made her feel the way Mom had, more like a nursemaid than a loved one. “Is he gone now?”

“Yeah, he’s gone.”

“Then will you please stop obsessing about him? We’ll never see the man again.”

Jay went back out to fetch their suitcases. While he was gone, Shelby unpacked the cartons. The refrigerator was plugged in, so no problem there; there was even a little ice in trays in the freezer compartment. She put the perishables inside, left the bottles of Beefeater and vermouth and the jar of olives on the counter. A double martini in front of a hot fire ought to make her warm again.

The master bedroom was small, the bed a standard double that meant they’d be sleeping close together. He would probably want sex at some point and she supposed she’d accommodate him. He’d always been an accomplished and considerate lover, with as much concern for her pleasure as his own, and in the beginning their lovemaking had been fueled by passion and experimentation; but it had slacked off gradually through all the problems and setbacks, until now it was infrequent and mostly mechanical and no longer satisfying, at least for her.

He never complained, said every time how good it was, but then so did she. Pretense. For him, too, maybe. How could she know? He wouldn’t talk about things that mattered to him; wouldn’t tell her anything about the recurring and obviously terrifying nightmare that plagued his sleep; wouldn’t confide in her or allow her more than brief glimpses of what was going on inside his head. She’d tried dozens of times over the years, especially during the crisis periods—when he’d lost the restaurant, when he’d been laid off from Conray Foods—and never once had she gotten a satisfactory response. Closed off. And by degrees closing her off, too, until now they were more like cohabiting roommates than husband and wife.

She unpacked the suitcases while he rubbed down and put on dry clothes. There were martini glasses in one of the kitchen cupboards; she put two in the freezer to chill. Then she mixed a batch of martinis, as she usually did because she made them better than Jay; he tended to use too much vermouth.

It was warmer in the cottage now, but not warm enough for her to shed her down jacket yet. The damp, musty smell was still pervasive. Wind howled in the chimney, chill breaths of it stirring ashes inside the fireplace. Four days. There was a TV and a combination VCR and DVD player, but no cable; a small collection of DVDs and VHS tapes were all you could watch. There was also a radio/CD boom box, the kind with Civil Defense and police bands, some music CDs of various types, and a shelf of paperbacks, mostly the historical romances that Kate considered steamy and she found overblown and silly. Four days. Pretense and superficial conversation and unsatisfying sex. If it stormed the whole time they were here, she’d be diving into the gin a lot earlier than seven P.M. by New Year’s Eve.