Nothing but the Night

18

“You have no clear idea of why you are compelled to sleep with this woman?” Dr. Beloit asked.

“No. That’s why I’m here.”

“Would you say she is unusually attractive?”

“Not unusually, no. Sexy. Very sexy.”

“As attractive as your wife?”

“Yes, but not in the same way.”

“As sexy as your wife?”

“Same answer.”

“Does your wife satisfy you sexually?”

“...Yes.”

“Why did you hesitate?”

“I don’t feel comfortable answering questions like that.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Beloit said. “Do you love her?”

“My wife? Yes, very much.”

“So naturally you don’t wish to see her hurt.”

“Naturally. No.”

“Or your daughters hurt.”

“No.”

“Yet a sexual liaison with Jenna Bailey could hurt them. You understand that.”

Sexual liaison. Cute. “If they found out. I wouldn’t let that happen.”

“Are you certain you could prevent it from happening?”

“No. I’m not certain of anything right now.”

“How would you characterize your feelings for Ms. Bailey?”

“Lust, I suppose. Animal magnetism.”

“Nothing more than that?”

“You mean love? No.”

“How do you suppose she feels toward you?”

“Pretty much the same.”

“A mutual desire for conquest and gratification.”

“Not conquest, not on my part.”

“Have you ever had an extramarital affair?”

“No. Never.”

“Do you think that could have a bearing on Ms. Bailey’s interest in you?”

“That I’m married? Or that I’ve never had an affair?”

“Either or both. Have you discussed it with her?”

“No. But anyone who knows me knows I don’t cheat. She could have found out easily enough.”

“Some women find the seduction of a faithful husband to be an appealing challenge.”

“I don’t believe Jenna’s like that.”

“Could an affair be advantageous to her business relationship with you?”

“No. She’s not like that, either. And neither am I. Her motives are probably pretty simple, doctor. She’s horny, and she thinks we might be good together in bed.”

Not a flicker of a smile from Beloit. “But it is not that simple for you, is it?”

“I don’t know, maybe it is. I wonder how it’d be. Any man would.”

“Do you expect she might provide something lacking in your relations with your wife?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Some sort of sexual activity you covet.”

“You mean something kinky? No.”

“How would you define kinky?”

“How would you define it, doctor?”

“We are not discussing my sex life,” Beloit said. “We are discussing yours.”

Smug, Cam thought. He moved uncomfortably in the big padded armchair. Did Beloit even have a sex life? He was a little man in his fifties, not much over five feet tall, with a blob of a head and a pushed-in face and bushy eyebrows and a hooked nose and stary eyes behind thicklensed glasses. Mr. Potato Head. One made of punched and poorly molded Silly Putty. He was married, though. Wore a wedding ring, and on his desk was a framed photograph of a woman and two young men. Cam had never gotten close enough to examine the photo, and glancing at it now he felt a sudden urge to stand and reach over and pick it up, find out just what sort of woman would marry a Potato Head and what their progeny looked like.

Cruel, petty, and unfair. He knew it, told himself such thoughts were unworthy of him, and tried to blank his mind to all but the issue at hand.

“It has nothing to do with particular bed games,” he said, “kinky or otherwise. It’s just — an unfocused need, a compulsion that I can’t make go away.”

“There are many different types of compulsions,” Beloit said. “Would you say yours falls into the category of a fatal attraction?”

“I don’t... fatal? What do you mean, fatal?”

“As in negative reinforcement, a repressed desire for punishment.”

“What? You think I want her to hurt me?”

“What I think isn’t relevant. What do you think?”

“I’m not into pain, doctor. Physical or mental. Besides, Jenna is hardly the acid-throwing or bunny-boiling type.”

Beloit looked at him steadily and blankly.

“I guess you didn’t see the movie,” Cam said.

“You said you aren’t into pain. Are you positive of that?”

“Of course I’m positive. I’m not a masochist.”

“Yet haven’t you allowed yourself to be continually battered by the events of your childhood?”

“So now we’re back to that.”

“Do you see any relationship between your childhood trauma and your compulsion to commit adultery?”

“No.”

“Take a moment to consider it.”

“I don’t see any relationship,” he said, but he was lying. He saw it clearly enough. He’d seen it all along.

“Isn’t it possible this new crisis is linked to all the others in your life, that it has the same source?”

Cam shifted position again. His eyes shifted, too, so that he was looking at the couch across the room. Did any of Beloit’s clients ever lie on that couch? Probably not. It looked brand new, virginal, like a stage prop. People expected a psychoanalyst’s consulting room to have a couch, so there it was.

“I’m not self-destructive,” he said.

“Why did you use that term?”

“Why? It’s what you think I am, isn’t it?”

“As I’ve said, Mr. Gallagher, it is what you think that matters.”

“All right, then. I just said I’m not. No way.”

“Have you ever had a self-destructive impulse?”

“Suicide? No. I couldn’t do that to my family.”

“Yet you feel you could commit adultery.”

“It’s hardly the same thing.”

“Do you think about dying?”

“Not much, no.”

“About death in the abstract?”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“Death as a release from pain, a source of peace.”

“No. Didn’t we go over all this once before?”

“We did, yes.” Without consulting his notes.

“And my answers were the same?”

“Yes, I believe they were.”

“Well, then? Why go through it all again?”

“Do you believe in God? In the concepts of heaven and hell?”

“Oh, come on, doctor. What do my religious beliefs have to do with anything?”

“They have bearing on your state of mind,” Beloit said. “A man who believes strongly in God and an afterlife will react differently to physical and emotional stimuli than a man whose beliefs are weak or nonexistent.”

I shouldn’t have made this appointment, Cam thought. This is why I quit seeing him, all this glib psychobabble. He isn’t helping me. He can’t help me. I ought to get up and walk out of here right now.

“I believe in God,” he said. “I can’t tell you how strongly, because I’m not sure myself. I’ve never been much of a churchgoer.”

“A merciful God or a vengeful God?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Both?”

“Depending on circumstances.”

“In your parents’ case, a vengeful God?”

“I suppose so. Against my mother for her sins.”

“And your father?”

“The instrument of her destruction.”

“A man without sin, then?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“He was the object of divine vengeance, too, wasn’t he? To have committed a cardinal sin and then to die by his own hand?”

“I... can’t answer that. All I know is that my father was a victim. Just like my sister and I were victims.”

“Of your mother?”

“Of her deceit, that’s right.”

“Do you believe her soul was consigned to hell?”

“I don’t know what hell is.” That’s a lie, he thought immediately. I’ve had glimpses, haven’t I?

“The Old Testament variety, let’s say. Eternal damnation in fire and brimstone.”

“I hope so.”

“Your father’s soul?”

“I don’t know... no.”

“Most religions believe murder and suicide are mortal sins, punishable by—”

“I don’t care about that. What kind of questions are these, anyway, all this metaphysical stuff?”

“Pertinent questions, if you accept the fact that you have a deep, unresolved hatred of your mother and that you pity your father. That seems quite clear. Do you accept it?”

“Yes. Except for the unresolved part.”

“You don’t feel you need to resolve your hatred for her?”

“Resolve it how? How can I not hate her, after what she did? How can I forgive her?”

“Resolution doesn’t necessarily mean forgiveness.”

“Then what does it mean?”

“You loved your father as much as you hated your mother. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“You are sorry he’s dead.”

“Sorry he died the way he did, yes.”

“And you are glad your mother is dead.”

“She got what she deserved.”

“Do you feel any guilt for being glad?”

“Not a bit.”

“Isn’t it possible you do without being aware of it?”

“I don’t buy that. Why should I feel guilty?”

“You might if at a subconscious level you feel responsible, at least in part, for what happened to your parents.”

There it was again, the same baseless half-accusation Caitlin had thrown at him last Saturday. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was seeing Beloit, too. He sat forward, his hands gripping the chair arms, a band of tightness beginning to pull behind his eyes.

“What could I have done to prevent it?” he said thinly. “Tell me that. I didn’t even know what was happening until I heard the shots, until it was already over and done with.”

“I did not say you could have prevented the tragedy.”

“You said I blamed myself—”

“I suggested you may feel a sense of responsibility and guilt.”

“And I told you I don’t.”

“Perhaps not where the tragedy itself is concerned,” Beloit said, “but in the events leading up to it. Your mother’s relationship with the man you call Fatso. We have already established that you knew about the affair prior to that fateful night.”

Fateful night. Beloit had missed his calling; he ought to be writing scripts for bad TV psychodramas. Cam pressed knuckles tight against the bone above his eye sockets, eyes squeezed shut. When he opened them again, the doctor’s Potato Head face swam fuzzily before it settled into focus.

“Yes. I knew about it.”

“You told me, I believe, that you actually caught them in flagrante delicto.”

“So?”

“And that you told your father what you saw.”

“You bet I told him.”

“When?”

“The next day. As soon as I saw him again.”

“What was his reaction?”

“He was mad as hell, naturally. Wouldn’t you have been?”

“Did he confront your mother?”

“Yes. I heard him yelling at her.”

“You were not in the room at the time?”

“No, they were in their bedroom with the door shut.”

“Did he threaten her?”

“...I don’t remember.”

“Did you know he owned a handgun?”

“Yes. He used to take me shooting. Target shooting.”

“Did he ever threaten your mother with the weapon?”

“I don’t remember. What—”

“Try to remember. Did your father ever threaten your mother with death or physical violence in your presence or hearing?”

“I don’t... Maybe. Once.”

“Before or after you told him of your mother’s affair with Fatso?”

“Before. What’re you getting at now?”

Beloit took off his glasses, squinted myopically while he polished them with a monogrammed handkerchief, put them back on. “What was your exact reason for telling your father about the affair?”

“I wanted him to know.”

“Why did you want him to know?”

“He was my father, she was cheating on him in his own house, our house — he had a right to know what was going on.”

“What did you believe he’d do?”

“I didn’t think about that.”

“Not consciously, perhaps. But it is possible, isn’t it, that you told him because at a deeper level you felt it would provoke him into an act of violence against your mother, the woman you hated? That you wanted him to carry out his threat, to—”

“No!”

“—to shoot and kill her because you wanted her dead?”

“It wasn’t my fault! None of it was!”

“Of course not,” Beloit said quietly. “The point is, such destructive desires in a child can lead to repressed feelings of guilt in the adult. Guilt in turn may lead to self-hatred, which in turn—”

“I don’t blame myself, I don’t hate myself.” The office seemed to have grown unbearably stuffy; he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. “None of this... I don’t like where this is going. It doesn’t have anything to do with Jenna Bailey. I came here for help—”

“Help is what I am attempting to offer, Mr. Gallagher. Insight into your motivations past and present, including those regarding Jenna Bailey.”

“By trying to get me to admit I have some sort of death wish?”

“By asking you to consider a possible core reason for the psychological problems that continue to plague you — an escalating pattern of self-punishment brought about by your childhood trauma and your subsequent unresolved feelings of hatred for your mother and culpability in her death. Emotional dysfunction, the migraine headaches and periods of depression, the borderline alcoholism, and now the urge to commit adultery might all be part of such a pattern. If left unchecked, the subconscious urge for punishment can lead to a disintegration of one’s defenses and result in more overt acts of self-destruction...”

There was more, but Cam no longer listened. Babble, just babble. When Beloit finally ran down, Cam said, “Your theory, core reason, whatever it is, is wrong, doctor. Wrong. Yes, I hated Rose, she was a slut and a lousy mother and I’m not sorry she got what was coming to her, but I never wanted her dead. Never wished it, never prayed for it, never once even thought about it let alone colluded in it. I wasn’t that kind of boy. I’m not that kind of man.”

Big solemn eyes stared back at him, magnified by the thick lenses, like disembodied eyeballs floating in a pair of jars. Compassion in them? No, nothing in them. Nothing.

“So now we’re right back where we started,” Cam said. “I’ve still got a compulsion to sleep with Jenna Bailey, and I still don’t know why. You haven’t helped me one damn bit.”

“I am sorry you feel that way.”

“Not half as sorry as I am.”

“I can’t tell you what to do about your desire to commit adultery, no matter what the motivation. The decision is entirely yours. I can tell you this: If you give in to it, you will be hurt. Your wife and family are likely to be hurt as well, but you most of all. Perhaps irretrievably so.” Beloit’s glance sideslipped to his desk clock. He folded his hands together and said, “I am afraid our time is up for today, Mr. Gallagher.”

“Just like that? Time’s up, good-bye, come back next week if you haven’t self-destructed by then?”

“I have another appointment at five o’clock.”

“And you need fifteen minutes to get the taste of me out of your mouth.”

The silent stare.

Cam’s headache had worsened. “What am I going to do?” he thought and then realized he’d said the words aloud.

Beloit didn’t respond to that, either. Beloit didn’t know or care, bottom line, because he was one of the lucky ones, the well-adjusted ones — Beloit didn’t have a head full of ghosts and furies that were eating him alive. So how could he know, really understand, what it was like to be snack food for demons?

19

Nick followed Gallagher for a week, off and on, varying the places where he picked him up. Sunday, Gallagher took his family down to the marina on the Los Alegres River; four of them got into a white cabin cruiser, big and shiny new, and went off down the river. His boat. Another rich bastard’s toy. Nick hung around there for a while, looking things over, thinking maybe the boat and marina would work out for him. Didn’t feel right, though. They had wire-enclosed ramps leading down to the slips, and you couldn’t get into them unless you had a key. Only other way out there was by swimming. Besides, he was a farm boy, mountain boy, truck jockey. He didn’t know diddly about boats.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Gallagher went straight back to Los Alegres after work. Goodwill let Nick off at four, so he had plenty of time to drive over to the Paloma Valley, get into position. Thing he couldn’t figure was why Gallagher hadn’t hooked up with the brunette with the Lexus again. Could be he’d read the situation wrong and she wasn’t Gallagher’s bimbo. Except the way she’d been snuggling up to him in the hotel bar, it sure looked like they were getting it on together. Must be some reason he hadn’t been to see her. Made Nick curious, even though it probably didn’t mean much as far as his planning was concerned.

Thursday, when he drove by Paloma Wine Systems at four-thirty, the BMW wasn’t there. Left early. To see the bimbo, finally? Nick drove around for a while, didn’t spot the WINEMAN license or the white Lexus, gave it up and headed back to Los Alegres, and set up on the street below where Gallagher lived, the only way up to Ridgeway Terrace. And here he came at six-ten, looking grim in the frame of the driver’s window as he flashed past. Must’ve been a quickie, Nick thought, if he was with the brunette. Or else they’d had an argument and he was going home without it.

Friday was the same as Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday — Gallagher went straight home after work. Halfway through the hills that day, Nick turned off, turned around, and headed back to Paloma. Feeling restless, wanting to drive instead of sit and wait. Circled the square, keeping a sharp eye out, and what do you know — there was the white Lexus slotted in up the street from the Hotel Paloma. He parked a few spaces away, walked back to double-check the license number. The brunette’s, all right.

He crossed to the hotel, went into the bar. She was there. Different table this time, two guys in suits and another woman with her, all of them sipping wine and laughing it up. Nick wedged himself at the bar, ordered a beer, paid three bucks for it — man, these prices — and watched the brunette.

She kept sipping and laughing, and a couple of times she put her hand on the silver-haired guy next to her, and once she leaned up close and whispered in his ear and then kissed his mouth when he turned toward her. Slut. Nick had seen her type before. Her classiness was the kind some women put on like lipstick, along with their fancy clothes. Underneath she was hard, no mistake. He could see how hard she was all the way over here. Guys like Gallagher, all they saw was the body and the hot eyes and the white smile. Didn’t look any deeper. All they wanted was sex. She’d be plenty good in bed, this one. Do anything a guy wanted and some things he wasn’t even expecting. But that was all it was, all it’d ever be — just fucking. Her kind only loved one person, only cared about one person. The one living inside their own skin.

Watching her made him miss Annalisa so much he could feel the hurt like fire down low in his belly, same kind of pain he’d felt when he was thirteen and his appendix had almost burst and he’d had to have an emergency operation. He turned away, looked at his beer until the pain eased and he was okay again. When he looked back at the table, one of the waitresses was over there and the four of them were ordering another round.

He maneuvered along the bar until he was next to the waitress’s slot when she came up. “Four more Fenwood chard,” she said to the bartender.

Bartender said, “At least they drink their own. What’s the occasion?”

Waitress shrugged. “Who knows. TGIF.”

Nick watched the bartender pick up a bottle. Backbar lighting was bright enough so he could real the label: Fenwood Creek Reserve Chardonnay, 1997. He shifted his gaze to the waitress, caught her eye, smiled at her.

“Is that Fenwood Creek a good wine?” he asked.

She looked him over, decided he was just being friendly, and shrugged again. “So they say. I can’t afford it myself.”

“Me, either, if it costs more than five bucks a bottle.”

That got him a small, crooked smile. “Costs five bucks a glass in here.”

“Ouch. All those people work at Fenwood Creek?”

“That’s right.”

“Dark-haired woman in the green suit. Her name’s Linda, isn’t it?”

“Linda?” Waitress glanced over her shoulder. “No, that’s Jenna Bailey.”

He repeated the name. “She somebody important there?”

“Acts like she is.”

“Sounds like you don’t like her much.”

Another shrug. “I don’t like anybody who leaves chintzy tips.” Bartender put four full glasses on her tray. Waitress hoisted it without looking at Nick again, took the refills to the table.

Lull in the conversation over there as the waitress served them. And then the Bailey woman was looking up and across, straight at Nick. He saw her stiffen, the smile wiped off her mouth; she said something to the silver-haired guy next to her, and the guy looked, too. Hell. She’d noticed him watching the night she was in here with Gallagher, caught him watching again, and now she was starting to get up. Nick shoved away from the bar, pushed through the crowd. Not hurrying, not taking his time.

Outside he crossed the street, went halfway to the Mazda before he glanced back. Jenna Bailey hadn’t followed him out. Nor any of the people she’d been sitting with.

Nick took the wheel. Wait around, trail her home? Better not. Might be a long time in there, might not go straight home when she left. Might be wary enough to spot him, too — ID the car, get his license plate number. He knew her name, where she worked; that was enough for now. Find out where she lived later on, if he needed to know.

20

It’s the laughter that wakes him up.

He knows right away what’s going on. Her and Fatso, downstairs in the spare bedroom. When did Fatso show up? He’s not supposed to be here. Didn’t Dad warn her she better not let Fatso come around here anymore?

I hate you. I hate you, Ma.

I’m gonna tell Dad about this, too. You better believe I am. Soon as he comes up tomorrow.

The laughter stops. Now it’s quiet again.

I know what they’re doing. How can she do it with Fatso, right here in our house? How can she do it with him at all? That time I saw them, her all white and sweaty, him with his belly and hairy ass, and she was... I never thought I’d see her do anything like that...

Banging sound. Bedboard hitting the wall.

Another laugh that turns into a kind of yell.

He puts his hands over his ears, burrows down deep under the covers.

After a while he pokes his head out and listens. Quiet downstairs, but now it’s raining again. Wind howling, rain smacking on the roof and against the window. Is Fatso still here?

He gets up and goes to the window. There’s his truck in the yard. Jeez, is he going to spend the whole night here?

I hate you, Ma. You and him both.

He’s in bed again when he hears the voices downstairs. Loud at first, Fatso saying, When can I see you again, sweet tits? Her saying, Keep your voice down, you want to wake up the kid? Then he can’t hear what they’re saying because the door’s open and the wind is whistling in. Then the door bumps shut again. Outside, Fatso’s truck starts up, and he guns the engine the way he likes to do. Damn son of a bitch Fatso. Then the truck backs out and roars off, and it’s quiet again except for the storm.

But not for long.

Now there’s another car in the driveway. Not Fatso’s truck, engine sound’s different — Daddy’s car! Dad’s here!

He jumps out of bed, rushes over to look. Dad’s car, all right, Dad getting out and running through the rain. Door slams downstairs. Hard footsteps heading for the kitchen. “Rose? I know you’re down here, I saw his truck.” Thump, thump. “Right where I knew you’d be, you bitch.” And then Dad starts yelling and swearing, real loud. Oh jeez, he’s pissed! I never heard him that pissed before.

And she starts yelling back at him, calling him dirty names. She sounds drunk. Sure she is, her and Fatso must’ve been drinking whiskey. They did that the last time, too.

Her: Do what I please, don’t have to answer to you, fucking bastard.

Dad: Whore, slut, right here in our house with the boy upstairs, what kind of mother are you.

Smack. Shriek. Wow, he must’ve hit her! Serves her right, the dirty whore.

Her: Leave me alone damn you don’t you lay a hand on me again or you’ll be sorry.

Dad: Had all I can stand can’t take any more.

Her: Chrissake what’re you doing with that, put that thing away, are you crazy?

Dad: Show you what I’m going to do with it.

Her: You don’t have the guts you wimp you pisspoor excuse for a man.

He’s over at the door now, opening it, looking out and listening. And then—

Bang!

Oh no, that sounded like a gun—

“Rose!” Dad’s voice, different, all moany and wild like the wind. “Rose, God, I didn’t mean... Rose!”

Little noises.

“No!” Dad again, like he’s wailing. “No no!”

Quiet.

And then—

Bang!

Dad, Daddy, what—?

And he’s in the hallway, at the top of the stairs. His heart is pounding like it wants to burst through his chest. He leans over the banister and stares down. Dark except for light coming from the kitchen, long pale wedge of light.

“Dad?”

Thud, thud, thud of his heart.

He’s afraid, more afraid than he’s ever been. He doesn’t want to go down there, he’s so scared of what he’ll find. But he has to go, he has to find out — slow and then fast and then slow again as he reaches the bottom.

“Dad? Daddy?”

Thud. Thud, thud. Thud.

Along the hall into the kitchen. It’s empty. Lights are on in the back bedroom, too, and he keeps going that way, the floor cold under his bare feet. He’s shivering as he nears the open bedroom doorway—

Smell comes out at him and makes him stop.

Burned smell. Gunpowder smell.

Don’t go in there, don’t look!

He goes in, he looks—

Oh God oh shit!

Both of them—

Dad Daddy on the floor—

And her on the bed—

And the gun on the floor—

And bright red all over both of them, her nightgown, his head and face, wet, glistening, dripping—

Daddy’s eyes are open, staring, and her eyes—

Shut no open and staring too no shut—

There’s a roaring in his ears, he can’t hear—

He wants to run but instead he goes to Daddy, maybe Daddy’s not dead, and he bends down and looks close—

Dead dead dead.

And the gun lying there—

Don’t touch it don’t pick it up!

Roaring, roaring, and the fear and the cold and the blood—

And then he—

He looks at her again, he can’t stop himself—

She’s on the bed with her eyes shut—

Open.

She opens her eyes.

Suddenly she opens her dead eyes and she’s staring back at him, right into his face—

And he’s running shivering running crying running back up the stairs but not into his bedroom up the attic stairs hide in the attic safe in the attic scared cold shaking all over Daddy she opened her eyes but she didn’t but she did hide hide hide!

“She opened her eyes,” Cam said. He was shaking the way he had that night, oiled in sweat. He felt sick and disoriented. “This time it was different... This time she opened her eyes and looked at me.”

Hallie held his head against her breast.

“Always before I dreamed it the way it happened. I didn’t look at her again after I bent down over my father, I just ran. But this time I looked. She was dead, but she opened her eyes and stared right into my face. As if she were—”

“As if she were what, baby?”

“Accusing me,” he said. “As if it really was my fault she was dead.”

21

Night riding again.

Empty Sunday, Gallagher staying home with his family this weekend, and the restless need for motion prodding him back into the Mazda, the security of metal and leather and chrome, even before it got dark. Around and around Los Alegres until nightfall, then out onto the freeway. Friday night it’d been south, San Francisco, San Jose, Stockton, Oakland. Tonight it was north, up through Santa Rosa. Missile hurtling through the dark, lights blooming and dying, blooming and dying, laser-beam slices and neon flashes and little winking pinpricks like fireflies, like holes burning in black suede. Radio playing “Since I Met You, Baby,” “Me and Bobby McGee,” “Big Girls Don’t Cry,” “Yesterday,” “Help Me Make It Through the Night,” “Rocky Mountain High,” “You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away,” “For the Good Times.” Every song reminding him of Annalisa, the life they’d had together, until Garth Brooks’s “Night Rider’s Lament” came on and made him smile a little. Thinking part of the time — Annalisa, Gallagher, half-formed ideas that weren’t ready to jell yet. Rest of the time not thinking at all, just driving, listening to the music and watching the night unfold.

Straight up Highway 101 past some place called Cloverdale, west on a back road to Boonville, north on another one to Ukiah, north again to a junction, quick stop for gas and coffee, then east on another twolaner into Lake County, Porno County, all the way around Lake Porno. Dark water out there flashed the night at Clearwater Lake into his mind. Fourth date with Annalisa. Long drive, different roads and terrains, fast for a while, slow for a while, and he’d started wanting her more than he’d ever wanted any woman. Wanted her from the first time he saw her, but it was love and sex all mixed together this time, the long night ride and her sitting there beside him and the scent of her perfume and her body like some kind of aphrodisiac. Excitement building in her, too, he could see it every time he glanced over at her. She’d moved close to him, warm hip touching his, soft breast pressing his arm, heat climbing and climbing until it gave him a hard-on. Same kind of thing for her, she’d told him later, making her wet and tingly all over, making her want him as much as he wanted her.

Finally he’d stopped the car on the lookout above Clearwater Lake, nobody else around, moonlight splashed on the mountains and trees and water and sky. Soon as he shut off the engine, they were kissing. Couldn’t shuck out of their clothes fast enough, he couldn’t get inside her fast enough, they couldn’t come fast enough, and at the same time, too, everything just about perfect even then.

I love you, Annalisa. His first words to her afterward.

I love you, Nickie. Without missing a beat.

Next day, first thing next morning, he’d gone out and bought the ring and then gone to her apartment and asked her to marry him...

Back on the state road now, heading toward Williams and Highway 5, letting the good memories and the music flow through him. Hardly any traffic — after midnight by then — and the night empty and black. Then there was a burst of light as he came around a curve, somebody with his brights on and driving too fast, road narrow here, and the lights veering suddenly into his lane. He swerved, the lights veered back just in time. Close. So close the two cars nearly scraped sides as they tore past each other.

Didn’t bother Nick too much after his pulse rate slowed down. He’d had close calls before, two or three. Drunks, tired people, people in too big a hurry, damn-fool truck jockeys on speed — night rider’s hazards, you just had to accept them. Only one accident in the thousands and thousands of miles he’d logged in his life, that one nothing but a fender bender up in Idaho, not his fault, not much damage, cops hadn’t even been called and everything settled on the spot with the other driver.

Crazy. Crazy that he burned up the highways and back roads, wore out eight or nine sets of wheels, and all he’d ever had were a few close calls and the one fender bender, and Annalisa’d gone out to the store one snowy January night, only a six-block drive, and look what’d happened to her. Wasn’t right, wasn’t fair, odds were all wrong, but there it was. Where the hell was the sense in a thing like that?

Wasn’t much sense in anything, the way it seemed sometimes. Everything random, lot of crazy luck good and bad. Bad luck that Annalisa’s car had picked that night to break down, bad luck she was in the wrong place at the wrong time a few minutes later. Good luck that nothing had happened to him on the road, that he’d been in the right place at the right time last Thursday afternoon when Gallagher showed up to meet his girlfriend. You couldn’t do much about it either way, bad or good. Let it happen, take advantage of a situation when you could, don’t worry about it when you couldn’t.

Williams coming up. Better head south on Highway 5, head back to Los Alegres. Be at the auto court by four, get three or four hours’ sleep. He didn’t have to be at the Goodwill until nine tomorrow.

Funny, but he wasn’t tired. Work all day, drive half the night, and he was still wide awake. Good, keen edge hadn’t worn down much at all.

On the radio now, Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Sound of Silence.” He’d never understood that song when he was living in Denver, back when everything was right with Annalisa and him. Now he did. Now, alone, driving, holding on to the night, he knew what every word of it meant.

22

Jenna called early Monday morning.

He was on edge as it was; the sound of her voice honed it. Bad weekend. He’d had that same nightmare twice, the disturbingly altered one where the bloody Rose opened her dead eyes and stared at him, and he’d drunk too much in a futile effort to blot it out. The constant grinding ache behind his eyes had been there for days and was only partly hangover. And now Jenna.

“Well,” she said, “you are in residence. I thought you might’ve gone on a trip somewhere.” Soft tone but without the purr; with a veiled sharpness instead. Like razor blades hidden in silk sheets.

“I’ve been busy. It’s that time of year.”

“Yes, Cam, I know. We’re busy up here, too.”

“Of course you are.”

“I almost called you at home on Saturday,” she said.

His left hand, resting on the desk blotter, spasmed involuntarily. He lifted it, held it out; watched it shimmy slightly. “Why would you want to call me at home?”

“Not for the reason you think. You remember that man in the Hotel Paloma bar? The one who was watching us?”

“What about him?”

“Have you see him again since that night?”

“No. Why?”

“He was in the hotel bar again Friday night. Watching me this time.”

“...Are you sure?”

“Sure it was the same man? Yes. Sure he was watching me? Yes. Bryan noticed him, too. I was there with Bryan and Dennis Frane and his wife.”

He didn’t know what to say. He could feel his nerves crawling under his skin.

“I would’ve confronted him,” Jenna said, “but he left before I could. Bryan stopped me from going after him. I wish he hadn’t.”

“Why would you want to confront him?”

“You know how I feel about weirdos, Cam.”

“Maybe he just finds you attractive.”

“It wasn’t that kind of watching. He’s up to something.”

“Come on, Jenna.”

“I want to know what it is,” she said. “I should think you would, too.”

“Me? Why me?”

“It was you he was staring at hardest the first time.”

“I don’t know about that. And I wasn’t there Friday—”

“Don’t be an ostrich, for heaven’s sake.”

“Jenna... what’s the point of getting worked up over some harmless guy you’ve seen twice in a bar?”

“How do you know he’s harmless?”

“I don’t know it, but I’m assuming—”

“Yes, well, I’m assuming he isn’t.”

“On what grounds? He hasn’t done anything to you, or to me. People look at each other, it’s not a crime.”

“It is if he’s a stalker, a rapist. I know what I’m talking about, Cam. It happened to me once before.”

“You were stalked, raped?”

“Yes. Let it go at that — I’m not going to relive the details with you. You’re certain you haven’t seen that man in the past ten days?”

“Positive.” His mouth was dry. I need a drink, he thought. Nine-thirty in the morning, and already I’m lusting after a martini. “What do you want to do about this, Jenna? What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing,” she said. Something new and unpleasant seasoned her voice, like a rancid buttering. Disgust? “I simply wanted to make you aware of a potentially dangerous situation.”

“Okay, I’m aware of it. I don’t happen to agree, that’s all. Do you mind if we discuss something else?”

She said, “Right now we don’t have anything else to discuss,” and broke the connection.

He tried to get back to work, but he could no longer concentrate on the proposed new list of Oregon state regulatory requirements he’d been studying. The conversation with Jenna kept replaying in his head. Stalked and raped... a hell of a thing, an awful thing. It explained her hard-core fascist outlook, but it didn’t mean her interpretation of a stranger’s looks and actions wasn’t colored by paranoia. Rape victims were often paranoid about men, strangers, and who could blame them? Still, this man hadn’t bothered her in any way, by her own admission. And that stuff about the man staring hardest at him—

The blue Mazda on Crackerbox Road, the one that had followed him back to Los Alegres.

Christ, he thought, the same man? No, of course not. Somebody who happened to be going where he was, a simple coincidence. And even if it was the same man—

Even if it was—

Dangerous to him? Nonsense. Dangerous how?

Dangerous why?

23

Farmer’s name was Kells, Joe Kells. Old guy, past seventy, beanpole thin and spry for his age. He reminded Nick of his old man. Same body type, same stringy cords in his neck. Big difference was, Kells liked to hear himself talk, and the old man’d never said more than ten words a day to anybody if he could help it. Didn’t have any friends, didn’t even leave the farm much after Mom died. Nick never could get close to him, hadn’t felt much when the heart attack killed Pa two days after Nick turned seventeen. Only three people came to the funeral, one of them the prairie neighbor who bought their land on the cheap. Neighbor said to Nick after the service, “Good man, your father. Just didn’t fit comfortable in the world.”

Say the same thing about Tom Hendryx’s son.

He don’t fit comfortable in the world anymore.

This guy Kells owned a place out in the country west of Los Alegres. Truck farm, vegetables and alfalfa. Decided to clean out his low-lying barn, he said, “before El Niño hits and floods it again like last time.” Called up Goodwill, and Nick and his helper, Eladio, went out to pick up the stuff Kells was donating — old gas range that still worked, kitchen table and chairs, swamp cooler, bunch of tools and odds and ends.

Kells insisted on helping them load the truck. He talked the whole time, hopping from subject to subject. Seemed to have a good memory and said he’d lived in the area all his life. So Nick picked his spot and primed him about Gallagher. He’d taken to bringing up Gallagher’s name, asking questions, every chance he got to work it into a conversation. Picked up a few things here and there, most interesting a hint of something that’d happened to Gallagher’s parents a long time ago. If anybody knew the details about that, he figured maybe it was this old guy Kells. And he was right.

“Sure, I know Cam Gallagher,” Kells said. “Not to speak to, we don’t travel in the same circles, ha ha. Just by what I hear. Family used to be important people around here. His grandfather was mayor of Los Alegres in the forties. Didn’t know him, but I knew his son, Paul. Paul was a lawyer, too. Did some legal work for me back in the sixties, land deal that got bollixed up and he straightened it out, saved me close to three thousand dollars. Poor bastard didn’t deserve his fate, but hell, how many of us do? Cam Gallagher’s the last of the clan. Well, except for his sister, and Paul’s sister, Ida—”

Nick asked, “What happened to Paul that he didn’t deserve?”

“Killed himself. Shot himself in the head.”

“That right?”

“Yep. Shot his wife first. Killed her and then killed himself, bang, bang, bang. Left those two kids orphans just that fast.”

“Gallagher and his sister.”

“Yep. Don’t remember her name. Started with a C like his. I think she still lives around here somewhere. Not Los Alegres, some other town.”

“Why’d Paul shoot his wife?”

“Caught her cheating on him. She was a grade-A bitch, slept around before and after she was married. Everybody knew it, she didn’t seem to give a fig. Rose, that was her name. Good-looking woman but a slut and a boozehound. Paul knew about her sleeping around, no way he couldn’t’ve known. Must’ve loved her plenty to put up with it long as he did. But a man can only take so much. One night he up and snapped. Drove up to their house at the river when he wasn’t expected, caught some fella there with her, shot her and then himself. Don’t recall why he didn’t shoot the lover, too. It’d been me, I’d have made a clean sweep.”

“House at the river, you said. What river would that be?”

“Russian River. Gallagher family had a house up there. Cam’s grandfather, first Cameron Gallagher, he’s the one who built it.”

“Cam still own the place, do you know?”

“Can’t say I do because I don’t, ha ha. Don’t see why he would after what happened there. Near Rio Nido, I think it was. No, Duncans Mills. Papers called it the House of Death, they always got to make everything sound worse than it is. But it was a pretty big deal at the time. We don’t get many murders around here.”

“When did all of that happen?”

“Oh, must’ve been better than twenty years ago. More like twenty-five. Hell of a thing for those kids. Cam in particular. Scarred him, I’ll bet. Don’t see how it couldn’t have.”

“Why do you say that, Mr. Kells?”

“He was there that night, him and his mother spending the weekend at the house. Middle of winter, don’t remember exactly when. She went up there to meet her lover, took the boy along as camouflage. You know, so Paul wouldn’t figure she’d be up to anything with the kid in the house. Too bad for both of ’em he did figure it out.”

“Did Cam see it happen?” Nick asked. “The shootings?”

“Saw it or heard it. Saw the bodies, anyhow, his own father and mother. Had to’ve scarred him, he couldn’t’ve been more than nine or ten at the time.”

“What happened to him and his sister afterward?”

“Oh, Ida and her husband took ’em in and raised ’em. Ida and Frank DeLucca. Grew grapes over in the Paloma Valley, that’s how Cam got into the wine business — sort of grew up in it. Frank’s dead now, been dead four or five years. Ida still lives somewheres in the valley, far as I know.”

They were finished loading the truck. Nick filled out the receipt on his clipboard, gave it to the old guy to sign. “There you go, Mr. Kells. Thanks for the donation.”

“Sure thing,” Kells said. “Always glad to help out whenever I can. What’d you say your name was?”

“Nick.”

“How come you’re so interested in Cam Gallagher, anyway, Nick? You know him?”

“I’m getting to.”

“Well, he’s a nice enough fella, even if he does live high on the hog. I hear he drinks what he sells, but hell, you can’t blame him for that. I’d drink myself if I went through what he did. Scars. You know what I mean, young fella?”

“Sure,” Nick said. “I know just what you mean.”

24

Cam spent two days fighting off a vague hunted feeling every time he went out in public. Jenna’s paranoia feeding his paranoia and leading to half-furtive glances at people on the streets, in cars, in restaurants, on the lookout for the face of a man he’d seen exactly once in his life, at a distance in a crowded bar. Imagining menace riding in every blue Mazda.

He didn’t see the face.

He didn’t see any trailing blue car.

By Tuesday night he felt like a thorough fool. One of life’s seriocomic nutcases, like the ones who imagined they were alien abductees or the victims of ultrasecret government death-ray experiments. He told himself to cut it out, quit driving with one eye on the rearview mirror, quit staring at everybody as if they were lunatics ready to hurl themselves on him without provocation, jibbering epithets and wielding lethal weapons. Get a grip.

He wondered if he ought to have another session with Dr. Beloit. Decided the answer was no. What good would it do? He’d had enough of Beloit’s brand of psychoanalysis; the last thing he needed was a reprise of last Thursday’s fiasco. And sure as hell the good doctor would try to turn the suggestive fear of a stranger into another example of the alleged self-destructive impulses of Cameron Gallagher. He could work through this temporary kink on his own.

As for Jenna, he thought he could handle that situation, too, now. Her paranoia, like her fascist views, was a turnoff; the compulsion to sleep with her wasn’t nearly as strong as it had been. Confine his dealings with her to a business environment, and he’d be able to control the temptation. He was convinced of it.

All he had to worry about now were the nightmares, and the headaches, and the depression that always came with the long, dark days of winter...

25

County library in Santa Rosa stayed open late on weeknights. Nick found that out and drove up there. Librarian told him they had issues of both the Santa Rosa and Los Alegres papers on microfilm, going back more than twenty-five years. But they weren’t indexed, so you had to know the approximate dates of whatever you were trying to find, then scan each issue in that period.

More than twenty years, old man Kells’d said, closer to twenty-five. Middle of winter. Narrowed it down some. Start back twenty-three years, say, work up to twenty-five, keep it to the winter months, November through February. See what that bought him.

He went into a room with the librarian. She brought out the files of the Santa Rosa Press Democrat for November and December of ’75, January and February of ’76. Showed him how to work the machine, got him started, left him alone.

Slow work, even though he only looked at the front pages because Kells’d said the shootings made a big splash. Still had to crank through the rest to get to the next day. Wasn’t anything in ’75/76. And ’74/75 wasn’t the right winter, either. He got ’73/74 and started in on those — and there it was.

January ’74. January 4. Something stirred in him, cold and hard, when he saw the date. Same week of January that Gallagher’d hurt Annalisa, only four days’ difference. January 8, he’d never forget that date. Gallagher’s month and week for disasters.

Nick read the article again. Read the next day’s follow-up story. Few more details there: Woman shot twice in the chest, husband blew his brains out, some guy named Halloran questioned and admitted being wife’s lover and also in the house that night — but Nick didn’t care about any of that. Wasn’t much about the kid except he was under a doctor’s care.

He asked for the January ’74 file of the Los Alegres Argus-Courier. Story in there didn’t tell him much, either. One of the boy’s teachers described him as “a sensitive child” and one of the brightest students at his school. Sensitive. Man oh man.

On the way out of Santa Rosa, Nick kept thinking about the coincidence — both tragedies, his and Gallagher’s, happening in January only four days apart. He thought about the house where the shootings had happened — 160 °Crackerbox Road near Duncans Mills. That was where Gallagher’d gone two Saturdays ago. Same house? Must be. Did he still own it? Find out.

He had ideas now. Little more information, little more planning, they’d come together and he’d know just what he was going to do.

26

Hallie said, “I called Caitlin just before you came home tonight. To invite her to Thanksgiving dinner.”

“What’d she say?”

“What she always says. She has other plans.”

“I don’t know why you bother every year.”

“She’s family, that’s why.”

“Did you tell her Aunt Ida will be here?”

“Yes. She said, ‘Cam must be happy about that. He was her favorite.’”

“That’s not true. Ida didn’t play favorites.”

“I know. She didn’t sound good, Cam.”

“How do you mean?”

“Oh, you know, upset and stressed out. There was a lot of yelling in the background.”

“Teddy?”

“No, a man’s voice. Heavy on the profanity.”

“Hal, the mechanic. Her new live-in.”

Leah asked, “What’s a live-in?”

“Never mind,” Hallie said. “Just eat your supper.”

“It means the new guy she’s sleeping with,” Shannon said.

“Thanks so much for teaching your sister what she doesn’t need to know.”

“I already know about that stuff,” Leah said.

“Anyway,” Shannon said, “I’m glad they’re not coming. Aunt Cat’s no fun, and Teddy’s a creepy dork.”

“That’s a fine way to talk.”

“Well, he is. A dork and a dickhead.”

“Shannon. Watch your mouth.”

“What’d I say?”

“You know what you said. This is the dinner table.”

“As if I didn’t know.”

Leah said, “Can I have some more broccoli?”

“Jeez. She actually likes that stuff.”

“May I have some more,” Hallie corrected.

“Okay, may I?”

“Shannon, pass the bowl to your sister. Cam?”

“Mmm?”

“You’re awfully quiet.”

“Am I? Not much to say, I guess.”

“You’ve hardly touched your food. Don’t you like the casserole?”

“It’s fine.”

“Eat some of it, then. If you don’t, after what you’ve had to drink—”

“Two martinis and a glass of wine. Big deal.”

“Cam,” she said warningly.

“Okay. Okay. Pass that broccoli over here, squirt.”

“I’m not a squirt.”

“Look like one to me. Cute little squirt.”

“Phooey,” Leah said. Then she said, “Shannon almost got run over today.”

“What!” From Hallie.

“Oh, it wasn’t any big deal,” Shannon said.

“That’s not what you told me. You said you almost got squashed like a bug.”

“Shut up, you.”

“What happened, for heaven’s sake?”

“Well, I was like coming home from school—”

Leah said, “You’re not supposed to use the word ‘like.’”

“Shut up. I was coming home from school, you know, walking my bike up the hill — on the sidewalk, not in the street — and this blue car came flying around the corner—”

Cam said, “Blue car?”

“Yeah. It came flying around the corner, real close to the curb. If I’d been in the street, it would’ve squashed me.”

“What kind of blue car?”

“I don’t know, a blue car.”

“Who was driving it?”

“A guy. I never saw him before.”

“What did he look like?”

“Jeez, Dad, it all happened so fast—”

“Was he about my age? Thin, dark hair?”

“No. A young dude. You know, from the high school. He had a girl with him, sitting real close. I’ll bet she was fooling around with him, and that’s why he—”

“Shannon!”

“Well, you wanted to know what happened, Mom.”

“Thank God you weren’t hurt. The way kids drive nowadays—” Hallie broke off and then asked him, “Cam, what was that about a dark-haired man in a blue car?”

“Nothing important. Just... an overreaction.”

“To what?”

“I had words with a man in a blue car the other day, at a stoplight downtown. One of those traffic things.”

“You don’t really think...?”

“No, of course not. There’s no reason to worry. It’s nothing at all.”

He poured himself another glass of wine.

27

Annalisa came to him in the night, the way she did sometimes. Warm, soft, sweet-smelling. He could feel her breath on his cheek, the touch of her hand, the satiny surfaces of her breasts and thighs as she snuggled against him.

“I’m cold, Nick. Make me warm.”

“Sure. You never have to be cold when I’m here.”...

“Oh God, Nickie, you made me come three times. Three times!”

“Let me rest awhile, and we’ll try for four.”...

“Would you mind if we had a baby? I mean, soon. I think I might be pregnant.”

“Mind? You know I want to have kids with you.”...

“False alarm. I took the test today, and I’m not.”

“There’s plenty of time, honey. We’ve got all the time in the world, make as many babies as we want.”...

“Oh, what a beautiful watch! Oh, Nick, it must have cost a fortune! Are you sure we can afford it?”

“Absolutely. I wanted you to have something really nice for Christmas.”...

Fingers playing in his hair. Sharp little teeth nibbling on his earlobe.

“Let’s go for a night ride, Nickie.”

“I was thinking the same thing. We’ll make it a long one, the longer the better.”...

“Another false alarm. I didn’t want to tell you until I was real sure.”

“Plenty of time, all the time in the world.”...

“Could we go out to San Diego sometime? I’d really like to see it again, where I used to live. Show it to you.”

“Sure we can. This spring. I’ve been with Miller’s long enough, I’m pretty sure they’ll let me take an early vacation.”...

“Look at that snow come down! Brrr. I’m glad we’re in here together where it’s warm.”

“How about we go to bed and get even warmer.”...

“Nick, Nick, Nick, oh God Nickie you feel so good inside me.”

“I love you, Annalisa, I never loved anybody the way I love you.”...

“We’re out of coffee, hon. I’m going down to the store and get some.”

“Maybe I better go instead. Snowing pretty hard out there now.”

“No, you stay here and read the paper, you worked hard all day. We need a few other things, too.”

“Okay, but go to the Addison Grocery instead of the supermarket. It’s closer.”

“I will.”

“And be careful. Streets are icy as hell.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back before you know it.”

Lips brushing his cheek, hand waving. Gone.

And gone from beside him—

— and he was alone someplace else, standing beside another bed looking down at her, hospital smells, hospital white, oh God her face, so pale, all those bruises, and the bandage around her head...

“Annalisa! Say something, talk to me!”

“She can’t hear you, Mr. Hendryx.”

“Will she be all right? She’s going to be all right, isn’t she?”

“We’re doing everything we can, but she suffered a severe head trauma from the collision with the telephone pole.”

Head trauma. Telephone pole. Annalisa...

“What happened, officer? Tell me what happened.”

“Her car stalled about a block from the Addison Grocery. She was walking there to call for help, call you, probably. Car came barreling out of the market lot, too fast for the conditions, skidded on a patch of ice, and sideswiped her, knocked her into that pole.”

“Driver didn’t stop to help her?”

“Didn’t even slow down. Hit-and-run. Woman who was pulling into the lot saw the whole thing. The man was in the store right before it happened, buying aspirin. Clerk said he looked drunk or sick. Caught a glimpse of the car he was driving and thinks it had a rental sticker. He gave us a good description of the man. If necessary we’ll have a police artist do a sketch. Don’t worry, Mr. Hendryx. We’ll find him.”

Don’t worry don’t worry. Find him find him find him...

“Why can’t you find him?”

“I don’t have an answer for you. I wish to God I did. The sketch we had made has been in the papers, on TV, and the clerk swears it’s a good likeness. We’ve had a few calls, but—”

“What about the rental car?”

“We’ve checked all the agencies in the Denver area. Boulder, Fort Collins, the Springs. It’s possible the car was rented out of state, if it was rented at all.”

“But there must’ve been damage...”

“All the auto body shops in the state have been alerted. The truth is, there might not’ve been much damage. He didn’t hit your wife head-on, he sideswiped her, just enough impact to throw her into that pole. No broken glass or paint samples at the scene. Small dents or bumper scrapes, maybe, but that’s the kind of minor damage that goes unnoticed on rentals.”

“You’re telling me he’s going to get away with it. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“No, sir. We haven’t given up. We’ll keep doing everything we can until we find him.”

Didn’t find him didn’t find him didn’t find him—

— and he was back in bed and Annalisa was beside him again, warm, soft, whispering.

“They’ll never find him, Nickie.”

“I know it. I know they won’t.”

“He’s going to get away with it.”

“No. I’ll find him. I promise I will, I swear it.”

“But how, if the police couldn’t?”

“I don’t know, but I will. No matter how long it takes. Someday, somehow, I’ll make him pay.”

“Oh, Nick, I love you.”

“Just don’t ever leave me. I promised, now you promise. Don’t leave me, Annalisa.”

“I won’t, I promise. Except now, for a little while.”

“No...”

And gone again.

Empty darkness all around him, nothing but the night.

28

On Friday morning, when he checked his e-mail at the office:

Last chance. Well, that made things simple, didn’t it? Ignore the message, and the Jenna crisis was history. When he saw her again, there might be some strain for a while, but they’d both get over that. It wouldn’t affect their business relationship—

Or would it?

What if she was as predatory as Maureen claimed? Spurn a predatory woman, especially one with paranoid tendencies, and you were likely to make a bad enemy. Jenna could do him some damage if she felt like it — do Paloma Wine Systems some damage. Fenwood Creek was one of PWS’s major clients, and she had the power to take their compliance business elsewhere. She knew a lot of people in the valley, important people in the industry, some of whom could be swayed by a campaign of lies and innuendoes...

Cut it out, Gallagher.

Jenna wasn’t like that. Her interest in him was temporary and strictly physical, just as he’d told Beloit — nothing more than an itch. She’d find somebody else to scratch it for her; the valley and the industry were loaded with eager scratchers. One thing about her he was absolutely certain of: She was not a one-man woman.

He thought of Hallie.

And with a feeling of relief, he consigned Jenna’s message to his electronic wastebasket.

29

No trouble finding his way back to Crackerbox Road. Like most truckers, he’d always had a good sense of direction. Go to a place once, if he needed to find it again he could, without getting lost or having to read a map.

He noticed the scenery more this trip. Pretty area. Tall pines, redwoods, dark river snaking along, old-fashioned little resort towns. And the ocean not too far away. Mountain country, the Rockies, was what he preferred after growing up on the flat prairie east of Denver, but Annalisa, she’d like it here. Maybe he’d bring her out someday after she got better... no, that wasn’t a smart idea. Wouldn’t be good for her to spend any time in the place where the man who’d hurt her had lived.

But he’d bring her to southern California like he’d promised. San Diego, where she’d been born and grew up — family moved to Denver when she was sixteen. Pacific kid. Called her that once, she laughed, so he kept teasing her with it afterward. Annalisa Foster, the Pacific Kid. Always talking about going back there, not to live but for a visit. No way he could’ve said no to her even if he’d wanted to. All the plans they’d made for the spring trip to San Diego... drive at night, sleep during the day, longest night ride they’d ever taken together. Getting excited himself, talking about it that January night right before she went out to the store and didn’t come back and Jesus why hadn’t he gone instead? Why had he let her go out alone on such a rotten night?

Questions he’d asked himself a thousand times before, ten thousand times. No sense beating himself up with them all over again. Finished, done with, no way to go back and change any of it.

Gallagher. Gallagher was now.

Annalisa was later. She was the past and the future.

The house Gallagher’d stopped at was just up ahead. Nick pulled off as he neared it, parked behind a Geo with a banged-in rear fender. For Rent sign was still there next to the front gate, property still looked deserted. He’d only seen the house from a distance before; closer in, it was bigger than he remembered, two stories, lots of land around it. Nice once probably, falling down now. Place where Gallagher’s father and mother died, all right. Number 1600. He hadn’t been able to find out yet if Gallagher still owned it. But if not, why’d he drive all the way up here and stand around on the road for five minutes looking at it?

Front gate was partway open. Nick went through, waded among weeds and grass to the porch. Riddled with dry rot and termites, wonder it hadn’t collapsed already. People and their houses. He ever owned one with Annalisa, and he would because she wanted one so much, a place for their kids to grow up in, he’d take care of it, keep it up. You had a responsibility to take pride in the place where you lived. Not enough people gave a damn anymore.

Overgrown path to one side that led around back. He followed it past a snarl of berry vines, a collapsed shed — and there was a woman back there, sitting on what was left of a rear stoop, smoking a cigarette, looking down a grassy bank at the river. He pulled up short, then started to back off, but she heard him and swiveled her head his way. He stopped again. She didn’t get up or change position, just sat there watching him.

“I didn’t know anybody was here,” he said.

“Just me and the birds.”

“Thought I’d take a look around.” Smile. “Saw the For Rent sign, and the property seemed deserted—”

“You interested in renting it?”

“Doubt I can afford it.”

“It’s cheaper than you might think.”

“You the real estate agent?”

“No, the owner. Well, one of the owners.”

“Mind if I ask your name?”

“Caitlin,” she said. “Caitlin Koski.”

Nick kept reaction from showing in his face. Piece of luck — big piece. She was the woman Gallagher’d visited in Sebastopol. Not another bimbo after all, but his sister. One of the newspaper stories about the shootings said Gallagher’s younger sister was named Caitlin, he remembered that now.

“Come on over here,” she said, “so we don’t have to yell.”

He went to where she sat. Wasn’t much to look at, not half as pretty as Annalisa, but she’d probably be all right if she washed her hair, put on some makeup, dressed in something besides jeans and a sloppy sweatshirt. Then she turned her head a little more and he saw the fresh bruise on her temple, a big red welt below her ear.

“I know,” she said, “I look like I got mugged. I’ve been sitting here feeling sorry for myself.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Get mugged.”

“No. At least not by a stranger after my money.”

“What happened?”

“Fight with my boyfriend last night. Ex-boyfriend. I threw the prick out this morning.”

“I’m sorry,” Nick said.

“Yeah, well, he’s no loss. Too free with his hands.”

“You call the cops on him?”

“What for?”

“Man hits a woman, he ought to be in jail.”

“Now, that’s a refreshing attitude. But it wouldn’t change Hal’s ways any. Only make him mean enough to come after me once he got out.” She didn’t sound bitter or angry, just matter-of-fact. Been through crap like that before, he thought. She had that beat-up-by-the-world look. “You know my name — what’s yours?”

“Nick. Nick Hendryx.”

“Well, Nick, this is a good property, even if the house doesn’t look like much. Plenty of room inside and out, three bedrooms, two baths, fully furnished, and half an acre of land. Nice view and a private beach. You have a family?”

“No.”

“Married?”

“Long story about that.”

“Uh-huh. We’ve all got one, right? So you’re alone?”

“For now.”

“Kind of a big place for one person, but maybe you like a lot of space to rattle around in.”

“Sure,” Nick said. “What’s it rent for?”

“Eight-fifty. That’s cheap for riverfront property.”

“Cheap for a house anywhere. Lease or month-to-month?”

“Either way. I’m flexible.”

“How much up front?”

“First month plus five hundred security deposit.”

“I don’t know. Thirteen-fifty’s a lot of cash.”

Her eyes moved over him. Taking his measure and liking what she saw. He could tell that from the way her face changed some, softened. She didn’t seem so hangdog anymore, either.

“We could work something out on the security deposit,” she said.

“Would the other owners go for that, Mrs. Koski?”

“Caitlin. I haven’t been Mrs. Koski in years.”

“Maybe they wouldn’t want to budge on the deposit.”

“Don’t worry about that. Only other owner is my brother, and he doesn’t give a shit... doesn’t care about this place. I do, so I’m the one who makes the rental decisions.”

“How come he doesn’t care, your brother?”

“He’s got more money than he knows what to do with, for one thing.”

“There another reason?”

“It’s personal.”

“Sorry.”

“So am I. But it’s not your problem.” Her eyes kept moving on him. Nice eyes, best thing about her — big, brown, direct. “So what do you think, Nick?”

“About what?”

“About living here.”

“Well, I’d have trouble swinging even the first month’s rent right now. I just moved into the area, just got a job. Most of my savings are long gone.”

“Where’re you living? Here at the river?”

“No, in Los Alegres.”

“Where my big brother lives.” She took out another cigarette, offered the pack to him. He shook his head. Popped an M&M to show her he had a vice, too. “I guess you wouldn’t want that long a commute.”

“I don’t mind driving,” he said. “Thing is, job I have isn’t much. Doesn’t pay much.”

“So you’re looking for something better?”

“Yeah. Or a second job to bring in more money.”

“Planning to stay in the area, then?”

“Like to. Weather’s better than Denver.”

“That where you’re from, Denver?”

“Mile High City, that’s right.”

She got to her feet, smiling at him. He knew that kind of smile. “A man who’s willing to work two jobs, wants to settle in one place, says he’s sorry when he doesn’t have to, and doesn’t believe in smacking women around. I didn’t know they made guys like you anymore.”

Didn’t know what to say to that, so he just shrugged.

“You’d make a good tenant,” she said.

“Thanks. But I just don’t see how I could swing it.”

“Like I said, I’m flexible. And nobody’s exactly been eager to rent the place, this late in the year. How about a look inside? The grand tour.”

“Sure, if you don’t mind.”

“Then maybe we can go somewhere, have a cup of coffee, see what we can work out. Sound like a plan?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Nick said, smiling.

30

His monthly Sunday-morning golf game didn’t go well. Nine holes at the Paloma Valley Country Club with Toby Charbonneau, Lloyd Edmonds, and Pete Hines of Stellar Vineyards. Cam couldn’t keep his mind on either the game or the usual banter and shop talk; his thoughts wandered, touching on Jenna and Beloit and the phantom stalker and then shying away again.

He shot a very poor seven over par — triple bogey on the eighth hole. That had always been the trouble with his golf, a lack of concentration. The Los Alegres club pro had told him once that he had a natural swing and a good feel for the subtleties of the game, and that if he worked at it, learned how to focus properly, he could be a scratch player, perhaps win a tournament or two. Smoke in the wind. He had enough difficulty staying focused on the important things in his life. Golf was recreation, a means of doing business — nothing more.

They broke for lunch, with the intention of playing the back nine afterward. It didn’t happen because of the weather, heavy clouds all of a sudden, cold wind, light drizzle. “El Niño taking an early leak” was the way Toby put it.

When the foursome broke up after lunch, Lloyd walked out to the car with him. “You seem kind of spacey today, Cam. Troubles?”

Lloyd was one of his better friends. Better, not best — he had no best friends, he thought wryly. No one he was close to except Hallie. No one he could talk to about serious matters except Hallie and his succession of shrinks. Lloyd was a good listener — six-figure-per-annum attorneys had to be good listeners — and Cam had known him since high school, went fishing and played golf with him, got together with Lloyd and Janet and their two sons for family outings. But their conversations were limited to subjects that were either superficially personal or impersonal, like sports and politics. Lloyd knew about the Gallagher Family Tragedy, as people used to call it, but neither of them had ever mentioned it, not once in twenty years. As if it were some sort of unspeakable secret.

He said, “Lot of things on my mind, Lloyd.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“No. Nothing serious.”

“You okay to drive?”

“I didn’t have that much to drink.”

“Not what I meant. Funny thing about driving — you need to keep your mind on the road.”

“I’m okay,” he said. “You know me, buddy. Mr. Cautious behind the wheel. Never an accident, never a citation.”

“Yeah, well, first time for everything.”

Mr. Cautious, he thought as he drove home — carefully, observing all the traffic laws. In one sense, that was a good name for him. Steady, plodding, not a reckless bone in his body. The closest he’d come to any sort of rash act was Jenna Bailey, and now that was a closed issue. Yet in another sense, the name didn’t fit him at all. A genuine Mr. Cautious was well adjusted, conservative, rock-solid; nobody who drank as much as he did, who had his history and was as screwed up inside as he was, could ever be any of those things. It was as if he were two people, one living inside the other, wanting to be the other. Like the putative thin man inside every fat one.

Hallie had taken the girls to lunch and a movie; the house was too quiet without them. He poked around among the CDs, found one that more or less suited his mood, and put it on. A drink? Better not He sat and listened to the music, but restlessness popped him back up again after a few minutes. Reading, watching TV, doing homework — none of it appealed. Damn rain, he couldn’t even go outside and putter in the garden. Here comes El Niño. Here comes winter.

He wandered aimlessly around the oversize family room, stylishly decorated in Danish modern — a far cry from the dark, solid furniture he preferred. Pottery lamps, decorative pottery bowls, handwoven curtains, all in harmonious beige and blue. Even his chair — Dad’s chair, the family called it — was a blue contoured thing that wasn’t as large or as comfortable as he’d have liked. Hallie’s tastes, Hallie’s choices, right down to the geometric Mondrian prints on the walls. Well? He’d said it didn’t matter to him how they decorated their new home, and it hadn’t at the time or for years afterward, but now for some reason it did.

The room was Hallie’s. And the kids’: schoolbooks and video games scattered around, one of Shannon’s sneakers peeking out from under the sofa. There wasn’t one item in it that had his stamp, that reflected his personality in any way. It was as if he were an intruder here.

He passed through the other rooms, and it was the same thing. Even the bedroom, even the brass-frame bed — Hallie’s. Hallie’s house, the girls’ house. The only room he could call his own was his study, and even that seemed somehow impersonal. What did it say about him, really? Computer that he used for work or to idly surf the Internet when he was in the mood. Model of a sailing ship that somebody’d given him so long ago he couldn’t remember who it had been. Wine posters — freebies from people in the industry. Rolltop desk that Hallie had bought as a surprise birthday present after he’d admired it in an antique store. Shelves of books that he hadn’t read in years or meant to read and kept finding excuses to avoid. Was all this him? Was any of it him?

Who am I? he thought. Mr. Cautious? Mr. Wanna-be Normal? Mr. Fucked-in-the-Head? Mr. Nobody?

I don’t know, he thought. I don’t know who Cameron Gallagher really is.

And maybe that’s because the real Cameron Gallagher died along with Rose the whore and Paul the suicidal weakling the night of January 4, 1974.

Mr. Impostor. A man with no identity at all, posing as a dead man.

31

Finding a second job wasn’t as easy as finding the first, because this one had to pay well. Night or day work, didn’t matter, but night was better so he could keep the Goodwill driving job. He spent all week hunting, lunch hours and evenings and part of one afternoon off. Every place he went was a bust.

Then on Saturday morning he walked in on the right one at the right time. Poultry processing outfit north of Los Alegres, driver needed for P.M. deliveries. Guy in charge, Mr. Statler, told him the job had already been filled but he was in luck because the driver they’d hired had busted his leg, guy’s wife had just called with the news. So the job was Nick’s if he could take out a load of dressed birds to Modesto right away tonight. Nick said sure. Mr. Statler gave him a tour of the plant, went over his routes and schedules. Saturdays and Sundays, Wednesdays and Thursdays — two different routes, south to the Central Valley, Modesto, Turlock, Merced, places like that, north to Chico, Red Bluff, Redding, each route twice a week and almost all of it night riding. The other bonus was the salary. Twenty-two an hour. Almost as much as he’d make if it was a union driving job.

So now he had something to tell Caitlin Koski. Perfect timing there, too. She’d rent him the house now for sure — not that he’d had any doubt of it. Wanted him for a tenant, but that wasn’t all she wanted. Made it plain she was interested in him. Supposed to see her tonight, talk some more about the house. Call her, switch the date to next week, next Friday, offer to take her out to dinner. Play her along and get her to open up about Gallagher.

He didn’t like stringing anybody along, especially a single mother with a load of problems, but it had to be done. Funny. In a way he liked her, too. Wasn’t physical, she wouldn’t have attracted him even if he didn’t love Annalisa so much. But she had those pretty eyes, that direct way of looking at you. And a direct way of talking, no b.s., nothing hidden. He admired that. It was how he’d been, tried to be anyway, before all the hurt and suffering. Now he had to make compromises, like it or not. For Annalisa’s sake.

Caitlin Koski. Another one who’d been hurt plenty in her life, and not just from being smacked around by some asshole’s big fists. Look at her up close, spend a few minutes with her, you could see the scars. He felt sorry for her. Liked and felt sorry for the sister of the man who’d nearly killed his wife. Crazy, wasn’t it?

Maybe not. Caidin hadn’t been in Denver that snowy January night. Wasn’t her fault. She’d suffer some for it in the end, couldn’t be helped, but not too much — she wasn’t close to Gallagher. Wouldn’t be anything like Annalisa’s suffering. Or his.

He shook his head, driving, thinking about all this. Should feel pretty good, getting the night hauling job for good wages, getting the house at the river, getting close to paying Gallagher back. But right now he didn’t, much.

Sad. That was how he felt right now.

Kind of sorry-sad that there had to be so much hurting for almost everybody in this life.

32

Over the next couple of weeks Cam worked hard at being Somebody. Mr. Rock-Solid, Mr. Normal, Mr. Good Husband, Father, Provider. He spent long hours at the office, and the fact that Jenna neither called nor e-mailed him made it easier to stay focused. The one time she phoned PWS on business, she’d asked specifically for Maureen.

He quit playing hunted man, studying faces and watching for blue Mazdas. He eased off on his drinking. He made love to Hallie with renewed vigor, easin’ round the side each time to keep the damn jockey out of their bed. He went to Leah’s pre-Thanksgiving dance recital — she had an eight-year-old’s unshakable certainty that she was destined to be a great ballerina — without having to be coaxed. He bought Shannon the new computer she’d been lobbying for for months (she wanted to be a software development engineer). He made arrangements to attend a four-day wine festival in San Diego in early February with Hallie, not telling her so he could spring it as a surprise when the time came.

Even the weather cooperated. Late fall had always been his favorite time of year, and the last half of November was particularly nice this year. Sunshine and cloudless skies, most days, even on Thanksgiving. And the leaves turning in the vineyards a brighter, shinier red-gold than usual, as if they’d been sprayed with lacquer. The prospect of winter didn’t seem quite as bleak as it had. The predicted two hundred inches of El Niño-spawned rainfall seemed an empty threat, the stuff of doomsayers and the disaster-hungry media.

The nightmares left him alone; so did the more severe headaches. He seemed to have more energy. He even began to look forward to Christmas and all its trappings with a kidlike exuberance.

There hadn’t been much joy in Christmas when Rose Adams Gallagher was above ground. His father had tried to make the Yuletide season festive for Caitlin and him, six-foot trees groaning under the weight of ornaments and lights and tinsel, mounds of presents, caroling with and for the neighbors. But Rose had invariably found ways to spoil the good times. Complaints, snide little digs (“You don’t need a pair of roller skates, Cameron, you’re so clumsy you’d probably break a leg”), fits of pique when she didn’t get her way, booze-provoked quarrels that led to shouting matches. The last holiday before she died, she’d turned up missing at the family’s traditional Christmas Eve gathering; went off somewhere in the early afternoon — to celebrate with one of her boyfriends, no doubt — didn’t come home until long after everyone was in bed, never explained or apologized to him or Caitlin; Paul had told them she’d been visiting a sick friend, but it had been such a bitter and obvious lie that Cam hadn’t believed it for a second.

The Christmases afterward hadn’t been much better. Aunt Ida and Uncle Frank had tried, but they’d been childless before and were resentful of being saddled with two young kids, ashamed that the kids were issue of a murderer and the town slut, and the combination of resentment and shame had made growing up in their Paloma Valley house an experience without much laughter or fun, even on holidays. He’d vowed that his own children would not have that cross to bear, and he’d kept the promise. Even during his worst periods of depression, Shannon and Leah had had happy Christmases, Easters, Thanksgivings.

One day at a time. He’d tried that philosophy before; now, at least for the present, it was working — he was almost the Somebody he longed to be.

One day at a time.

33

“Mom Foster? It’s Nick.”

“Nick! Lord, it’s good to hear your voice.”

“Yours, too. Guess it’s been a while.”

“Too long. We’ve been worried about you.”

“No need. I’m taking care of myself.”

“Where are you, honey?”

“California.”

“California’s a big place.”

“Little town out here. Mom, how’s Annalisa?”

“...Oh, Nick. She... I wish...”

“Is she any better?”

“No... the same. Same as before.”

“I miss her so much, I had to call.”

“I know you do. So do we.”

“What do the doctors say?”

“Oh, they... you know how doctors are.”

“But they’re still hopeful, right?”

“Yes. Still hopeful.”

“Does she recognize you and Pop yet?”

“No. She... no.”

“Does she say anything at all?”

“No.”

“Can she feed herself, get out of bed?”

“No. Nick, honey...”

“Insurance hasn’t run out or anything yet?”

“Not yet, no.”

“So the money situation’s okay?”

“Yes.”

“You sure? I can send you some if—”

“It’s all right, Nick. We have plenty of money.”

“Well, that’s good. How’s Pop?”

“He’s the same. You know Pop.”

“Still working ten hours a day at the store?”

“And more. It helps keep his mind off... you know.”

“How about you? You doing okay?”

“Managing. I wish Pop were here, I know he’d like to talk to you. Why don’t you call him at the store?”

“Maybe I will.”

“Or I’ll have him call you. What’s your number there?”

“Public phone, Mom, like always.”

“Nick... why don’t you come see us? Come home?”

“That’s one of the reasons I called. I am coming home.”

“Oh! That’s wonderful news. When?”

“Middle of January, about, if everything works out.”

“How do you mean, everything?”

“Some things I have to take care of.”

“What things?”

“For Annalisa and me. Things that’ll help her get better.”

“Can’t you tell me what they are?”

“Not now. They’re private, Mom.”

“Couldn’t you come for Christmas? We’d love to have you here for the holidays.”

“I’m working two jobs. I couldn’t swing it.”

“What sort of jobs? You don’t mind my asking?”

“No, I don’t mind. Driving jobs. One of them pays pretty well, but I’ve got some expenses.”

“Is there anything you need? Anything we can send you?”

“Annalisa is all I need. Annalisa to get well... Mom? You crying? I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“It... I’m all right. It’s not you, honey.”

“Don’t feel bad. She’ll get well. She will. You have to believe that as much as I do. Don’t ever stop believing it.”

“Nick?”

“Yes, Mom?”

“We pray for you. Every day Pop and I pray for you.”

“That’s good, but Annalisa’s the one who needs your prayers. All our prayers. Pray for her, okay?”

“I do. You know I do.”

“Sure, I know.”

“Will you call Pop now? Talk to him?”

“Maybe not right away. I’ve got to work tonight.”

“Nick...”

“In a few days. When I can.”

“When will I hear from you again?”

“Christmas, maybe. Before the middle of January.”

“And you will come home then? Promise?”

“If I’ve done what needs to be done by then.”

“Can’t you just give me a hint what—”

“Good-bye, Mom. Give Annalisa all my love. And don’t stop praying for her.”

34

The message to call John Lacey at Riverbank Realty was waiting when Cam returned from lunch on the first day of December. Some damn fool decided to rent the place after all, he thought. He called Lacey back, but not until he’d dealt with two other messages and signed a batch of letters Gretchen, his secretary and receptionist, had left on his desk.

“Have you spoken to your sister recently, Mr. Gallagher?”

“No, I haven’t. Why?”

“Well, she’s found a tenant for the house.”

“She has?”

“Yes. She called this morning and asked me to draw up the rental agreement.”

A note of disapproval in Lacey’s voice prompted Cam to ask, “Is there some problem with that?”

“Not exactly a problem. It’s just that she made the arrangements herself, without consulting with me. Or with you, evidently. And she wants to waive the security deposit.”

“For what reason?”

“She wouldn’t give a reason, except that she personally vouches for the renter.”

“Renter. One person, for a house that size?”

“That’s right. A man named Hendryx, Nicholas Hendryx.”

“I see.”

“Do you know him, Mr. Gallagher?”

“The name isn’t familiar, no.”

“His current address is South City Apartments, Los Alegres.”

South City Apartments was a fancy name for the semisleazy auto court down near the freeway. Terrific.

“What does he do for a living?” Cam asked.

“Two places of employment,” Lacey said. “Goodwill Industries and North County Poultry Processors. Works as a truck driver for both.”

“How long has he been in the area?”

“Less than a month.”

“Have you met him? Spoken to him?”

“Neither. Mrs. Koski said it wasn’t necessary, that she’d bring him in to sign the agreement when it’s ready.”

“Do you know anything else about him?”

Lacey didn’t. Nick Hendryx had no local ties, no family he was planning to have live with him, no credit rating. His only references were Caitlin and his current employers. The employers spoke well of him, but as Lacey pointed out, less than a month on the job wasn’t much of a test of dependability. Not enough for the security deposit on the house to be waived.

“Was she adamant about that?” Cam asked. “Waiving the deposit?”

“Yes. Very.”

“I suppose Hendryx wants to move in immediately.”

“On the fifteenth.”

“All right,” Cam said. “I’ll talk to my sister and get back to you, probably tomorrow.”

“You do understand my reluctance? The property is a difficult rental, particularly at this time of year and with the El Niño business, but under the circumstances...”

“I understand, John, and I appreciate the call. You’ll hear from me soon.”

Ah, Caitlin, he thought as he hung up, why won’t you ever learn?

He called her as soon as he got home.

“I figured I’d hear from you tonight,” she said. “Lacey called you, right?”

“Why did I have to hear it from him, Cat?”

“I don’t need to ask your permission to rent my house.”

“Our house.”

“You don’t give a shit about it. I do.”

“This man Hendryx. Is he somebody you know personally?”

“What difference does that make?”

“I’m just curious. He hasn’t been in the area long—”

“Why don’t you just come out and ask me if I’m sleeping with him?”

“Cat, don’t make this any more difficult—”

“You’re the one who’s making it difficult. I’m not sleeping with Nick, but maybe I will. Soon.”

He smothered a sigh. “What about Hal? What does he think about this?”

“Hal’s history. Two weeks gone and already forgotten.”

“What happened?”

“Next question,” she said.

“Okay, fine. Tell me about Hendryx.”

“He’s a nice guy, he works hard, and I like him. That’s all you need to know.”

“Why does he want to live at the river? He works two jobs down here, and it’s a longish commute.”

“That’s his business, not yours.”

“The house is my business, Cat. Whose idea was it to waive the security deposit?”

“Mine.”

“But he suggested it.”

“No, I suggested it. He offered to pay the deposit, went out and got a second job so he could afford to pay it, but I said no.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I told you, he’s a nice guy and I like him.”

“Then why not just move him in with you and Teddy? Why does he need a big house like that all to himself?”

Silence.

“Caitlin?”

“You’re an asshole, big brother, you know that? Sometimes you’re the world’s biggest asshole.”

“I’m only trying to look out for your best interests—”

“Here we go again. Same old bullshit.”

“All right, it’s bullshit.” Clash and conflict, every time he spoke to her. Exasperation made him say, “I can put a stop to this, you know. Rental agreement has to have both our signatures.”

She said, “You do that, and you’ll regret it,” in a voice as cold and hard as he’d ever heard her use. “I mean that, Cameron.”

“Nick Hendryx must’ve really gotten to you.”

“If he has, it’s my doing, not his. And not in the way you think. He’s not Gus or Hal or any of the others. He’s different.”

“How is he different?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“No. Are you going to sign the agreement?”

“I’d like to meet him first.”

“No.”

“Why don’t you leave that up to him?”

“I said no. The house is empty, and I want it rented to Nick Hendryx. Period. Are you going to sign the agreement?”

He didn’t want to argue with her anymore. Aggravation, sadness, a sense of loss — they were all his dealings with Caitlin ever seemed to bring him. “If it’ll make you happy,” he said.

“What’ll make me happy is you not giving me crap all the time.”

“That’s not my intention, Cat. I hate us always being at each other’s throats.”

“You think I like it?”

“Why can’t we be good to each other?”

“Good? What’s good? You tell me.”

He took a breath before he spoke again. “Hallie and the girls and I would like you and Teddy to spend Christmas Eve with us this year. I thought I’d invite you this far in advance so—”

“Sorry,” she said. “Other plans,” she said, and the line began an empty buzzing in his ear.

35

Six o’clock Tuesday night. Nick was getting ready to head out, eat supper, go for a night ride, when somebody knocked on the door. Court manager or one of his neighbors — who else? He went over and opened up.

Gallagher was standing there.

Cameron fucking Gallagher, right there in front of him.

He stared, and Gallagher stared. Like they’d both come face to face with something unexpected, something out of the dark. Nick went cold and empty at first. Couldn’t think, couldn’t figure how Gallagher knew where to find him, what he was doing here. Days since he’d seen him. Too busy with Caitlin and the two jobs to do much trailing.

Gallagher said in a voice jammed with surprise, “You’re the man who—” The rest of it didn’t come out. He made a sound in his throat. “Are you Nick Hendryx?”

All of a sudden Nick filled with heat and a wild urge to grab Gallagher by the throat, choke him until he turned black. His hands twitched; he had to slap them down hard against his sides. His face had a tight, frozen feel, as if, if he moved a single muscle in it, it’d crack like glass.

Again, “Nick Hendryx?”

“That’s right.” Words pumped loose with only his throat moving, not his mouth. “Who’re you?”

“Cameron Gallagher. I’ve seen you before.”

“That so?”

“In the Hotel Paloma bar. About a month ago.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised. I get around.”

“I... was with a woman named Jenna Bailey.”

“So?”

“Do you know her?”

“No.”

“The blue Mazda there. Yours?”

“What if it is?”

“I was just... You don’t know me?”

“Said I didn’t.” Had himself under control now. Wouldn’t crack and put his hands on Gallagher. Later. Later. “Listen, what do you want? You selling something?”

“No. I came to... I’m Caitlin Koski’s brother.”

“Oh, so that’s it.”

“She didn’t send me, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was my idea.”

“Sure it was. Meet the guy who’s going to rent your Russian River house?”

“Right.” Gallagher hesitated, maybe thinking about asking to come inside. Didn’t do it, and that was good because Nick would’ve said no. Close himself up with Gallagher in a box like this one, and he might not be able to hold on to his cool. “Well...”

“Why you’d ask about my car?”

“It looks familiar. Were you at the river, our house up there, a few weeks back? A Saturday afternoon?”

“Might’ve been. Why?”

Gallagher shook his head. “Have you known my sister long?”

“Not long. Met her at the house.”

“Are you seeing her? Socially, I mean.”

“Didn’t she say?”

“Not exactly.”

Nick put a smile on. “Wondering what my intentions are?”

“Just wondering.”

“She’s a nice woman, your sister. I like her.”

“She said the same about you.”

“Too bad she doesn’t say it about you.”

“What do you mean?” Frowning. “What did she say about me?”

“Nothing much.” Not as much as he’d tried to find out. Woman was hard to pry information out of. “Just that the two of you weren’t close. That about right, Mr. Gallagher?”

“Yes.” Something in his voice — hurt maybe. “About right.”

“You have some objection to me renting your place?”

“No, no objection. But I can’t help wondering why a single man would want to live in such a big house.”

“I like space, lots of it,” Nick said. “And the rent’s cheap for a place that size. Cat tell you I took a second job so I could afford it?”

“Yes, she told me.”

“When I see something I want, I go for it. Been that way all my life. Back home in Denver and everywhere I’ve been since I left.”

No reaction. Chin up and down once, that was all.

“You ever been in Denver, Mr. Gallagher?”

“A couple of times.”

“How’d you like it there?”

“I didn’t have a chance to see much of it. I was there on business.”

“What time of year?”

“I don’t remember exactly.”

“January? Lots of snow and ice on the streets in January.”

No reaction. “I suppose so.”

“Don’t you know? Never been there in January?”

“No. Once when it was snowing, but I don’t think it was January.”

Hell it wasn’t, you son of a bitch. “My wife’s still there,” Nick said. “Still in Denver.”

“Oh, so you’re married.” Mouth twitched, nothing else.

“Happily married, that’s right.”

“Does Caitlin know that?”

“She knows. I told her.” Not much, just enough.

“And she doesn’t mind?”

“Not the way things are, she doesn’t.”

“What way is that?”

“My wife’s in a hospital up there in Denver. She got hurt one night, real bad, and still hasn’t got better.”

Hesitation. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Uh-huh. You’re sorry.”

“I mean it. Some kind of accident?”

“Some kind. Hit-and-run kind.”

No reaction.

“Head injuries from being thrown into a telephone pole. Put her into a kind of coma.”

Son of a bitch said again, “I’m sorry. What do the doctors say? About her chances for recovery?”

“They say she might. I know she will.”

“You must love her very much.”

You’ll find out how much. “That’s right, I do.”

“Why aren’t you... I mean...”

“Still in Denver with her?”

“I don’t mean to pry into your personal affairs...”

“Nothing I can do for her there. She’s got the best doctors, her folks to watch over her. Out here I can do her a lot more good.”

“You mean by working, making money to pay the hospital bills?”

Nick didn’t answer that. Just smiled, thin and tight.

Smile made Gallagher uneasy, but he tried to cover up. “Did they ever catch the hit-and-run driver?”

“Never did. But he’ll get caught. Someday he’ll pay for what he did to Annalisa. Someday soon.”

Chin up, chin down. Phony expression of sympathy to hide what he was feeling underneath. Nick’s hands twitched and clenched. Hunger to rip Gallagher’s face off flared again for a few seconds, but he held it in check. Kept his voice steady, the smile in place.

“Well,” Gallagher said, and his voice didn’t sound so steady. Sweating inside if not out. Getting the idea. Trying to figure a way out, maybe, standing here, but there wasn’t any way out. And maybe getting that idea, too. “Well, I hope you’re right about that.”

“No doubt about it. So what do you say, Mr. Gallagher?”

“Say about what?”

“Your house at the river. Not going to stop me from renting it, are you?”

“That wasn’t my intention in coming here.”

“Now that you know about me, I mean. Married man with a hurt wife, hit-and-run victim, keeping company with your sister.”

“I can’t stop Caitlin from seeing whom she pleases.”

“Didn’t answer my question.”

“No, I’m not going to stand in your way. Or my sister’s way. All I ask is that you treat her decently.”

“I always treat women decently. I’d never hurt a woman.”

“Good. That’s good.” Nervous now, couldn’t stand still. See the fear in his eyes. “Well, I’d better be on my way.”

“I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Gallagher.”

“I don’t think it’ll be necessary. I’ll have the rental papers sent to me, save myself a trip to Guerneville. You can move in on the fifteenth as planned.”

“Be seeing you anyway, one of these days. Before too long.”

Nothing to say to that. Chin up, chin down, and away to his BMW with shoulders hunched, moving fast.

Nick watched him drive out of the courtyard. Thinking he couldn’t’ve done a better job of handling Gallagher if he’d arranged this meeting himself. Should’ve faced him, put on the pressure sooner. Now that it was on, he’d keep it that way. Keep the bugger off balance and guessing until the time was right. Because what could he do about it, any of it? Guilty offelony hit-and-run, couldn’t go to the cops. And he wasn’t the type to pick up a gun, some other weapon, and go hunting. Not him, rich big shot like him. He wouldn’t run, either. Guys who lived the kind of life he did didn’t know how to run.

He’d be right here, squirming, still trying to figure a way out, when Nick was ready for him.

36

Cam poured Bombay gin over ice cubes in two glasses, making one a double, added a drop of vermouth and a twist of lemon peel to both, and brought the smaller drink to Hallie. They were in the sunroom, where they always had their predinner cocktails. Private time, just the two of them, no kids allowed.

He sat in the other armchair and sipped, sipped again, sipped a third time before he lowered the glass. The gin cut a fiery swath through him, but it didn’t soften the hard edges the way it usually did. It would take more than one or two martinis to do the job tonight.

He said, “I stopped at South City Apartments on the way home, to see the man Caitlin rented the river house to. That’s why I was late.”

“Did you talk to him?” Hallie asked.

“Yeah. I talked to him.”

“And?”

“Odd. A damned odd duck.”

“In what way?”

“Forthcoming enough, but not quite... I don’t know, a little off somehow. Sly. Things going on under the surface.”

“You don’t think he’s—?”

“Dangerous? No. No, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t sound too sure,” Hallie said. “Lord, Cat’s taste in men. Another weirdo.”

Dangerous. Weirdo. Cam took a longer pull at his drink before he said, “He’s married. Came right out and said so.”

“Uh-oh. But why would he admit it?”

“It’s no secret. Cat knows, at least he said he told her. His wife’s in a hospital in Denver. Some sort of hit-and-run accident that left her in a coma.”

“Poor woman. Why isn’t he in Denver with her?”

“I asked him that. He said he could do her more good out here.”

“Did he mean money?”

“No,” Cam said. “I don’t know what he meant.”

In his mind he kept going over the conversation with Hendryx. Why tell him about the wife, the accident? Why ask him if he’d ever been in Denver in January? Why say the hit-and-run driver, never caught, was going to pay someday soon? It was as if—

As if he suspects me, Cam thought.

But that’s crazy. Why would he suspect me? In Denver twice in my life, never had an accident there or anywhere else. January. Ice and snow. One of the trips it was snowing, but it wasn’t January. I don’t think it was January. Christ, the blackout that time, the blood on my hands and shirt... but that was just a nosebleed, and it didn’t happen in Denver. Portland. It was Portland...

What’s the matter with me? Thinking like that, as if I’m trying to convince myself I couldn’t be guilty. Beloit, that quack, would say I want to be guilty, him and his goddamn self-destructive impulses. I had nothing to do with what happened to Hendryx’s wife. If that’s what he thinks, he’s got me mixed up with somebody else.

Has he been following me? That one time, it could’ve been him and his blue Mazda. Him in the hotel bar, too. But why would he be stalking Jenna? That doesn’t make any sense. All of it, just coincidence. But why is he fooling around with Caitlin, married man with a brain-damaged wife? Why does he want to rent the river house? He must be up to something—

“Cam!

He blinked, spilled a little of the martini on his pant leg.

“For goodness’ sake,” she said, “where were you?”

He shook his head. Brushed at the wet spot.

“The expression on your face... as though something was hurting you.”

He swallowed what was left in his glass, went to the liquor cart for a refill.

“Cam?” Concern in her tone. And the old undercurrent of uneasiness that said, Lord, what is he doing to himself now? “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he lied.

“That man Hendryx seems to’ve really upset you. Is there something you haven’t told me?”

He longed to spew it all out — Hendryx’s inexplicable attitude, his own paranoid fears, Beloit’s death-wish nonsense, even the near affair with Jenna. Unload it on Hallie, purge himself the way Catholics purged their sins in the confessional, find peace and absolution through her. But the words wouldn’t come. Everything was locked up tight inside him, and he couldn’t tear any of it loose no matter how hard he tried.

“No,” he said. “No, there’s nothing.”

37

Fenwood Creek winery. Medium-size place, oak trees and vineyards all around, big asphalt parking lot on one side. Upper end of the Paloma Valley, near the village of Fenwood.

Nick turned off the highway, drove down a short lane into the lot. Time by his watch was 4:35. Sign said the tasting room closed at five, so there were only a couple of cars parked on the visitors’ side. More cars in the employees’ section toward the back, next to the warehouse. White Lexus was parked there, front slot, as if the Bailey woman was looking for a fast getaway once quitting time rolled around.

He came back, parked near the entrance. That was the only way off the winery grounds. Besides, he had a long sideslant view of the Lexus from there.

Half hour passed. A few people straggled out and got into their wheels and drove off, none of them the brunette and none paying any attention to him. Five-twenty, and four more filed out of a door to one side of the tasting room. Brunette was among them, the one who locked up. They walked in a bunch to the employees’ section. Dark by then, but Nick hunkered down anyway when the Lexus rolled past; he wasn’t ready for her to see him yet.

He let her and the car behind her reach the highway before he swung out of the lot. She turned south, the other car following, Nick following that one a hundred yards back. When she got into the middle of Fenwood, she cut off at a supermarket. Nick did the same, holding at the road end of the lot where he could see the Lexus and the market entrance.

She stayed in there for a while. Regular shop, not just one or two items. Probably meant she lived fairly close by, which made it easier for him. For all he’d been able to find out, she might’ve lived in Santa Rosa or Paloma or Los Alegres. She wasn’t listed in any of the local phone books.

Fifteen minutes, and she came out pushing a cart with two or three bags in it. Loaded the bags into the trunk. He stayed put until she was back on the highway and rolling south again, another car behind her, before he followed.

They rode half a mile. Then she turned again, west on a side road that hooked up into the hills. Another half-mile, another turn. Narrower side road, with a steep incline after a few hundred yards. Partway up the incline, her brake lights flashed; she cut into a driveway, stopped alongside a mailbox. Nick went on past without slowing. Up over the rise, out of her sight, he found a place to make a U-turn. Waited five minutes at the roadside, timing it by his watch, then drove back at an easy twenty-five.

His headlights picked up the mailbox and number painted on its side: 4100. Driveway led back through trees to a house with lights showing now; he had a glimpse of the Lexus parked in front as he slid past.

Down at the intersection with the first side road, he stopped to check the signs. Black Oak and Madrone Way. 4100 Madrone Way.

Okay. He’d found out what he needed to know about Jenna Bailey.

Now he could start turning up the heat.

38

That Saturday Cam took the Hallie Too downriver for the last time until spring. The weather was cold and overcast, but with no immediate threat of rain, and he needed to be alone, on water, the salt wind in his face. Free for a little while.

He navigated down through the Black Point narrows into San Pablo Bay and cruised along the eastern shore almost as far as the Carquinez Straits before he turned back. The bay was whitecapped, but the XLC slid through the chop smoothly and with little roll. She was such a sweet boat. Fine-tuned MerCruiser diesel, V-berth that slept four comfortably, plenty of extras, a heat and defrost system that would keep the cabin warm and dry under the worst conditions. He could have afforded a bigger, more luxurious craft than the Skagit, but not one that suited him and his needs more perfectly.

It was late afternoon when he maneuvered into his slip at the Los Alegres marina. When he had all the lines tied, he locked everything down inside the cabin, began tarping the deck and superstructure for the winter. The marina was sheltered; even at high tide — Los Alegres River was really a saltwater estuary — and in the heaviest of storms, there was little threat of damage here.

He was almost finished with the tarping when he noticed the man watching him from up on the seawall. He stiffened, shaded his eyes. The distance was too great for him to make out the man’s features, but the build was thin and wiry — and the car beside him was blue.

Fear gripped him first, then dissolved under a sudden and violent surge of anger. All right, Hendryx, he thought. Let’s get this out into the open right now.

He jumped off, ran along the float to the caged ramp, ran up the ramp and out onto the seawall. And then stopped, breathing hard, his hands clenched with such force he could feel the bite of his nails. A tic began to spasm on his cheek.

The blue car was a Toyota.

And the man standing beside it was nobody he had ever seen before.

...Cold, damp, dark. Smells of mold and mildew, rain and dust and mouse turds. Sound of the rain outside, beating on the roof, wind-flung against the dormer windows. He hears it dripping, a leak somewhere inside one of the walls. Drip. Drip. Drip. He doesn’t dare shut his eyes because then it won’t be rain he’ll see and hear dripping, it’ll be something else wet, glistening. Something bright red.

Blood.

Downstairs, on the bed. Blood.

Downstairs, on the bedroom floor. Blood.

Downstairs, her dead eyes open and staring.

Downstairs, in the red-blood night...

39

Caitlin said, “He really pisses me off sometimes. Showing up like that at your motel, checking up after I told him to leave you alone.”

“Well, it’s his house, too,” Nick said.

“Cameron hates the river house. It wasn’t you he was checking up on, it was me.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He thinks I don’t know how to run my own life. Always trying to tell me what to do, what’s good for me. He’s the last one to tell anybody how to live.”

“Why d’you say that?”

“He’s twice as fucked up as I am, that’s why.”

“Seemed normal enough to me.”

“Yeah, well, he puts on a good front. Underneath he’s a mess. Booze, depression, bad headaches — a bagful of neuroses. He’s been in and out of therapy most of his life.”

“On account of what happened to your folks?”

“Mostly, I guess.”

“Must’ve been pretty hard on him, being there the night it happened. He see any of it?”

“He says he didn’t. Says he was in his room.”

“Don’t you believe him?”

No answer to that. Caitlin sat staring into the fire. They were on the couch in her living room, Presto-log burning blue and green and yellow in the fireplace, him nursing a beer and her working on her fourth glass of wine. Cheap white wine out of a box — “I like it and it drives my brother up a wall, him and his wine snobbery.” Just the two of them in the house tonight. The kid, Teddy, Theodore, was staying at a friend’s place, she’d said when Nick got there. Fine with him. He didn’t like the kid much. Snotty and loud and already doing drugs at fourteen — stoned on what was probably coke one of the other times Nick had come over. Caitlin didn’t seem to notice. Too wrapped up with her own problems. Kid was his, he’d have kicked his ass black and blue.

Theodore being gone made things easier. No music blaring out of his room, Caitlin relaxed and drinking enough to loosen her tongue. But he wondered if she’d arranged it. Twice she’d tried to get him to sleep with her, came right out and asked him the second time. That was when he’d told her about Annalisa. Only way to keep her from pushing him for sex, he’d figured, and still be able to hang in there with her. Worked so far. Sympathetic, said she understood — mother in her coming out for him if not for Theodore. And tonight she was finally opening up about Gallagher. Do what he had to to keep her on that track, off the other.

He asked the question again. Why’d Gallagher say he wasn’t a witness if he was?

She lit a cigarette. Nick didn’t like that habit in a woman, smell of tobacco on her breath, secondhand smoke biting in his lungs, but he hadn’t said anything to her about it. Wouldn’t. Wasn’t his place. She wanted to give herself cancer, that was her choice.

“He’s a coward,” she said.

“You mean that? A coward?”

She meant it, all right. Sticking in her craw and needing to be spit out. Once she got the piece of it loose, rest of it came in a glob. Everything he wanted to know about Gallagher and the shootings.

Police’d found him hiding in the attic, she said, lying on a mattress in his own urine, half out of his head. Screamed and bawled like a baby — she’d found that out years later, wormed it out of the aunt who’d raised them. Gallagher hadn’t called the cops, guy who’d been sleeping with the mother went back and saw the bodies through a window and made the report. All Gallagher’d done was run and hide in the attic and piss all over himself.

But that wasn’t all. “Hadn’t been for my big, brave brother,” Caitlin said, “that whole goddamn bloody night might never’ve happened.”

What she meant by that, Gallagher’d told his old man about the mother’s affair. Caitlin said if he’d kept his mouth shut, the father might not’ve gone up to the river house with a gun, and her parents’d still be alive today. Nick said maybe it would’ve happened anyway, sooner or later — mother’d had a lot of affairs, right?

“So she slept around, so what?” Caitlin said. “He could’ve divorced her. Sex isn’t any reason to kill somebody, is it? Infidelity?”

“No, neither one.”

Finished her wine. “I need a refill. You ready for another beer?”

“Not right now.”

She went into the kitchen, came back with her glass poured to the top. “Drinking too much myself,” she said. “Alcoholism runs in the family.”

Nick asked, did she think Gallagher’d wanted their mother to get killed? She said she didn’t know. Question wasn’t new to her; heard it before, inside her head if nowhere else. Maybe he hadn’t wanted her dead, exactly, she said, but he’d wanted her punished some way. And he hadn’t wanted the father to kill himself because Gallagher’d loved him — it was only the mother he’d hated. Other way around for Caitlin. Loved the mother, still did. Felt sorry for her, too. Trapped in a loveless marriage, father was as gutless as the son. Cat didn’t blame her for getting what she needed someplace else, she blamed the old man for driving her to it. Nick didn’t buy that. Women cheating were no better than men cheating, no matter what the reason. But he didn’t say so.

He asked, how come she and Gallagher still owned the river house, after what’d happened there? Question he’d asked her before. Hadn’t got a straight answer then, but he got one tonight, her words a little slurred from all the wine. Gallagher had his way, she said, house’d’ve been sold a long time ago. She was the one keeping it in the family, all she had left of her mother and her childhood. Couldn’t bring herself to live there, she said, but at least she wasn’t afraid to go inside. Gallagher was. Hadn’t set foot in the house in twenty-five years, hadn’t even been on the property so far as she knew. Probably go to pieces if he did set foot inside, she said, curl up in a little ball and pee all over himself again.

Nick left her alone after that. Wasn’t anything more he needed to know. Both of them sat quiet for so long, he jumped when she leaned over and put her hand on his knee.

“I’m a little drunk,” she said.

“You’re entitled.”

“Little drunk, and I want to lie down. Nick?”

“Yeah?”

“How about... I’d really like...”

He didn’t say anything.

“Stay with me tonight. Okay?”

Still didn’t say anything.

“I don’t want to be alone,” she said.

“Cat, I told you—”

“I know. Poor wife. Understand, really do, but I’m not talking about sex.”

“No?”

“No. Might not believe this, but sex isn’t that important to me. Don’t even like it much. Just that sometimes... some nights I need to be close to somebody. Need to be held. You know?”

“I know,” he said.

“Don’t have to get undressed or go in the bedroom. Stay right here on the couch, in front of the fire. Hold each other, that’s all.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Nick? Don’t you need to be held? Sometimes? Your wife like she is, so far away?”

Hurt in him began to well up again. “Sometimes.”

“Tonight? Just tonight, for both of us?”

He sat rigid. She didn’t touch him, didn’t keep talking, but it wouldn’t’ve mattered if she had. Brain had stopped working, everything was feeling now. So much feeling he turned to her, looked at her — pleading in her face, firelight moving on it, softening it, making her almost pretty — and he couldn’t help himself, he put his arms around her and she came in close and before long they were lying stretched out and he was holding her thin body against the length of his. Couple of minutes like that, good like that, and he felt her shoulders start to shake, wetness on his shirt and skin. She was crying. Holding on to him tight and crying with no sound into his chest.

Nick shut his eyes. And as soon as he did Annalisa was there, smiling, the firelight flickering on her face and making her even more beautiful. Then he was holding her just as tight as she was holding him, telling her, “Shh, baby, it’s all right, it’s going to be all right,” and brushing and kissing away her tears.

“I love you, Annalisa,” he said, and she stiffened and then slowly relaxed again, clinging to him. After a while she stopped crying, and when she went to sleep he drifted off himself, keeping Annalisa warm and safe in his arms.

40

The rains started the second week in December. One heavy two-day storm that dumped more than an inch on Los Alegres and the Paloma Valley, a succession of gloomy, drizzly days afterward. Here comes El Niño. The weather people were saying it, so everybody else was saying it too. Get the sandbags ready, folks, it’s going to be another long, wet, floody, muddy winter.

The migraines started again that same week. The first one came on Sunday, while Cam was playing an interactive video game with Leah and Shannon. Relatively mild; he took the medication the neuresthenic specialist had prescribed, lay down for an hour in the darkened bedroom with cold compresses over his eyes, and he was all right again. The second attack, on Friday morning, was more severe. He was at PWS, in the warehouse chewing out his foreman, Dave Tabor, over a mishandled shipment of Taliaferro varietals, when the symptoms all seemed to hit him at once. Violent stabbing pain behind his eyes, acute nausea, dizziness, confusion, the sudden descent into black nontime. His next awareness was of lying on the couch in his office, Maureen there and fussing over him. The medication helped, but the pain lingered with enough intensity to keep him down. He finally had to ask Maureen to drive him home in the BMW, one of the other other employees to follow and bring her back.

Hallie made him promise to see the specialist on Monday, and he went and had the usual checkup and listened to the usual lecture about lifestyle changes and relaxation techniques and drastically reducing or eliminating his intake of alcohol, and left with a prescription for some new drug that had proven effective in helping other migraine sufferers. What he really needed was a new head. The one he had now was Abbie Normal, like the monster’s brain in Young Frankenstein.

Gray days, gray thoughts, restless black nights. Not even the pleasant activities of the Christmas season — present buying, tree selection, tree trimming — cheered him as much as they had in the past. He had no more contact with Caitlin, so he didn’t know if she was still seeing Hendryx, but the rental agreement showed up in the mail from River-bank Realty with Cat’s signature already on it. The agreement was written month-to-month; normally that kind of arrangement went against his better judgment, but not in this case. Having Nick Hendryx for a tenant for a minimum of thirty days was bad enough. Anything longer, guaranteed, would have been that much harder to take.

His temper shortened, and his depression grew. One evening after supper he snapped at Leah for putting the TV volume up too loud. Shannon jumped to her sister’s defense, and he growled at her too, and then at Hallie when she tried to play peacemaker. The bickering that followed scraped his nerves raw. It was either get out of there for a while, or he’d end up drinking too much and making the situation worse. He had the good sense to go for his car keys instead of the gin.

He didn’t drive far, just down to McLear Park half a mile from the house. It was a large park, a city block wide and three city blocks long. Old shade trees, sprawling lawns where he and the family still picnicked now and then, horseshoe and tennis courts, a softball field, a children’s playground. And a baseball diamond where semipro teams sometimes played, where he’d played Little League for two years — second base, good field but a poor hitter. He sat in the car for a time, until there was a break in the light rain. Then he went walking, following the park’s network of muddy paths.

It was the right place for him tonight. Nobody around, house lights and traffic sounds at a distance, the cold air both bracing and soothing. He walked for a long time, back and forth through the grounds, completely around the park twice. The tension in him gradually eased, and by the time he stopped to rest behind one of the dugouts, his depression seemed to have eased, too.

He stood with fingers hooked through the wire mesh screen, looking at the eroded pitcher’s mound and the rain-puddled infield and sweeps of outfield grass. After a time he could almost hear the crack of ball against bat, the cries of players and the cheers of spectators, the smack of a line drive hitting his glove. Echoes from far away and long ago. Long, long ago.

Longer than January 4, 1974.

In one sense, he hadn’t come far since that terrible night. In another, he’d come a long way. Damaged, yes, problems, yes, but he was still in the game, still in there swinging. And he had so much to be grateful for — Hallie, his daughters, PWS, a combination hobby and escape valve like the Skagit cruiser. So much to live for.

Rose and the old man hadn’t destroyed him. Neither had Jenna. And so far he hadn’t destroyed himself.

Death wish? No, by God. No.

I can beat this, he thought. Hang in, go on, and beat this. And I will.

I will.

41

Nick took possession of the river house on the fifteenth, as scheduled. Checked out of South City Apartments that morning, so all he had to do after work was drive to Guerneville and pick up the key from the realty guy. He’d already paid the first month’s rent with a money order. Only month’s rent — he wouldn’t even be there that long.

He stopped at a Safeway and bought coffee, a jumbo package of M&Ms, and a few other things, then drove out to Crackerbox Road. Raining again tonight, and in the wet dark the house had a wasted look. Big, hulking thing, hunched and ugly, like a huge shadow caught among the dripping trees. Annalisa wouldn’t have liked it at all. Bright new houses with big yards and plenty of flowers, that was what she liked. Carnations and roses. Her favorites. Pink, white, red, yellow. He’d bought her carnations, bouquets of them, every chance he had. Single roses, too, long-stemmed, on special occasions. Made her eyes shine every time, that smile of hers light up. Marigolds were another flower she liked — bright and sunny like herself. Planter box full of them in the kitchen window of their apartment. He’d tell her, “You’ll have a whole acre of carnations and roses and marigolds someday.” Meant it, every word. Someday, when she was well again, he’d give her everything she ever wanted.

He got out in the rain to open the driveway gate, drove through and into the open garage. Chinks, ball-size holes, in the roof and walls, so there wasn’t an inch of dry in there. He was dripping like the trees by the time he made it into the house with his battered suitcase and the bag of groceries.

House had been closed up so long it had a dank, musty smell. Dry rot — floors were spongy with it. Cold, too, and damp from the rain. Caitlin’d showed him where the thermostat was; he turned it up past seventy. First blasts of air out of the wall registers stank of moldy dust. But the furnace was in decent shape, even if the rest of the place wasn’t. Wouldn’t take long for it to warm up the house’s old bones.

Went for a walk-through, switching on lights and shutting them off again, to familiarize himself with the layout again. Downstairs — living room with a fireplace, kitchen, bathroom, small bedroom, screened rear porch with a washer and dryer and an old chest-type freezer. Back bedroom was where the shootings had happened. Nothing in there now except a rollaway bed, a dresser, and a couple of old chairs.

Upstairs, two bedrooms and another that might’ve been a study once — had built-in bookcases on one wall. Nick put his suitcase in the front bedroom. He’d use that one because the windows had a view of the road out front. Bed in there was an iron-frame job, frame painted white and banged up, mattress and box springs lumpy, sagging. Mattress was made up with clean sheets and pillowcases, thermal blankets, an old comforter. Caitlin. She’d offered to drop off the bedding and some towels, spares from her linen closet, and she’d ended up making the bed for him. How’d she guess this was the room he’d pick to sleep in?

Locked door in the upstairs hall, between the bathroom and the rear bedroom. Way up to the attic. Two keys on the ring from the Realtor; second one fit the lock. Inside was a narrow staircase, thick smells of dust and mildew. A pull string dangled down from a light fixture screwed into the wall, but nothing happened when he yanked on it. Bulb must be burned out. Meant none of the tenants before him used the attic much, if at all.

He went down and outside, fetched his utility lantern from the Mazda’s trunk. Beam showed him layers of crap on the risers as he climbed into the attic, more of the same up above. Low, tight space, roofline slanting down sharp on both ends. Only place you could stand up straight was in the middle, and even there the rafters were only a couple of inches above the top of his head. He pulled another light string — another dead bulb. Then he stood shining the lantern beam around.

Wasn’t much to see. Spiderwebs. Small, dirty windows in the dormers at either end, front one with a crack in it. Few scraps of rickety furniture, one of those old steamer trunks with a caved-in side, pile of magazines in a corner that’d been torn into shreds and used for nests by rodents or something.

He stayed put for a minute or two, listening to the rain on the roof, a dripping somewhere inside one wall. Feeling a little of what Gallagher must’ve felt the night his folks died. Something skittered behind him, but when he swung the light that way he didn’t see anything. Rats? He didn’t like rats, they were the one fear he and Annalisa had in common. But it didn’t sound like rats. Nothing for the buggers to eat here, and they wouldn’t nest in a place that didn’t have a food supply close by. Mice, or maybe a squirrel. He could live with either of them.

Went back down, shut the attic door but left it unlocked. Pad of writing paper and a pen in his suitcase; he got them out, took them down to the kitchen. Put some water on for coffee, made himself a peanut butter sandwich. Then he sat at the Formica-topped table to write Annalisa a letter and make up a list of the things he was going to need.

42

He shouldn’t have gone alone to Fenwood Creek’s annual party the Friday before Christmas. He’d asked Hallie to go with him, but there was a benefit at the senior center that same night, and she couldn’t, wouldn’t cancel out of it. He couldn’t, wouldn’t snub the Fenwood people by not showing up for the party, so he rationalized his way into driving up there by himself. He’d only stay for a few minutes, have one glass of wine, limit his schmoozing to Bryan Collins, Fenwood’s owner, and Dennis Frane, their sales head. Say hello to Jenna, be polite, then walk away as quickly as he could.

All well and good, but it was still a mistake. He knew it for certain as soon as he walked into the festively decorated tasting room and the first person he saw among the crush of bodies was Jenna.

She was talking to somebody and didn’t see him, so he was able to maneuver around on her blind side and across to the long serving counter. Jumpiness in him, nerves suddenly drawn tight. Why? He was over his yen for her, he really was. It was just that—

Just that I need a drink, he thought.

What they were pouring tonight was among their cellar best. The ’95 Carneros chardonnay (medium dry, butterscotch and toasty oak accents, ripe fruit underneath, short finish). The ’93 petite sirah (full-bodied, warm smoky nose, hint of cloves and raspberries, balanced tannins). And the ’92 private reserve cabernet, their second-finest red this decade, the ’91 private reserve cab already long bought up and laid down by connoisseurs (rich texture, black cherries and pepper, crisp acidity, long, fruity finish). Fine, dandy, but he wanted a drink. A Bombay martini, cold and crisp, rich flavor of juniper berries, whisper of vermouth, hint of lemon peel, long, warm finish.

The servers, two men and two women, were all wearing Santa Claus hats and red and green jackets. Cute. One of the women came over to him, the white pompon on the droopy end of her hat bouncing. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Gallagher. What can I get for you?” He knew her but he couldn’t remember her name. He mumbled a “Merry Christmas” and asked for a glass of the private reserve cab.

They’d opened the banquet room, as they did every year, to accommodate the crowd. Hot and cold hors d’oeuvres, a five-piece band with one male and one female vocalist batting out spritely holiday favorites, people standing or sitting at tables, even two or three couples dancing. He went that way because it was away from Jenna. Acquaintances spoke to him, and he spoke to them; it all ran through him like water through a colander, nothing left but a few words here and there like misty droplets. “Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la...” He finished his wine, went back for a refill. Dennis Frane came up, lingered, wandered off again. “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas...” He drank the second glass of cab, much faster than he should have. Better eat something, he hadn’t had any food since lunch. But none of the hors d’oeuvres appealed to him. He looked for Bryan Collins, couldn’t pick him out, and returned to the serving counter for a third glass of cab. His head was beginning to ache a little. “Oh, you better watch out, you better not cry...”

“Cam. When did you get here?”

Jenna, at his elbow. He turned slowly, pasting on a smile. “Well, hello. Little while ago.”

“I’ve been watching for you, but I didn’t see you come in.”

“I didn’t see you, either,” he lied. Except for a smile that seemed as artificial as his own, she looked fine. Green dress, tight, showing off the deep swell of her breasts; not too much makeup, and the dark hair worn upswept, fastened with a jeweled comb, decorated with a sprig of holly. “You look festive.”

“I don’t feel festive.” She took his arm, steered him away from a laughing couple who were pushing up to the counter. “We need to talk,” she said.

“About what?”

“Not what you might think. It’s important, Cam.”

“All right. Go ahead.”

“Not here, with all these people. Alone.”

His mouth had a puckered feel; he drank more of his wine. It might have been two-dollar-a-bottle plonk instead of twenty-eight-dollar-a-bottle, award-winning cabernet sauvignon. “I think I’m free for lunch on Monday,” he said.

“It won’t wait until Monday.”

“When, then?”

“Tonight. As soon as I can get away from here. My house, you know where it is.”

The wine’s acidity had set up a burning in his empty gut. He said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jenna.”

“Don’t you? Well, I do. It’s important, Cam.”

“What is?”

“I think I can get away by eight.” She pressed something into his hand. Key. “You won’t have to wait more than half an hour, if you leave now.”

“Jenna, I don’t want to play any games with you. Can’t you just tell me—”

“At the house. Alarm’s on and the pad is just inside the door. Remember to disarm it — the code is two thousand and one. And this isn’t a game.”

“All right, but—”

“Here comes Bryan,” she said. “Half an hour,” and she moved away to let silver-haired Bryan Collins step up and take her place at Cam’s side.

He spent five minutes chatting with Bryan and somebody else who joined them, and when he managed to work free, he couldn’t remember a word of the conversation. The key felt hot against his palm as he made his way into the chilly drizzle outside. He felt silly and manipulated, like a reluctant conspirator in a game he didn’t understand.

Not a game, she’d said, but was that the truth? One last attempt at seduction? It didn’t seem like her; she was openly aggressive, not cryptic and devious. But he couldn’t be sure. The simple truth was, he didn’t know Jenna at all.

The only other explanation he could think of was the dangerous misfit business again. Nick Hendryx? Or some other phantom stalker? Her paranoia at work, if that was it.

Unless something had happened, something overt to stir her up.

I don’t want to know, he thought. Asking for trouble if I go to her place, no matter what this is all about. Stay the hell away from her!

He started the car, left the packed lot, and turned south on the valley highway. Going home. Telling himself he was going home all the way to Black Oak Road, right up to the time he made the turn and headed into the hills to Jenna’s house.

43

Across the road, parked in shadow in front of a closed-up nursery, Nick watched the silver BMW roll to the stop sign at the winery entrance. All sorts of lights on over there, building lights and grounds lights, making everything bright as day even through the light rain. Gallagher’s wheels, that BMW. He’d know it anywhere even without the WINEMAN license plate. And Gallagher alone inside. Hadn’t stayed long at the party Fenwood Creek was having. Less than forty minutes.

Nick had watched him drive in. Parked here over an hour, since he’d followed the Bailey woman from the winery to her house and back again. She’d gone home to change for the party, different outfits going and coming. Spotted him on the return trip, he’d made sure of it. Second time this week he’d made sure — goose her a little more, turn up the heat on Gallagher through her. She must’ve told him about it by now. Over there at the party, maybe. Now it was time to shift back onto his tail, show himself to Gallagher, too, at some point. See where he was headed now, then decide.

Nick waited until the BMW was a few hundred yards down the highway, rolled out behind it. Gallagher wasn’t in any hurry, but he wasn’t poking, either. Slowed down through Fenwood village, sped up again once he was on the other side. Going home?

No. Turning off on Black Oak Road.

Heading for 4100 Madrone Way. Finally connecting with his piece on the side. Him leaving the party first, then her following a little later. Keep tongues from wagging, that way.

Fine. Perfect.

Nick swung off onto Black Oak. Smiling as his lights burrowed ahead into the dark.

44

A clutch of seconds after Cam pulled into Jenna’s driveway, the headlights that had been behind him threw the wet pavement, the flanking oak trees, into bright relief and then funneled past without slowing. He couldn’t tell what kind of car it was or how many people were inside; it was merely a quick-moving shadow, rain-blurred behind its lights. One of Jenna’s neighbors. Somebody with no interest in him at all. Christ, but she had him spooked again.

He tried to even his breathing, relax his body, as he went the rest of the way up the drive. The tension remained. Blood beat in his temples in a steady rhythm; his stomach still burned from the acidity in the wine.

Two night spots were mounted on the front wall of the redwood-and-fieldstone house, another on the attached garage, laying patches of misty brightness across a paved parking area and the upper end of the drive. He parked the car as close to the house as he could without blocking the garage. Raining harder now; he ran to the door.

Inside, a blinking red light drew his attention to the alarm-system pad, and he remembered Jenna reminding him to disarm it. What had she said the code was? For a few seconds his mind was blank. Come on, before the damn thing goes off! Two thousand and one, that was it. The movie, the millenium, easy number to keep in your head — most people’s heads. He punched out the four digits. The red light winked off, and a steady green one came on.

He shucked his trench coat, hung it in the hall closet. He’d been here twice before, once with Hallie for a dinner party shortly after Bryan Collins hired Jenna away from a Silverado Trail winery, the second time earlier this year, by himself, for an afternoon wine-and-cheese party. Small, two bedrooms, one of which she’d turned into a home office, but a pricey hunk of real estate nonetheless. Bryan paid his management people top salary, as he could afford to do, given Fenwood Creek’s growing reputation and annual volume of sales.

There was a wet bar on the far side of the living room. Jenna wouldn’t mind if he helped himself to some of her gin. He found a bottle of Beefeater’s, but when he opened it and caught a whiff of the content it nearly made him gag. Pour even a short one on top of the red wine, no food, and he’d be drunk or sick or both when she got here. And he still had a long drive home on a rainy night.

Common sense, Gallagher. In this, in everything you do here tonight.

He screwed the cap back on the Beefeater’s, went to sit on a white leather sofa. The decor was mostly white or off-white — carpet, white-washed brick fireplace, alabaster sculptures, marble-topped tables. Virginal. He wondered if Jenna had decorated it this way as a kind of private joke, or if that was how she saw herself, as a chaste person underneath the earthy, sexually aggressive exterior. Or, Lord, maybe she just liked white.

Five minutes. Ten. He could feel himself growing more and more wired; only the throbbing in his head, the fiery hurt in his stomach, kept him from making another trip to the wet bar.

He sat listening to the rain and the heavy thud of his pulse. Trying not to think. Trying to sit and wait patiently.

Come on, Jenna. Come on, come on, come on!

45

Parked and waiting again. This time on a muddy turnout next to a creek, fifty yards or so on the downhill side of the Bailey woman’s driveway. Relaxed. Telling Annalisa inside his head, “Prod him tonight, get him worked up and worrying, then back off again. Stay away from him and the bimbo until after Christmas. It’s like catching a trout, baby. Set the hook, yank him, let him have some slack, yank him again, watch him wiggle and squirm, then reel him in.”

One pair of headlights passed, but they were high-set, and he knew it was a pickup or a four-by-four, not the white Lexus. Ford Bronco, right. Twenty minutes. Rain stopped, but the wind kept whacking around in the trees. Half an hour. She was taking her time getting here to meet Gallagher. Probably couldn’t get away from the Christmas party. Somebody important at the winery, Ms. Jenna Bailey. Product manager. What did a product manager do? Had something to do with sales, like Gallagher and his company had something to do with sales. Perfect match. Sell each other a bill of goods, manage the hell out of each other’s products every chance they got.

Thirty-five minutes, and here came another pair of lights up Madrone Way from Black Oak. Passenger car lights this time. Nick watched them grow and spread, glaring like a couple of searchlights. Brights on. Far reach of them gleamed off the wet metal of the Mazda’s hood while the other car was still better than a hundred yards downhill. Another few seconds, and the car’s speed slackened all of a sudden, and right after that there was a splash of red in the darkness behind the beams — brake lights. They went off again quick, but then, with maybe fifty yards separating him and the one coming, the brake lights flashed again. Driver braked hard that time because the headlights wobbled as the car slid a little on the slick pavement—

Lights veered toward him, straight across the road toward the Mazda.

Nick tightened up behind the wheel. First thought: Shit, not another drunk. Second thought: Cop? By then the other car was off the road and plowing to a stop a few feet from the Mazda’s front bumper, high beams turning the misty windshield into a silver-flecked blaze. He threw an arm up to shade his eyes. Through the glare he saw the driver’s door open, somebody come out fast and run around between the two cars.

Bailey woman.

Coattails blowing in the wind, hands in the coat pockets, face twisted into an angry grimace.

Last thing he’d expected. Supposed to see him sitting here and drive on past, all worried and scared, and instead here she was, bearing down on him like Rambo’s sister. He should’ve started the engine, backed up and driven away and left her standing there stewing. But he didn’t think of that in time, not until after she was at his window. She thumped on the glass with a closed fist, leaning down so her face, a white-streaked blur, was peering in at him. Still time to get out of there, but he just sat still. That was his first mistake.

Second mistake, reflex, confusion, some damn thing, was opening the window. Soon as he did that, and she was looking at him square on, eyes black and shiny-hot in the light glare, she took her other hand out of the coat pocket and showed him what was in it.

Gun.

Little flat automatic pointing into his face.

“All right, you bastard, I’ve had all I’m going to take of you stalking me,” Spitting the words like a cat spits. “Get out of that car and do it quick or I swear to God I’ll shoot you dead and claim self-defense.”

46

More than twenty minutes of waiting now. And the acid burning in his gut seemed to be getting worse. He shoved up from the sofa, feeling shaky, sweaty all of a sudden, and walked slowly into the kitchen for a glass of water. The first wave of nausea hit him as he reached the sink. Belly roiling, he stumbled into the nearby guest bathroom. Had just enough time to drop to his knees in front of the toilet before the wine came up in a thin, sour spurt like diluted blood.

He was weak and dizzy when he finished. He pulled himself up over the vanity sink, washed his face with cold water. It didn’t help. Roaring in his head — it felt huge, balloonlike, as if it were expanding and contracting like something attached to a bellows. He staggered out of the bathroom, made it back to the sofa before the pain erupted. Bright, stabbing pulses down through his sinus cavities and into the backs of his eyeballs.

Migraine.

Bad one.

Oh God no not now not here—

Medication, one of the new pills the specialist had given him... he fumbled the vial out of his coat pocket, but his hands shook so badly he couldn’t get the cap off. Vertigo had him then; he fell back against the cushions. Swirling, swirling, as though he were caught in a vortex. Disoriented, couldn’t think, and the darkness closing in—

47

Nick got out of the car. What else could he do? Woman backed off as he opened the door, watching him, the little gun steady in her hand. Classy surface had rubbed off her; she was all cold, hard steel standing there. Not an ounce of bluff in what she’d said about shooting him. She’d meant every word.

“You’ve got me wrong,” he said.

“Like hell I have. What was the plan? Stalk me for a while and then break in and rape me, kill me? Or do you just get your jollies scaring women because you can’t get it up any other way?”

The plan, Nick thought, the plan is Gallagher, damn you. He said, “I’m here because I’m having car trouble—”

“Bullshit, buddy. I saw you following me earlier tonight. I’ve seen you half a dozen times, hanging around, watching me.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“What do you think? Call the police and have your sick ass thrown in jail.”

“You can’t do that. I haven’t done anything to you.”

“No? Harassment is a crime. Even if the charge doesn’t stick, they’ll have your name and address, and if you ever try anything with me again they’ll know right where to look. Or I will. I was stalked and raped once, I won’t let it happen a second time. I’d kill you or any other asshole who tried it in a New York minute.”

“Look, lady, can’t we—”

“No, we can’t. Start walking.”

“Walking where?”

“Up the road away from your car.”

He did it.

“Stop there. Keep your back to me.”

Did that, too. Behind him he heard her moving in the other direction, back to her car. For her purse and keys and to shut off the headlights — night went dark again. He listened to her walk back up behind him.

“Move,” she said. “Up my driveway to the house.”

Couldn’t let her take him into the house. Gallagher was in there, and maybe he’d talk her out of calling the cops and maybe he wouldn’t. Might just let her do it, try to get out from under that way. Run a bluff if Nick said anything about the hit-and-run. Sketch wasn’t proof Gallagher was guilty, and besides, Nick didn’t want the law to punish him. Not anymore. Justice was in his hands now, the right punishment all arranged. Spoil everything for Annalisa if he let this woman take him inside.

“Move, I said.”

He moved, but slow. Little short steps.

“You want to get shot? You will if you don’t hurry it up.”

Widened his strides, but not by much. Head down, looking for something, anything, to turn the situation around. Low spot alongside the driveway, puddled rainwater filling it, ground on either side looked muddy. He angled that way, but not all at once.

Bimbo was closer behind him now than she had been. Not close enough for him to pivot and make a grab for her, but close enough for what he had in mind. He was going slow again, and she muttered some-thing that sounded like “Fucking bastard.” Getting impatient with him. Good. Impatience made you careless.

He was on the edge of the road when he reached the puddle. Almost to the end of it, he let his left foot slide off, splash into the water so she’d hear. Made a noise like he’d slipped and then went down sideways to one knee, putting both hands on the soft ground the way you would to break a fall. She stopped, still close — stopped and was saying “Don’t you try anything—” when he twisted up and around and pitched the handful of mud he’d scooped up.

Gob of it spattered her in the face, tore a surprised cry out of her, threw her off balance. Gun went off, pop! like a cork coming out of a bottle, but he wasn’t hit. He was onto his feet and at her by then. Slapped the automatic out of her hand, dodged a slash of her nails, punched her jaw with a short-armed right. Solid, scraped-knuckles blow, felt it all the way up his arm — made him wince because it was the first time in his life he’d ever hit a woman. She grunted, fell over backward as though her legs’d been chop-blocked from under her. Hit the pavement flat on her back, smacked-meat sound that must’ve been her head slamming into the asphalt. Twitch, jerk, another twitch, and she was still.

Breathing hard, Nick looked up the driveway and both ways along the road. No headlights, just some house lights among the trees — hers and others a couple of hundred yards uphill, her nearest neighbors. Gun hadn’t made much of a bang, and her yell had been too low to carry. Gallagher’d’ve shown himself by now if he’d heard.

He looked for the automatic. Found it, dropped it into his coat pocket. Pocketed her purse, too, little beaded thing. Then he went to the woman, bent over her. Gurgling sounds in her throat, but she lay as still as before. Coat and dress had bunched up around her thighs, long white legs, black panties. Nick pulled the dress and coat down to cover her.

“Why’d you have to come on like Rambo’s sister?” he said. “Why didn’t you just go on home to Gallagher like you were supposed to?”

Then he slid his hands under her back and legs, swung her up, deadweight in his arms, and carried her to the Mazda.

48

Coming out of a blackout was like waking up with a bad hangover. Slow, groggy awareness. Pulse thudding in his ears, queasiness, tingly weakness in his limbs, burning thirst. Cam lay motionless with his eyes shut, trying to gauge the severity of the attack. Bad enough, but he’d experienced worse. The day at the office, when Maureen had to drive him home. The night in Portland when he’d had the nosebleed.

He opened his eyes to slits. Soft lighting that didn’t assault the retinas; ceiling beams. Jenna’s house, Jenna’s living room. Had she come home and found him passed out?

He moved his head experimentally. Pain, but not the crippling kind. Dull thrumming. Function?

In inching movements, he sat up. The pain seemed to hold steady. He was still on the sofa, and he seemed not to have had another nosebleed or done any more vomiting. He listened to a heavy quiet broken only by the faint, distant ticking of a clock; the rain must have stopped. The house had the same empty feel as when he’d let himself in. Nor was there any purse or coat, anything to indicate that Jenna was here.

How much time had he lost?

He focused on his Rolex. Nine-fifteen. Little more than an hour.

Where was Jenna? Even if she hadn’t been able to get away from the party until it ended at nine, she should be here by now. It was only a fifteen-minute drive from Fenwood Creek.

He felt in his pocket for the vial of migraine capsules. It wasn’t there, and he remembered he’d had it in his hand just before he blacked out. He found it between two of the cushions, managed to get the top off without spilling any of the capsules. He tried to swallow one dry, but it wouldn’t go down.

Teeth gritted, he pushed to his feet. Brief wave of vertigo, then he was all right. A little wobbly but not in any immediate danger of falling down. He walked slowly across the living room, into the bathroom. Too many mirrors in there; it wasn’t easy to avoid looking at his reflection, but he managed it. He swallowed the capsule with tap water, using the toothbrush tumbler, drank two more full glasses, and then splashed cold water over his face and neck. Better. He swished Scope around to rid his mouth of the foul aftertaste of wine and vomit. Then he held his hand up to eye level, palm downward, and watched it for a few seconds.

Steady. Steady enough to drive, once the capsule did its work and the pain eased, if he was very, very careful. Thank God for that. If he’d been laid low and Jenna had had to drive him home...

Nine-twenty-five. And still no sign of Jenna.

He couldn’t imagine why she was so late. Perhaps she’d called to explain, decided when there was no answer that he’d left or hadn’t come here at all. Didn’t matter right now, anyway. He couldn’t wait for her any longer. Driving home was all he could cope with. Bed, sleep, a new day, then he’d find out what Jenna wanted from him.

He retrieved his overcoat, put the key she’d given him on the hall table. She’d have another; nobody gives an only house key to another person. He pushed the Set button on the alarm pad, went out, and pulled the door shut behind him.

For a minute or two he stood sucking in the cold night air, letting the wind dry his clammy skin. The thrumming in his head was muted and tolerable now. Keep the window down, and driving shouldn’t be a problem. BMW’s practically drove themselves; all you had to do was steer.

Down the driveway, turn right, and he was on his way — until his headlights picked up the car slewed off onto a turnout a short distance downhill. White, a white Lexus like the one Jenna drove. There were a lot of white Lexuses on the road these days, but still...

He braked, cut off onto the turnout in front of the parked car. The license plate was clearly visible in his lights: JENNA B. Her Lexus, all right, but what was it doing here?

Confusion, a vague sense of alarm, prodded him out. He tried the driver’s door, found it unlocked. The Lexus was empty. Nothing of Jenna’s on the seats, no signs of anything disturbed. He shut the door, looked around the turnout, up and down the road. Footprints in the muddy earth that weren’t his. Tire tracks that also weren’t his. Made by the Lexus or another car? He couldn’t tell.

His frayed nerves began to jump again.

What had happened here?

Where was Jenna?

49

She was dead.

Lying curled up in the trunk pretty much the way he’d laid her in, on her left side, only now her eyes were open and glazed over, staring. He touched the side of her neck, cold, Jesus, no pulse beating there, nothing. Dead.

Nick leaned against the open trunk lid. Wind blowing in through the doorless front of the garage, the gaps in the walls, picked at the hair on his neck like bony fingers. Carbon monoxide? No, wasn’t anything wrong with the exhaust, and her face’d be bright red and it wasn’t, it was milk-white under the smears of mud and blood. Suffocation? Not that, either. Enough air in the trunk, and he’d put the piece of duct tape across her mouth, not her nose. He’d even been careful not to wrap the tape too tight around her hands and feet.

Sticky mat of blood on the dark hair behind her ear, glistening in the pale trunk light. Smacked-meat sound of her head hitting the asphalt... was that it? Hard blow on the head could kill somebody — almost killed Annalisa. That had to be it.

She’d been alive when he put her in the trunk, he was sure of that. Couldn’t leave her lying there on the road, somebody might come along any second, she’d put the cops on him as soon as she woke up — had to take her along. Kept trying to decide on the long ride to the Russian River what he’d do with her, hazy idea of keeping her locked up until he was ready to deal with Gallagher. Hazy, crazy idea, but it was all he could come up with. Except killing her, and he wouldn’t’ve done that. Kill Gallagher, yeah, Gallagher deserved to die, but not a woman. She hadn’t done anything to him except wave the automatic in his face and he couldn’t blame her for that. Foulmouthed bimbo, stone-hard bitch, but she was still a woman, and he didn’t believe in hurting women unless there was no other choice, like when he’d had to punch her face. Maybe he’d’ve had no other choice if he’d kept her prisoner. But he hadn’t wanted to think about that.

Now it didn’t matter. Now she was dead. And the thing was, he hadn’t killed her, not really. Wasn’t his fault she’d hit her head so hard. Sure, he’d punched her, knocked her down, but she was the one to blame for that, her and her little gun. He’d acted in self-defense. Banging her head was an accident. A freak accident.

Besides, admit it, it was better this way. Better for him and Annalisa. With the woman dead, he didn’t have to run the risk of keeping her locked up for a couple of weeks. Dead, she wasn’t a threat to his plans for Gallagher. Look at it that way. Don’t think about it any other way.

“I’m sorry,” he said to her, “I didn’t want to hurt you, it was a freak accident. But it’s better this way.”

He shut the lid, locked the trunk and the car. Raining again, big drops like pellets of ice; he plowed through wet grass and weeds to the house, let himself in. Cold in there, even though he’d left the thermostat set at sixty-eight. He turned it up to seventy-five, went around switching on lights to chase away the dark — night was usually his friend, but not this night. Finally settled in the kitchen because it was the warmest room in the house.

Only he couldn’t get warm.

Sat at the table drinking hot coffee, wall register blasting hot air at him, and his skin felt like frosted glass, and shivers and chills ran all over his body.

He kept thinking about the Bailey woman out there in the car, cold and dead. And how she must’ve died from hitting her head on the pavement, severe head trauma from being thrown into the telephone pole—

Pavement. Pavement.

Smacked-meat sound, cracked her skull, twitch and she was still.

Like Annalisa.

Severe head trauma.

Like Annalisa.

No, not like Annalisa. Annalisa was alive, her head trauma hadn’t been fatal and she was going to get better but Jenna Bailey died but Annalisa wouldn’t die wouldn’t die wouldn’t die!

He sat there shivering. And then crying, all at once, fat tears rolling down his cheeks, bawling the way he had in the hospital the night of the hit-and-run, and he didn’t know right then if all the grief leaking out of him was for Annalisa or the dead woman in the Mazda’s trunk.