A wasteland of strangers (9 page)

I'd told Verne about the attempted break-in at Audrey's and asked him to keep quiet about it for the time being. There was no sense in inciting fear of night prowlers and masked rapists. Zenna Wilson was a perfect example of why things like this needed to be kept under wraps until, if, and when it presented a public threat. Then, as tired as I was, I'd managed a couple of hours' sleep on my office couch. Long, bad night. Half a pot of coffee and some breakfast at Nelson's Diner, after which I wasted another half hour looking around Audrey's yard and the cottage next door. And after that, Faith kept eluding me—until, as I was passing by on my way back from Redbud, I spotted his Porsche in the parking area just inside the cemetery gates.

I turned around and drove in and parked next to the Porsche. Faith wasn't inside, or anywhere in the vicinity, and I didn't see him on the narrow roads that led up into the older sections of Cypress Hill. But with all the trees and hillside hollows you can't see much more than half the grounds from below.

The Porsche wasn't locked. I opened the door, bent for a look inside. An old army blanket on the backseat, a plastic bag full of trash on the floor in front of the passenger bucket—that was all. I leaned across to depress the button on the glove compartment. Owner's manual, a packet of maps bound with a rubber band, two unopened packages of licorice drops. And under the maps, the car's registration slip. John Faith, street address in L. A. proper; the registration was current and had been issued eighteen months ago. I made a mental note of the street address, put the slip back where I'd found it, closed the box, and leaned back out.

"Finding everything all right, Officer?"

He was propped against one of the cypress trees about thirty feet away, in a patch of the pale sunlight that had come out a while ago. One corner of his mouth was curved upward—a smile that wasn't a smile, just a sardonic twisting of the lips.

"More or less," I said. "You mind, Mr. Faith?"

"Would it matter if I did?"

"It might."

"Sure. Release lever's on the left there, if you want to check inside the trunk, too. Nothing in there except a spare tire, some tools, and an emergency flashlight, but don't take my word for it. Go ahead and look for yourself."

"I think I will."

I yanked the release, went up front, and peered into the shallow trunk compartment. Spare tire, some tools, an emergency lantern. Nothing else.

He came over to stand next to me as I shut the lid. "Mind telling me what you're looking for?"

"What would you say if I told you a ski mask?"

"A ski mask. Uh-huh. I guess I'd tell you I don't ski. Couldn't if I wanted to in country like this, since there aren't any mountains and not even a flake of snow on the ground."

"Where were you between midnight and two A.M.?"

"In bed, asleep."

"Not according to the owner of the Lakeside Resort. He says he was awake at twelve-thirty and you weren't in your cabin."

"Is that right?" '

"But you say you were."

"I was. He's either blind or a damn liar."

"Why would he lie?"

"Why would I lie? Somebody wearing a ski mask do something between midnight and two A.M.?"

"Somebody tried to do something. Attempted break-in, possibly with intent to commit rape."

"Yeah? Well, it wasn't me."

"I hope not."

"You have any reason to think it was me?"

"No particular reason."

"Just figured you'd hassle the biggest, ugliest stranger you could find."

"I'm not hassling you. Asking questions, that's all."

He showed me the non-smile again. "Anything else, Chief?"

"Your car registration says you live in Los Angeles," I said. "Pomo is a long way from L.A."

"Pomo's a long way from anywhere."

"Then why'd you come here?"

"Why not? Everybody got to be somewhere."

"Answer the question."

"Yes, sir, Chief. L.A.'s where I used to live. Got to be a town I didn't like anymore, so I pulled up stakes a couple of weeks ago. You might say I'm scouting a new location."

"Pomo?"

He shrugged. "I doubt it."

"What'd you do down in L.A.? For a living, I mean."

"Construction work."

"You won't find much new construction around here. This is a depressed county, in case you haven't noticed."

"I noticed. I'm not interested in a job right now."

"No? Why is that?"

"I made good money down south and I saved enough to treat myself to some time off. I've got about five hundred in my wallet, if you want to see it."

"Why would I want to see your money?"

"Come on, Chief. We both know the difference between transient and vagrant."

"I don't think you're a vagrant."

"Just a prowler and would-be rapist."

That jabbed my temper. "Don't get smart with me."

"Smart?" He spread his hands. "I'm cooperating the best way I know how."

"You do that and we'll get along," I said. "I'm not accusing you of anything, I'm just doing my job the best way / know how. You may not believe it, but I try to take people at face value—until I have cause to take them otherwise."

He laughed, a quick, barking sound. "Me too, Chief. Me too."

"A few more questions and you can go on about your business. What were you doing on Redbud Street earlier?"

"Redbud Street?"

"Residential neighborhood not far from here."

"The one with all the trees and older houses? Looking, that's all."

"Why?"

"Seemed like it'd be a nice street to live on."

"It is. Nice and quiet—a family street. Why were you driving so slowly?"

"Can't see much when you drive fast," Faith said. "Somebody call in to complain, Chief? Afraid I might be casing the neighborhood, looking for another house to break into?"

I let it go. He wasn't going to tell me anything more than he already had. "What is it you're after, Mr. Faith? What're you looking for in a new location?"

"Not much. A little peace and quiet."

I waved a hand at the plots and markers uphill. "This kind?"

"I like cemeteries," he said. "Nobody bothers you in one—usually. And you can tell a lot about a place by the kind of graveyard it has."

"What does Cypress Hill tell you about Pomo?"

"That it could've been what I want but isn't."

"Meaning?"

"Just that."

"So you'll be moving on soon."

"Pretty soon."

"Tomorrow? I understand you've paid for another night at the Lakeside."

"That's right. Unless you're going to invite me to leave by sundown tonight."

"I'm not going to invite you to do anything except obey the law. Are you leaving tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir. Tomorrow for sure."

"What're you planning for the rest of today?"

"Nothing different than what I've been doing." Another replay of the non-smile, so brief this time it was like a dim light flicked on and off. "And none of it involves ski masks or forcible entry—houses or women."

"I'm glad to hear it. One piece of advice."

"I'm all ears."

"As long as you're here, keep in mind that citizens in small towns tend to be leery of a stranger who looks too close at them and their surroundings—as if he might have more on his mind than a friendly visit. As if he might actually be a threat. You understand?"

"Oh, I understand, Chief. I hear you loud and clear. I'll do my best not to alarm the good citizens of Pomo while I'm enjoying your fine hospitality."

The sarcasm was just mild enough not to provoke me. I said, "Then we won't need to have another talk, will we?"

"I sure hope not."

I got into the cruiser, still feeling frustrated; the conversation hadn't satisfied me on any level. As I drove out through the gates, Faith was on his way uphill into the older part of the cemetery. And he wasn't looking back.

Douglas Kent

I DIDN'T BELIEVE the Wilson woman's story for a minute, of course. She'd called the Advocate before, with complaints about this and that or to offer a juicy hunk of speculative gossip that invariably turned out to be both slanderous and imaginary. Viper-tongued busybody and self-appointed guardian of public morals. Or, in the eloquent phrasing of old Pa Kent, "a fookin' shit-disturber." (Mine papa: bargeman, boozer, brawler, and barroom bard. He'd fallen into the Monongahela half a dozen times, dead drunk; the last time they fished him out, when I was a freshman at Penn State, he was just plain dead. If he'd had time for a final coherent thought before he sank into the depths, I knew exactly what it'd been—the same as mine would be under similar circumstances: 'Took it." Ah, the sins of the father.)

I assured the biddy that I would personally investigate the matter and that the Advocate would do whatever it could to keep the citizens and streets of Pomo safe, and hung up before she could fill my ear with any more bullshit. After which I fired a fresh gasper and administered a little more hangover medicine to the Kent insides. Shakier than usual, this A.M. I'd applied so much salve to the old wounds last night that I hadn't even the haziest memory of where I'd gone after staggering out of Gunderson's. Last clear image: Storm with her hand on Bigfoot's thigh, crooning her old black magic into his hairy ear. Woke up this morning on the couch in my living room, my head bulging with the percussive beat of a Pomo Indian ceremonial drum. A hell of a toot, all right. But I'd had provocation. Yes, indeed. Didn't I always?

When the salve began to work its restorative powers, I tucked the bottle into the desk-drawer cranny and leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. The poisonous Mrs. Wilson's voice echoed faintly in my mind. Her alleged child molester was, of course, Storm's last conquest, the beast who'd wandered in out of the cold. On the hunt for nine-year-old brats after a glorious night of fooking with the Whore of Pomo? Not too bloody likely.

An interesting theory, though. The lumbering hulk with the Frankenstein phiz, an actual monster in monster's disguise? Nice irony there. And what would dear Storm say if she learned that the hands that had groped her fair body were, in fact, bloody claws? Would she be horrified? Sickened enough to change her profligate ways? Kent should live so long. Still, it'd be a cunning little joke on her, would it not? Give her a twinge or two—let her feel what she made me feel. A joy to see her face when she received a different kind of prick than she was used to...

An idea began to form in the aching cells and ganglia behind my eyes. I'd promised the biddy the Advocate would take up cudgels on behalf of Pomopublic safety; well, then, why not do just that? An article written in the usual hard-hitting Kent style: yellow journalism at its most inflammatory. Nothing slanderous; no direct mention of the horse-hung beast, no specific allusion to child molestation or other such nefarious acts. But just enough neatly and thinly veiled references to "strangers in our midst," "drifters of frightening mien and presence," "possible influx into our fair town of the more base criminal element," etc., so that Storm would know exactly who had inspired the piece. Know, and wonder. And then along would come Kent with his little prick: "I hate to tell you this, Storm, but there's a possibility your latest bed partner is, in fact, the worst sort of vicious pervert..."

Well, Kent? Do you really want to sink that low?

Does a Sasquatch crap in the woods? Did the old man sink into the depths of the Monongahela?

Ah, but timing was the key. The piece had to run in today's issue in order for it to have the desired impact. Could it still be done?

I took a squint at the wall clock. Ten past ten. The main-section deadline was eight A.M., and the press run usually begins at ten sharp. Today, however, the schedule was off; the Advocate's presses are old and cranky, in spirit not unlike the rag's crusading editor, and they'd been down when Kent staggered into the building a little over an hour ago. Joe Peterson, the pressroom foreman, thought he'd have them ready and rolling by ten, but that estimate obviously had been off by at least ten minutes. The entire building rumbles and rattles when the big Goss press begins its iron-throated roar, and the place had been mercifully quiet unto the present moment.

I got on the horn to the pressroom. Joe was still working on the bugger; his assistant said he thought he'd have it ready to do by ten-thirty. I told him to tell Joe to hold the press run, that new photographic plates would have to be made of page one and page eight. Hot editorial to be substituted for one of the existing news stories, I said; I was working on it now. He grumbled some but he didn't argue. Kent's word is law in the bowels of the PomoAdvocate, if nowhere else. Besides, did anyone in this godforsaken county really give a flying fook if Friday's No-Star Final was a couple of hours late being printed and delivered?

On one corner of my desk were placement dummies for each of the pages in the main news section. I hauled over page one for a quick scan. The usual boring crap; I could dump the entire lot, with the possible exception of the news item on a three-car pileup that had put a local walnut grower out of his misery. I settled on the longest piece, a dull rehash of facts on the upcoming sewer bond issue and its various pros and cons, poorly concocted by Jay Dietrich, the Advocate's young Jimmy Olsen. Twenty column inches, twelve on the front page and the rest on page eight. Kent, a chip off the old cliche of fast-copy newspaper hacks, could knock off twenty column inches in half an hour without breaking a sweat. Twenty-five minutes or less if the immediate reward was another slug of old Doc Beefeater.

All systems go. 'Twas ordained that Pa Kent's boy have his fun with Storm and the Incredible Hulk, else circumstances wouldn't have conspired to make it possible. No es verdad?

I fired up the trusty Compaq and set to work. Words flowed from the first sentence; Kent hadn't been this sharp and persuasive, this coherent, in many a moon. Did I feel even a moment's guilt or reluctance? I did not. Hell, I might actually be performing a public service here. For all I knew, Storm's latest conquest really was a monster in monster's guise.

Madeline Pearce