"Any trouble?"
I said, "No. We've got all the stuff."
Lori said, "Let's have some light." I found the flashlight and switched it on. "Hold it steady, Trisha." I did that while she knelt beside the couch, laid her hand on his forehead. "How you doing?" she asked him.
"Holding my own."
"Well, you're not feverish. That's a good sign."
"Lori, I'm sorry to drag you into this . . ."
"Nobody dragged me here. I came because I wanted to. Are you in much pain?"
"Not as long as I stay still."
"Bleeding?"
"Doesn't feel like it."
She unwrapped the blankets and then took off the tape and pads. I saw the way she looked at the wounds and at him and I thought: She really cares about him. I felt this little pang of jealousy. Stupid, but I couldn't help it. I didn't like sharing John any more than I liked sharing his rescue.
"How bad?" he asked.
"Could be worse. Good thing Trisha found the peroxide. Holes look clean—no inflammation."
Well, okay. John probably wouldn't even be alive right now if I hadn't heard him moaning and did what I did to help him. That was something I'd never have to share.
"So I'll live."
"Chances are. When'd you last have a tetanus shot?"
"... Can't remember."
"Within the past five years?"
"No, longer ago than that."
"Within the last ten?"
"Seven or eight, about."
"Should be okay, then. I wish I had a way to give you one, to be safe, but I don't." She was opening up one of the sacks, taking out stuff she'd bought at the pharmacy. Thin rubber gloves. Bottled water. A package of sponges. A thermometer. Lots of gauze and tape. Some tubes of Neosporin. A big bottle of aspirin. "I'll clean the wounds, put antibiotic ointment on, and pack them tight. That should do it for now. You'll have to change the dressing, put on more ointment, at least once a day. More often if there's any bleeding. Watch me and you'll know how to do it."
"Will I be okay to travel?"
"I'd say no if we were someplace else. You should rest a couple of days, minimum. But this place, all the dirt and dust and rodent crap ... you'd be better off in a clean bed."
"A clean bed far away from Pomo County. Question is, how do I get there?"
Lori didn't answer. She had the gloves on and was sponging the wounds with bottled water. It was yucky to watch and I looked away. Nothing else to look at in the lobby except shapes and shadows. Something creaked upstairs. Back in the summer, some of the guys had climbed up there to explore; but not me, not after that bat flew so close to my head. Old hotels are weird places, all right. That one in the Stephen King flick, where Jack Nicholson goes around grinning and waving an ax ... wow.
It took Lori a long time to finish treating John's wounds. What seemed like a long time, anyway. I got tired standing up and holding the flashlight at arm's length, so I sat cross-legged on the grungy floor and propped my elbows on my knees and held it that way. Once I heard a skittering at the big open fireplace and swung the beam over there, and Lori said real sharp, "For God's sake, put that light back here." I didn't blame her for yelling. She couldn't see in the dark.
While she was taking John's temperature I went and picked up a couple of the candles that were on the fireplace hearth. I'd forgotten about them until I flashed the light over that way. I lit the wicks with some matches from my purse and set the candles on folding chairs, one at either end of the couch. The flames gave off plenty of light. Softer, too; the flash glare had started to hurt my eyes.
John's temperature was one degree above normal. Lori said that wasn't bad, after him being in the lake and in wet clothes all night. She gave him some aspirins and told him to take more every few hours. Then she unwrapped a nutrition bar she'd bought, made him eat it and drink more water. Then she laid out her husband's clothes and said, "You can get into these when we're gone. There's an extra shirt in case one gets bloody."
"I owe you," John said. "Both of you."
"You don't owe me a thing."
"Me neither," I said.
"Yeah I do, and I can't repay you. And I still have to ask one more favor, Lori."
"I know. Transportation."
"I can't walk away from here."
"You can't drive, either. I'm not about to steal a car for you. That leaves me and my Toyota."
"I wish it could be some other way."
"So do I. I'll do it, but not right away. For one thing, I have to take Trisha home—"
"I can get home on my own," I said.
"No, not from way over here. And if I don't go home myself pretty soon, he'll figure something's up. My husband, I mean. The last thing we need is for him to come looking."
John said, "If he lays a hand on you again—"
"Never mind that. Thing is, I won't be able to get back out again today without making him suspicious. Besides, you need to rest, build up strength. One night in this dump ought to be okay."
"How soon tomorrow?"
"Before noon sometime."
"You sure you can get out in the morning?"
"Pretty sure. I'll think up some kind of excuse."
I asked John, "Where'U you go that's safe?"
"As far from here as possible."
"And then what? After you're healed, I mean."
"You don't want to know. Neither of you."
"But—"
"No buts. Once I'm gone I'm out of your lives for good."
"We're supposed to just forget you?"
"That's right. Forget you ever met me."
"I'll never forget you, John. Never."
He was quiet while Lori and I got ready to leave. Then he said a funny thing, like we were already gone and he was talking to himself. He said, "The only ones who care ... they're the ones you can hurt the most."
Earle Banner
NUCOOEE POINT LODGE...
Yeah. Oh yeah.
I was about three hundred yards back, just coming through a curve, when the little Jap car turned off. I braked and geared down, so when I rolled past the overgrown driveway I was doing less than twenty-five and I could see her plowing through grass and weeds to get around the chain barrier. I didn't see no other car, but you could've hidden a fuckin' house trailer back there behind the trees.
I drove on a ways until I found a spot where I could turn around. Then I come back and pulled off onto the verge just down from the driveway. Her and Brian's kid, nobody else? Couldn't get enough dick, so now she's after pussy too, teenage pussy? But I didn't think that was it. Not Lori, she was no AC-DC. Had to be they were meeting somebody at the lodge. One guy, maybe more—a goddamn orgy. Just thinking about it, the top of my head felt like it was gonna come off.
What I ached to do was go over there, catch them at it, beat the crap out of her and anybody else got in my way. If I'd had my .38 with me I might've done it. But I didn't have no idea how many guys was over there, who they were, how tough they were. Those two bitches might be taking on half a dozen, for all I knew. Without an equalizer, maybe I'd be the one to get stomped and wouldn't she love to see that?
Maybe I oughta go home, get the piece, and come back.
No. Take too long. And I still wouldn't know how many there was until I got in there and I didn't like the idea of using the gun unless I had to, not on anybody except Lori. Shit, it wasn't the guy's fault. Tail gets waved in a man's face, he grabs for it—you can't expect no different from a guy. Wasn't even the kid's fault. Teenager looking for kicks ... all them teenage kids fuck like bunnies nowadays, the more the merrier. Lori'd set the whole thing up, most likely. Yeah. Set up an orgy, more the merrier for her, too. Kicks galore.
I'll give her kicks. Give her some kicks she'll never forget.
I sat there a while longer, steaming. A couple of cars whooshed by, and it come to me that one of 'em could've been a sheriffs deputy or highway patrolman. Better get out of here before a cop did come along and stop and ask what I was doing. I jammed her into gear, rolled out past the lodge entrance. Couldn't see nothing at all back there. Hid the Jap car and got inside somehow . . . humping in there on the floor with rats and spiders for an audience. Pictures that put in my head made me want to puke. I couldn't remember ever being this crazy mad before.
By the time I got back to Pomo I needed a shot real bad. I stopped at Luccetti's and a good thing wasn't nobody I knew in there, because I was in no mood for talk. I knocked back three straight shots of Bushmills, but they didn't do nothin' except sharpen the edge. Hell with sitting here paying tavern prices when I had a jug of the same at home. I slammed out of there, drove to the house, and put the Ford away inside the garage. If she saw I was home she might not come in right away, and I wanted her to walk right in. Oh, yeah, walk right in, baby, see what Earle's got waiting for you.
In the house I dragged the jug out and poured some into a glass and knocked it back. I started to pour another, then I thought, What the hell I need a glass for? I threw it against a wall and took the next one straight from the neck. Like a man. Like a husband with a lying, cheating mare in heat for a wife.
I carried the bottle into the front room, sat in my chair, and worked on it. Lot of time passed and I got drunk, all right, but not too drunk because I didn't want to pass out.
Clock on the mantel bonged out four times. Four o'clock. Out there couple of hours now, fuck and suck and Christ knew what else. I got up and staggered over and grabbed the clock. Lori's clock, bought it at some garage sale, never liked that pissant clock. I threw it down and stomped on it. Stomped it flat. Felt good, real good, so I went back to the bedroom and stomped her clock radio, stomped her jewelry case, stomped her music box, stomped some other crap of hers, and all of it felt fine because the whole time it was her getting stomped, her face, her body, bust her up into little pieces scattered all over the floor.
Breathing hard when I was done. Yeah, and ready for another shot. Went out front again and picked up the bottle and knocked back a double. I was wiping my mouth when I heard the Jap car come whining into the driveway.
Well, well. Well, well.
Walk right in, baby, see what Earle's got for you.
And she walked in and there I was, waiting. She took one look at me and her face turned white as paper and she tried to go back out again. I cut her off. Didn't touch her, not yet, just cut her off and then grinned at her real big, like a junkyard dog grins at a piece of raw meat.
"Nucooee Point Lodge," I said.
She sucked in her breath. Look on her face made me happier and crazier than I'd been all afternoon.
Richard Novak
BY FOUR O'CLOCK I was dead on my ass, the pain in my broken nose so bad I couldn't see straight. And that made driving around the way I'd been—Storm's house, slough roads, possible hiding places along the shoreline that might've been overlooked, back and forth aimlessly and unproductively—made me a safety hazard to pedestrians and other drivers. I needed food, sleep. And I couldn't rest at the station; too much activity, too much noise. Like it or not, I'd have to take myself out of action for a while.
I radioed Delia Feldman and told her I was going home. She made approving noises. "Best thing for you, Chief," she said. Wrong. The best thing for me was finding Faith, dead or alive. It was the only way to close the books, all the books, on Storm's death, the only way for me to start putting my life back together again.
Mack was all over me when I let myself in the house. Jumping and wagging and nuzzling, as if I'd been away a week instead of twenty-four hours. "Hey, boy. Good old Mack." He needed to go out, but the shape I was in, I couldn't walk him half a block. I let him into the backyard instead.
In the kitchen I swallowed a couple of the codeine capsules they'd given me at the hospital. My stomach had been burning off and on all day: bile and emptiness. The burning started in again now. The thought of food was nauseating, but if I didn't eat something pretty quick I knew I'd puke up the painkillers. I made a sandwich, poured half a glass of milk. Let Mack back in and took the food into the living room and flopped on the couch.
It took ten minutes of little bites and sips to get the sandwich and milk down. It was like eating paste, but once it was into me it stayed there. I thought I ought to go in and lie on the bed, but I couldn't seem to move; my whole body felt heavy, as if all the bones and muscles and sinews were petrifying, turning me to stone. I couldn't even make myself lean over and untie my shoes. But that was all right. Better to keep all my clothes on, so I could respond immediately if any word came through on Faith.
I lay sprawled in the cold room, watching night close down outside the windows. The codeine started to work, easing some of the throbbing in my face. But whenever I closed my eyes, they wouldn't stay shut; I couldn't sleep yet. For a while my head was a vacuum, no thoughts of any kind, but then Storm was there again and pretty soon my skull seemed to swell with memories and images of her alive and dead. I must've made a sound, because Mack stirred at my feet, then jumped up beside me. I reached out to him, pulled him close, buried my face in the soft fur of his neck.
"Oh God, Mack. Oh God, Mack."
He whined and licked my hand, as if somehow he understood.
Audrey Sixkiller
I PROBABLY SHOULD have told Dick about my suspicions right away, but I didn't because suspicions is all they were. I had no proof John Faith was alive or that Trisha Marx had used my boat to help him get away. No proof, even, that either of them had been anywhere near my property this morning. Plus, there was the question of why. Why would she give aid and comfort to an accused murderer? Some sort of quixotic teenage impulse, perhaps; girls could be highly romantic and foolish at that age, as I had reason to remember. But even so, there must be something more to it than that and I had no idea what it might be. Rumors fly wildly in a small town; once a person comes under a cloud of suspicion, people are quick to convict and shun without benefit of evidence or trial. I didn't care to be responsible for branding anyone.