Nothing but the Night Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF BILL PRONZINI

  “Pronzini pulls off a seamless tour de force.… [He] is an author no one should miss.” —The Plain Dealer on Nothing but the Night

  “Nobody can pitch a noir suspense thriller to the unrelenting level of high anxiety achieved by Cornell Woolrich—but Bill Pronzini gives it his best shot yet in Nothing but the Night.” —The New York Times Book Review

  “Pronzini’s Blue Lonesome is not only his masterpiece but also one of the five or six best crime novels published in this decade.” —Mystery Scene

  “With a unique starting point, a fascinating variety of perspectives, and a startling ending, this is one of the best-told mysteries of the year.” —San Jose Mercury News on A Wasteland of Strangers

  “Pronzini pulls out all the stops as he builds up to a very tricky ending.” —Publishers Weekly on In an Evil Time

  “Pronzini’s book, with its smooth writing, crisp dialogue, deft characterization and subtly ambiguous story line, puts the lie to the facile distinction between ‘literary’ and genre fiction. Crime may figure in the tale, but if this is ‘just a crime novel,’ then so is Crime and Punishment.” —The Philadelphia Inquirer on The Crimes of Jordan Wise

  Nothing but the Night

  Bill Pronzini

  For Suzette Lalime and

  Lawrence Davidson

  A first anniversary present

  And with thanks to Michael Seidman for his usual astute editorial advice; to Jackie Lee and Melissa Ward for supplying research material; and to Marcia for helping to make Cam Gallagher a much better person.

  Oh never fear, man, nought’s to dread

  Look not left nor right:

  In all the endless road you tread

  There’s nothing but the night.

  —A. E. Housman

  PART I

  Discovery

  1

  Warm Indian-summer night.

  Kind of night he’d always liked, best kind for long drives. Window rolled down. Breeze cool against the side of his face. Engine humming, tires whispering a sort of bluesy accompaniment to the golden oldies playing on the radio. Highway and night both clear, sharp in every detail, lights from passing cars and trucks like distant spokes of fire in the dark. Good feeling strong in him. Hope, determination. Wasn’t just driving from somewhere to nowhere, picking through straws in the world’s biggest haystack; he felt close to the needle, getting closer all the time. Keep hunting, keep the faith. Keep reminding himself everything ended sooner or later and what he was really doing was going home one mile at a time, one day at a time, the long way around.

  Home. Annalisa.

  “Earth Angel” on the radio now. Annalisa.

  Tires whispering fast and sweet, like her breath in his ear. Anna-lisa … Annalisa … Annalisa …

  He saw her face like he sometimes did, right there on the windshield glass. Skin smooth and white as the inside of a shell, eyes a cool green like deep water, hair soft and yellow like corn silk. A surge of feeling went through him, so sudden, so hot, it was like fire. He gripped the wheel tight, clenched his teeth and jaw, until it eased and he felt cool again.

  God, he missed her! Times like this, love and hurt and need flaring up all at once, he wanted to take the quickest route back to Denver. Just see her again for a few minutes, touch her face and hair, hold her hand. Look into her eyes and tell her everything would be all right, he’d make it all right. More than once he’d started for home, only to shift routes again before he’d done more than a couple of hours’ driving. Other times he’d stopped at pay phones, called Mom and Pop Foster to find out how she was. Never called the hospital, they’d just say she was too sick to take calls, have visitors. Better to just write her regular like he did, call Mom and Pop now and then. Better to keep moving, keep hunting.

  Hard, though. Real hard sometimes. Writing his letters, three or four a month, and knowing it might be a long time before she’d be able to read them. But he had to do it. When she got better, she’d want to know all the places he’d been, the kinds of jobs he’d worked, that he’d never given up even for a minute. So he kept writing and sending the letters to Mom and Pop for safekeeping. Each envelope marked Personal and Private, even though they’d promised they wouldn’t open them and he knew they’d keep their promise. Good people, the Fosters. How could Annalisa’s folks be anything else?

  Truck stop coming up. He saw the neon sign ahead, scatter of big rigs in the floodlit lot. Getting low on gas, better fill the tank. Gnaw of hunger in his belly, too. He hadn’t eaten anything but a bag of M&Ms, his last bag, since the early dinner in Eureka.

  He took the next freeway exit, came back on the frontage road. Gas first—and when he’d paid for it, he had a little over two hundred left in his wallet. About time to stop somewhere again and work for a while. Start looking tomorrow, maybe, depending on where tonight led him. By the weekend, latest.

  Café was like a thousand others he’d eaten and worked in: crowded, noisy, too hot in spite of the ceiling fans, heavy with the smells of fried food and sweaty bodies. Truckers, mostly, at the counter and in the booths. Same breed as him. Long haul, short haul, big rigs and small—he’d driven them all, back in Denver and on the road since he’d left. Night riders, too, a lot of them, used to driving the dark highways, comfortable with it, even craving it. He’d get back into steady trucking when he finally went home. His old job at Miller Freight Lines. Sam Miller understood why he’d quit, would make a place for him when he came back.

  He found an empty stool at the counter. Harried waitress got around to him, he ordered coffee and the breakfast special—eggs, sausage, hot-cakes—and then showed her the sketch. She glanced at it, at him again. Shook her head and moved off.

  Guy sitting on his left was big and bearded, tattoos on his arms and a Giants cap pushed back off his forehead. Nick caught the guy’s eye, said, “How you doing?” and made a little road talk before he showed him the sketch. “Ever see this man?” he asked. “Anywhere, anytime?”

  Giants fan squinted; plucked the square of laminated plastic from Nick’s fingers, and squinted some more. “Not too clear.”

  “Clear enough. Good likeness.”

  “You draw it?”

  “No. Artist.” Police artist, but he never said that.

  “Looks pretty old.”

  “Just worn.”

  “That why you had it sealed in plastic?”

  “That’s why. Familiar to you?”

  “Can’t say he is. Friend of yours?”

  “No.”

  “Relative?”

  “No. Guy I’m trying to find.”

  “How come? He owe you money?”

  Nick shook his head, tucked the sketch into his shirt pocket.

  “So how come you’re looking for him?” Giants fan asked.

  Answer was on his tongue, as hot and bitter as the coffee the waitress had set in front of him. He had to tighten his lips, turn his head away to keep the words from slipping out. He’d never said them to anyone, not even Annalisa. Only one he’d ever say them to was the son of a bitch in the sketch.

  2

  Warm Indian-summer night.

  And here sits Cameron Gallagher, he thought, master of the manor, lord of all he surveys. Object of envy on this fine end-of-October night: successful businessman, happily married to the same woman for thirteen years, two smart and pretty daughters, few debts, enough money to afford playthings like the brand-new custom Skagit cruiser, Paloma Wine Systems such a thriving concern he’d had to hire three new employees this year, for a total now of twenty-two. Sitting here in the tree-shaded privacy of his half-acre backyard behind his $400,000 luxury home, gin and tonic in hand (Bombay gin, nothing but the b
est), wife by his side, kids happily tossing a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee on the lawn. Oh yes, old Cam Gallagher had it all. Realized the American dream at the tender age of thirty-five.

  That was the general consensus, no doubt. The ones who knew differently were the ones who mattered: Hallie, at least some of the time. And Caitlin—or maybe she bought the trappings and the image, too. And himself. The truth was why he had three gin and tonic tonics inside him, the fourth in his hand, and a fifth on his mind. Why he suffered recurring nightmares, bouts of depression, and headaches occasionally so severe they brought on short-term blackouts. Why he’d spent a quarter of a century in the offices of child psychologists, psychoanalysts, and specialists in neurasthenic and manic-depressive disorders. Why he sometimes felt—as he felt tonight—that if he wasn’t very, very careful, someday he would come apart at the seams.

  The truth was Rose Adams Gallagher. Paul Gallagher, too, but the old man had been only a supporting player, not the lead actor in this long-running drama, even though he’d been the one who had turned it from cheap soap opera into high tragedy. Good old Ma. The prettiest girl in Los Alegres—somebody’d written that next to her photo in her high school yearbook. Not so pretty, though, when he’d been growing up. Not so full of sugar and spice and everything nice. And not pretty at all that last terrible night at the river house—

  Don’t go there, Gallagher. Better stay the hell away from there if you want to sleep tonight.

  He wondered if he were feeling sorry for himself. Self-pity wasn’t one of his flaws, usually; he disliked Cam Gallagher far more than he pitied him. No, it was his family he felt sorry for. Hallie most of all. The girls were young, resilient, and they had been protected from birth; never been told about his past, and wouldn’t be until they were adults. The one vow he’d made and been able, for the most part, to keep was that his children would not grow up in the kind of household he and Caitlin had been subjected to in their early years. Still, kids were sensitive, and they couldn’t help but intuit his problems, feel some of their effects. They deserved a better father than he could ever be.

  Hallie deserved a far better husband. How she’d managed to stand in the firing line of his hang-ups and neuroses over the past thirteen years and remain supportive, upbeat, hopeful, was beyond him. Not a saint but a rock. Babied him when he needed it, kicked his sorry butt when he needed it, played all the right roles at the right time in the right way, or at least tried to—friend, lover, confidante. She was the glue holding him together. As long as he had Hallie and his kids, he felt he might be able to hang in for the long haul. Win his private Armageddon, in Dr. Beloit’s cute little phrase.

  But it had taken its toll on her. She wasn’t as high-spirited or easygoing as she’d once been, or as happy as she should be. There was premature gray in her ash-blond hair that she covered with a rinse, premature age lines in her fine-boned face. And she had developed an alcohol dependency of her own that only a strong effort of will (he knew this without them ever having discussed it) prevented from getting out of hand.

  He hated what he’d done to her. Had fought to keep it from happening, to control the dark side of himself, and failed as often as he succeeded. His worst brooding fear was that someday he’d drive her past the point of no return; that she’d leave him, take Leah and Shannon with her, and then he’d have nothing, then his demons really would destroy him.

  He glanced at her beside him. At ease tonight, as she should always be, smiling her quirky little smile as she watched the girls at their game. Still as slim and sexy as the day they’d met at the Paloma Valley Wine Festival. Still the most attractive woman he’d ever set eyes on. The ache that built inside him as he looked at her was love and desire and compassion and guilt and sadness and something close to prayer, even though he was not a particularly religious man.

  Hallie felt his gaze, turned her head to give him a quizzical look. “What?”

  “Nothing. Just looking at you.”

  “Wondering what you see in me?”

  “On the contrary. Thinking how much I love you.”

  “Well, that’s nice.” Then she said, “Ah.”

  “What does ‘ah’ mean?”

  “I can read your mind.” Her smile had become teasing, but her gaze was tender. She liked hearing him say he loved her; it was reassuring to her, too. “Must be the gin.”

  “I haven’t had that much. Besides, you’re the one who gets horny on gin.”

  “Shh, not so loud. Me and Dorothy Parker.”

  “Who?”

  “You remember. ‘I cannot drink martinis / Only one or two at the most. / After three I’m under the table / After four I’m under mine host.’”

  He laughed. But he was serious when he said, “I do love you, Hallie. You know that.”

  “Of course I know it.” She ran the tips of her fingers across the tendons in his wrist.

  Leah let out a squeal from the lawn, the indignant kind that meant sibling conflict. “Mom! Shannon’s trying to hurt me!”

  “Am not.” From the oldest. Twelve going on twenty.

  “Are too. You threw it too hard. Look at my knee, it’s bleeding.”

  “It’s not bleeding, you big baby.”

  “It is. Dork! You made it bleed.”

  “I’d better referee this,” Hallie said. “It’s past their bedtime anyway.”

  He nodded and watched her move away across the flagstones. Watched the tight roll and sway of her hips, then finished the last third of his drink at a swallow. He lifted himself out of the patio chair, went into the house to make the fifth gin and tonic even though he didn’t really want it.

  Peace had been restored when he came back outside; now the girls were united in their usual nightly complaint against bed. Hallie said, “No more arguments,” and shooed them inside. “I’m coming in in fifteen minutes. You’d better be in bed with the lights off, both of you.”

  That was all it took. She seldom had any trouble reining them in, getting them to obey her. The opposite was true when he was the parent in charge. Always an ongoing hassle; they ran roughshod over him every time. Too soft, too permissive, too eager to be a good dad. Once it had been a small bone of contention between Hallie and him, though she knew as well as he did where it came from. Now she didn’t argue about it, just used her own firm hand when the situation called for it.

  She glanced at his full glass as she sat down beside him. Didn’t say anything, but he could tell from her expression that she wished he wouldn’t drink anymore tonight. Irritation moved through him; he had to struggle to keep his mouth shut, not to become confrontational for no reason. Verbal abuse was as wounding as physical abuse—he knew that well enough. He’d never lifted a hand against Hallie, but too often he’d lifted his goddamn tongue.

  God, he thought, I don’t want to hurt her anymore. Then why can’t I stop doing it? Why do I keep finding new ways, new excuses?

  Hallie said, “What’re you thinking?”

  “Thinking? Why?”

  “Big frown there. Something bothering you?”

  “No.”

  “Sure? You’ve been on the quiet side tonight.”

  “Minor problem at PWS that keeps nagging at me.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not tonight. It’s not important.”

  Liar. The problem wasn’t minor, and if he let it, it could become damned important. But Hallie couldn’t help him with this one. She was the last person he could talk to about this one.

  He sipped his drink. The gin was suddenly sour in his mouth. He set the glass down, pushed it away.

  “Why don’t we go to bed?” he said.

  “It’s only nine o’clock.”

  “Bed,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows at her.

  “Aha, I knew it. Bed.” She rumpled her thick hair with both hands, lifting the strands slowly and letting them fall—a gesture he’d always found sensual, that she knew he found sensual. “Well, gee, I don’t know—”

&
nbsp; “Not enough gin, Dorothy?”

  “More than enough, mine host. Okay, let’s go and tuck the girls in, and then you can have your way with me.”

  He let her go first, again watching the play of her hips beneath the white shorts. He wanted her as much as ever; the stirring in his loins proved it. Wanted her, loved her, needed her. Nothing had changed. Thirteen faithful years, a couple of close calls but the specter of Rose had been better than a dozen cold showers, and now all of a sudden, this very minute—

  Images of Jenna Bailey in his mind.

  Lust for Jenna Bailey in his heart.

  And a part of him—the dark, perverse part—yearning to be on his way to make love to Jenna Bailey instead of his wife.

  3

  Back in the car and driving again.

  Only place where he felt safe and secure, completely in control. Been that way for him since Pa had first let him drive the old Ford pickup off the farm when he was, what, fourteen? Twenty years of wheels good and bad since then. ’Fifty-six Chevy Impala with a dumped front end and mag rims and a shimmy so bad above sixty he’d never dared open her up. ’Eighty-two Ford Taurus, real piece of crap, but that’d been his last year in the army and he’d been short on money. ’Sixty-five Pontiac GTO, candy-apple red, four-banger engine, sweet-and-mean driving machine. Half a dozen more recent models, all Detroit products except the ’94 Mazda wrapped around him now like a metal-and-leather cocoon. He didn’t like the Mazda much, but when the Plymouth died on him a while back—four months? six?—the Mazda was all he’d been able to afford. Not a bad choice, really. Good gas mileage, upward of thirty mpg on the highway, and he’d never had any trouble with it, knock wood.

  He’d been a night rider from the first, too. That was what they called people like him, people who functioned better in darkness than daylight, in and out of their cars. People who preferred their own company, the tight confines of their cars or trucks, to open rooms, open spaces. He’d read an article about it once. Guy he knew called him a night rider, he’d never heard the term, so he’d gone to the library and looked it up. Some psychologist quoted in the article said night riders used their vehicles the way others used books or movies or hobbies, as ways of escape from the tensions and pressures of everyday living. Said that by insulating themselves in their cars they created an illusion of invulnerability that for short periods allowed them to hold their personal problems at bay, exercise the same control over their lives and destinies as they had over their modes of transportation. Psychologist’s exact words. Nick remembered them even after all these years.