Nothing but the Night Read online

  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, Cam. Call me. J.

  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 d
id 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.