Read Online Blowback (The Nameless Detective) by Bill Pronzini - Free Book Online
Authors: Bill Pronzini
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yourself.
But how? How do you come to terms with your own mortality?
Time passed emptily. At length my thoughts turned muzzy and the image faded and I slept a little. And dreamed things that had no sense and no continuity. And woke up streaming perspiration, nerves bunched and jangling. And slept again, and dreamed again, and woke up again, and slept and woke up …
At five-thirty I gave it up and got out of bed and went into the bath alcove. I had not slept much since Friday and it was beginning to show; the face that stared back at me in the mirror had pockets under the eyes and deep clefts like a pair of parentheses at the corners of the mouth and a lot of furry gray beard stubble that gave the cheeks a look of cracked leather spotted with mold. Nice metaphor. I did not like looking at the face, and I shaved quickly and turned out of there.
It was still dark outside, but songbirds had already begun to herald the approaching dawn, Monday morning, I thought. And tomorrow—Revelation Tuesday.
I put a pan of bottled water on the hot plate, spooned instant coffee into a mug, and looked into the sack of groceries I had bought yesterday in The Pines. Salami and hard rolls that had already dried out from the heat. I had no particular appetite, but when the coffee was ready I made two sandwiches anyway and sat eating them at the table in my underwear. Bachelor's breakfast, full of nutrition. Who needs eggs and packaged cereals when you can start the day with Italian deli?
When I was finished I pulled on a pair of slacks and got my fishing gear together and went outside, down to the lake. Dawn was breaking by then, and the sky was flushed a deep magenta color. There was an aura of primitive beauty to the smooth water, to the green-black foothills and mountains that surrounded it. I stopped in the verge of the trees and stood taking it in, thinking that there was nothing quite so captivating—so utterly peaceful—as an isolated mountain lake at dawn. You could imagine a sense of oneness with the land when you saw it like this, a sense of communion with the vanished past; and you could imagine, too, if only for a little while, that the nighttime visions of death and nihilism were as insubstantial as a mirage.
I walked onto the rocky beach at the inlet; Mrs. Jerrold was standing alone at the far end, drying herself with a big yellow beach towel. She wore a white two-piece bathing suit and a white rubber bathing cap with yellow daisies on it; her skin glistened silkily in the ruddy morning light. She saw me at the same time, and flashed a smile and waved. I went over to her.
“Hi,” she said. “Going to try your luck?”
“Yep. How's the water?”
“Cold. Wakes you up in a hurry.”
“I'll bet.”
She took off the cap and shook her head and ran her fingers through the tousled layers of red hair. She was something in that bathing suit; and yet the absence of make-up made her look young and fresh and wholesome, like somebody's kid sister. Some kid sister—Eve in the Garden was more to the point.
She said, “You missed all the excitement last night.”
“Excitement?”
“Across the lake. Searchlights and everything. We looked through Karl's binoculars, and there were a lot of policemen and a tow truck and an ambulance on that bluff over there.” She pointed. “They were pulling up a car that had gone into the lake.”
“Karl?” I said.
“Karl Talesco. He's another guest.”
“I've met him, yeah.”
“I hope nobody was seriously hurt,” she said.
I nodded; I did not want to get into it with her. I let a few seconds go by, and then I said, “How's your husband today?”
Her eyes clouded and her mouth pulled into a wry frown. “Still sleeping off his drunk, I suppose,” she said. “He came back positively boiled last night.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.” She came a step closer and touched my arm, let her fingers rest there. It seemed to be the kind of natural, meaningless gesture that certain people
But how? How do you come to terms with your own mortality?
Time passed emptily. At length my thoughts turned muzzy and the image faded and I slept a little. And dreamed things that had no sense and no continuity. And woke up streaming perspiration, nerves bunched and jangling. And slept again, and dreamed again, and woke up again, and slept and woke up …
At five-thirty I gave it up and got out of bed and went into the bath alcove. I had not slept much since Friday and it was beginning to show; the face that stared back at me in the mirror had pockets under the eyes and deep clefts like a pair of parentheses at the corners of the mouth and a lot of furry gray beard stubble that gave the cheeks a look of cracked leather spotted with mold. Nice metaphor. I did not like looking at the face, and I shaved quickly and turned out of there.
It was still dark outside, but songbirds had already begun to herald the approaching dawn, Monday morning, I thought. And tomorrow—Revelation Tuesday.
I put a pan of bottled water on the hot plate, spooned instant coffee into a mug, and looked into the sack of groceries I had bought yesterday in The Pines. Salami and hard rolls that had already dried out from the heat. I had no particular appetite, but when the coffee was ready I made two sandwiches anyway and sat eating them at the table in my underwear. Bachelor's breakfast, full of nutrition. Who needs eggs and packaged cereals when you can start the day with Italian deli?
When I was finished I pulled on a pair of slacks and got my fishing gear together and went outside, down to the lake. Dawn was breaking by then, and the sky was flushed a deep magenta color. There was an aura of primitive beauty to the smooth water, to the green-black foothills and mountains that surrounded it. I stopped in the verge of the trees and stood taking it in, thinking that there was nothing quite so captivating—so utterly peaceful—as an isolated mountain lake at dawn. You could imagine a sense of oneness with the land when you saw it like this, a sense of communion with the vanished past; and you could imagine, too, if only for a little while, that the nighttime visions of death and nihilism were as insubstantial as a mirage.
I walked onto the rocky beach at the inlet; Mrs. Jerrold was standing alone at the far end, drying herself with a big yellow beach towel. She wore a white two-piece bathing suit and a white rubber bathing cap with yellow daisies on it; her skin glistened silkily in the ruddy morning light. She saw me at the same time, and flashed a smile and waved. I went over to her.
“Hi,” she said. “Going to try your luck?”
“Yep. How's the water?”
“Cold. Wakes you up in a hurry.”
“I'll bet.”
She took off the cap and shook her head and ran her fingers through the tousled layers of red hair. She was something in that bathing suit; and yet the absence of make-up made her look young and fresh and wholesome, like somebody's kid sister. Some kid sister—Eve in the Garden was more to the point.
She said, “You missed all the excitement last night.”
“Excitement?”
“Across the lake. Searchlights and everything. We looked through Karl's binoculars, and there were a lot of policemen and a tow truck and an ambulance on that bluff over there.” She pointed. “They were pulling up a car that had gone into the lake.”
“Karl?” I said.
“Karl Talesco. He's another guest.”
“I've met him, yeah.”
“I hope nobody was seriously hurt,” she said.
I nodded; I did not want to get into it with her. I let a few seconds go by, and then I said, “How's your husband today?”
Her eyes clouded and her mouth pulled into a wry frown. “Still sleeping off his drunk, I suppose,” she said. “He came back positively boiled last night.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.” She came a step closer and touched my arm, let her fingers rest there. It seemed to be the kind of natural, meaningless gesture that certain people
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