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Authors: Bill Pronzini
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too. She’d said something about a husband before he jumped her. Staying at the Murray place with her husband, that was it. Husband would report her missing if he hadn’t already. County cops’d be out looking for her sooner or later, combing the woods. Christ, what if they found her? No, they wouldn’t find her, not where he’d stashed her. But he couldn’t just leave her there. Had to find some permanent place to hide her body so they’d never be able to tie her to him. Body. Jesus. But what other choice did he have?
Maybe he should—
No, forget it. Deal with that tomorrow.
Verriker, too—tomorrow. Couldn’t think straight now, couldn’t plan.
He poured another drink, cracked another brew.
Why didn’t nothing ever work out easy for him?
7
The sheriff’s deputy in charge of the Six Pines substation was the fresh-faced young guy who’d come running up to me in the Verrikers’ driveway. His name was Broxmeyer. I waited half an hour for him; the only person in the station when I walked in just before dusk was a gray-haired woman who worked the desk and the radio dispatch unit, and she wasn’t in a position to help me. So I waited, alternately squirming on a wooden chair and pacing, sweating even though the air-conditioning was on, trying to adopt Jake Runyon’s method of blanking his mind during a downtime period. It didn’t work. All sorts of dark images kept spinning and sliding around inside my head, banging into one another. The knot that had formed in my stomach, cold and hard and acidic, kept funneling the sour taste of bile into the back of my throat.
Broxmeyer looked draggy and worn out when he finally showed. His uniform was rumpled and stained under the armpits; a smudge of something darkened one cheek. He smelled of smoke and sweat. So did I, probably; I hadn’t even thought about changing clothes.
The woman asked him if the fire at the Verriker place was completely out and contained yet. He said yes, but there was still some concern about a flare-up that would endanger the surrounding timber; one of the VFD trucks would remain on watch all night. I made some noise getting up off the chair to remind the woman that I was there. She said to me, “This is Deputy Broxmeyer,” and then to him, “Man’s been waiting to see you, Greg.”
Broxmeyer took a look at me. “You’re the man I talked to at the fire scene.”
“That’s right.” I told him my name.
“You’re not local. What were you doing there?”
“Looking for my wife. She’s missing. That’s why I’m here.”
“Missing? For how long?”
“Since sometime this afternoon. Six, seven hours.” I was making an effort to keep my voice even, unemotional, but some of the fear leaked through and made it break a little here and there. “She went for a walk, just a short walk, and she hasn’t come back. I can’t find her anywhere.”
Broxmeyer ruminated for a few seconds, chewing on a corner of his lower lip. Then he said, “Let’s talk in my office.”
He led me through a gate in the waist-high partition that cut the station into two uneven halves, then through another door into a glass-walled cubicle. He said, “Have a seat,” and sat heavily behind a modular gray desk strewn with papers. I stayed on my feet; I was too jittery to do any more sitting.
He took off his cap, revealing a mop of lanky blond hair, and pinched at his eyelids with thumb and forefinger before he was ready to talk. “Your wife went for a walk, you said. From where to where?”
“The Murray place on Ridge Hill Road. She may have gone into the woods nearby … I don’t know for sure. I was away part of the day fishing.”
“And when you came back, she was gone?”
“Yes. She left me a note about the walk. I waited until I got worried enough and then went out looking for her. In the woods first, on foot. Then in the car. I was up on Skyview Drive when the house exploded. That’s the reason I was on the scene so
Maybe he should—
No, forget it. Deal with that tomorrow.
Verriker, too—tomorrow. Couldn’t think straight now, couldn’t plan.
He poured another drink, cracked another brew.
Why didn’t nothing ever work out easy for him?
7
The sheriff’s deputy in charge of the Six Pines substation was the fresh-faced young guy who’d come running up to me in the Verrikers’ driveway. His name was Broxmeyer. I waited half an hour for him; the only person in the station when I walked in just before dusk was a gray-haired woman who worked the desk and the radio dispatch unit, and she wasn’t in a position to help me. So I waited, alternately squirming on a wooden chair and pacing, sweating even though the air-conditioning was on, trying to adopt Jake Runyon’s method of blanking his mind during a downtime period. It didn’t work. All sorts of dark images kept spinning and sliding around inside my head, banging into one another. The knot that had formed in my stomach, cold and hard and acidic, kept funneling the sour taste of bile into the back of my throat.
Broxmeyer looked draggy and worn out when he finally showed. His uniform was rumpled and stained under the armpits; a smudge of something darkened one cheek. He smelled of smoke and sweat. So did I, probably; I hadn’t even thought about changing clothes.
The woman asked him if the fire at the Verriker place was completely out and contained yet. He said yes, but there was still some concern about a flare-up that would endanger the surrounding timber; one of the VFD trucks would remain on watch all night. I made some noise getting up off the chair to remind the woman that I was there. She said to me, “This is Deputy Broxmeyer,” and then to him, “Man’s been waiting to see you, Greg.”
Broxmeyer took a look at me. “You’re the man I talked to at the fire scene.”
“That’s right.” I told him my name.
“You’re not local. What were you doing there?”
“Looking for my wife. She’s missing. That’s why I’m here.”
“Missing? For how long?”
“Since sometime this afternoon. Six, seven hours.” I was making an effort to keep my voice even, unemotional, but some of the fear leaked through and made it break a little here and there. “She went for a walk, just a short walk, and she hasn’t come back. I can’t find her anywhere.”
Broxmeyer ruminated for a few seconds, chewing on a corner of his lower lip. Then he said, “Let’s talk in my office.”
He led me through a gate in the waist-high partition that cut the station into two uneven halves, then through another door into a glass-walled cubicle. He said, “Have a seat,” and sat heavily behind a modular gray desk strewn with papers. I stayed on my feet; I was too jittery to do any more sitting.
He took off his cap, revealing a mop of lanky blond hair, and pinched at his eyelids with thumb and forefinger before he was ready to talk. “Your wife went for a walk, you said. From where to where?”
“The Murray place on Ridge Hill Road. She may have gone into the woods nearby … I don’t know for sure. I was away part of the day fishing.”
“And when you came back, she was gone?”
“Yes. She left me a note about the walk. I waited until I got worried enough and then went out looking for her. In the woods first, on foot. Then in the car. I was up on Skyview Drive when the house exploded. That’s the reason I was on the scene so
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