Case File - a Collection of Nameless Detective Stories by Bill Pronzini Page B

stopped and leaned in close and pressed my ear against the cold metal, put my right index finger in the other ear to shut out the wind. At first, for a full thirty seconds, there were faint sounds of movement inside but no conversation. Then, muffled but distinguishable, one of them spoke—the one who didn't belong.
    "Hurry up with those sandwiches."
    "I'm almost finished," another voice said nervously.
    "And I'm damned hungry—but I don't want to sit around here any longer than we have to. You understand?"
    "It's a public campground. The state park people won't bother us, if that's what —"
    "Shut up! I told both of you before, no comments and no trouble if you don't want a bullet in the head. Do I have to tell you again?"
    "No."
    "Then keep your mouth closed and get those sandwiches ready. We got a lot of driving left to do before we get to Mexico."
    That exchange told me as much as I needed to know about the situation, and it was worse than I had expected. Kidnapping, probably, and God knew what other felonies. It was time to take myself out of it, to file a report with the closest Highway Patrol office—Olema or Point Reyes. You can take private detection just so far, and then you're a fool unless you turn things over to a public law-enforcement agency. I pulled back, half-turned and started to retreat into the trees.
    In that moment, the way things happen sometimes—unexpectedly, coincidentally—the wind gusted and blew a limb from one of the deadfalls nearby, sent it banging against the metal side of the camper.
    From inside, in immediate response, there was a scraping and a crashing of something upended. I was still backing away, but it was too late then for running. The camper's doors rattled open and one of them came lurching out and into my vision, saw me and shouted, "Hold it, you! Hold it!" In one extended hand was something long and black, something that could only be a gun. I held it.
    The figure was the one who didn't belong, of course—and the one who didn't belong was the girl.
    Only he wasn't a girl.
    He stood there with his feet spread, crouching slightly, holding the gun in both hands; nervous, scared, dangerous. He was not wearing the wig or the bandanna now; his hair was clipped close to his scalp, and it was light-colored, almost white in the darkness. Except for his pale, girlish face, his hairless hands—physical quirks of nature—there was nothing at all effeminate about him.
    "Move up this way," he said.
    I hesitated, and then I did what he told me. He backed away quickly, into position to cover both me and the rear of the camper. When I was three long strides from him I stopped, and I could see the other two standing between the open doors, silhouetted in the light from inside. They were motionless, eyes flicking between me and the one holding the gun.
    "What the hell?" the guy with the gun said. He had recognized me. "You followed us."
    I did not say anything.
    "Why? Who are you, man?"
    I watched him for a moment; then, stretching the truth a little because I wanted to see his reaction, I said, "I'm a cop."
    He didn't like that. A tic started up on the left side of his mouth and he made a swaying motion with the gun, as if he could not quite keep his hands steady. He wasn't at all chary about using the weapon, I was pretty sure of that—on me or on the two scared kids by the camper. You get so you can gauge the depths of a man, how far he'll go, what he's capable of; this one was capable of murder, all right, and in his agitated state it would not take much to push him into it.
    He said finally, "That's your problem," and made a sound that might have been a grunt or a skittish laugh. "You don't seem surprised that I'm not a female."
    "No."
    "What put you onto me?"
    "Three things," I said. "One was the way you blew your nose back there in the parking area. You took your handkerchief out and snapped it open in front of you; that's a man's gesture, not a