Strangers by Bill Pronzini Page B

earth driveway next to her trailer, a nondescript oblong box set on blocks in a cul-de-sac. Poor neighborhood: empty lot on one side, a boarded-up ramshackle house that ought to have worn a “condemned” sign on the other, the fenced-in back end of a pipe yard across the street. The closest occupied residence was almost a full block distant. Perfect setup for a violent male with rape on his mind. Even if Mrs. Allen had had time to scream before or during the attack, nobody would have been close enough to hear her.
    There was a small outbuilding to one side and behind the trailer. At first I took it to be a single-car garage, with one of its double doors standing open. As I walked up the drive past the VW Beetle I could hear faint sounds from inside the building, but the sounds stopped when I neared the open door. The interior was lit by a string of overhead bulbs, letting me see that it had been outfitted as a workshop. I took a step into the doorway—and came to a fast standstill, a sudden hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.
    The woman standing a few feet away, unseen until I moved into the doorway, was pointing a shotgun at me.
    I lifted both hands shoulder high, palms toward her, and said as pleasantly as I could, “Mrs. Allen?”
    Long, flat stare. She was a large woman with long, coarse black hair in braids that extended halfway down her back. Wearing a bright beaded vest over a dark-colored shirt, black Levi’s, beaded moccasins. Behind her, on shelves and racks and a long workbench, were more vests and moccasins as well as what looked to be rawhide carryall bags in various stages of completion. A variety of tools and rows of jars filled with multicolored beads and buttons gleamed in the overhead lights, but not as brightly as the silvered barrel of the shotgun.
    Pretty soon she said, “I don’t know you,” in a voice as bereft of expression as her heavy features. “What you want here?”
    â€œFive minutes of your time. I mean you no harm and I’m not selling anything.”
    The shotgun barrel held steady. “Trespassing,” she said.
    How to handle this? No easy way; just take the plunge, politely, and hope for the best. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I can understand why you’re leery of strangers, after what happened to you.”
    â€œWhat you know about what happened?”
    â€œThat you were attacked in your home six weeks ago. I’m sorry about that, too.”
    The shotgun’s barrel dipped some; she made a disgusted clicking sound with her tongue. “Another one,” she said. “Poking around, asking questions. When you people gonna leave me alone?”
    You people. The law. She’d jumped to the wrong conclusion, taken me for somebody from the sheriff’s department or the D.A.’s office. The false notion made it easier for me to direct the conversation and I was not about to disabuse her of it. Impersonating a law enforcement officer is a felony, but if a person mistakes you for one, and you don’t say anything that could be construed as confirmation, you haven’t committed a crime.
    I said, “Do you believe Sheriff Felix arrested the right man, Mrs. Allen?”
    â€œHe says so. Everybody says so.”
    â€œThey could be wrong. Cody Hatcher could be innocent.”
    â€œI’m not taking any chances,” she said, and waggled the lowered shotgun slightly for emphasis. “I sleep with this now. Anybody comes around here again I’ll blow his fucking head off.”
    â€œYes, ma’am. Do you know the Hatcher youth?”
    â€œDon’t know him, don’t want to. Same like all the rest of the young ones nowadays. Treat women, Indian women, like dirt. Rape, steal, what do they care?”
    â€œThe man who attacked you stole money from your purse, is that right?”
    â€œForty-two dollars. Bad, but what I lost the other time was worth plenty