She turned abruptly as we entered. At first she seemed more pleased to see me than her son had been, but that didn’t last long. One careful look at my face told her the news wasn’t good; the hope died flickering. She made a gesture to Matt, who was hovering near the door, and he left us without a word. Then she picked up a rag, wet part of it from a tin of turpentine, and began to scrub at her hands — clean hands, no paint on them anywhere.
“You found out who he is,” she said. “You saw him.”
“Yes.”
“And you couldn’t frighten him or make him listen to reason.”
“No, but I gave him plenty to think about.”
“Is he as... dangerous as I think he is?”
I couldn’t lie to her. “Potentially.”
“I knew it. Tell me about him.”
I told her. Cahill’s name and where he lived, his prison record, the restraining order two years ago, the gist of my conversation with him earlier. She listened stone-faced. When I was done she took cigarettes and a lighter from a pocket in her smock, set fire to a weed before she spoke.
“He’ll come after Vic again.” It wasn’t a question.
“Not if I can talk your husband into filing an assault complaint against him.”
“You can try,” she said without much hope.
“Even if he won’t do it,” I said, “the situation with Cahill isn’t as grim as it looks. He doesn’t want to go back to prison. He knows he can’t hurt your husband again without paying a high price; he’s not anonymous any longer and neither are his motives. He’s smart enough to realize that and I think it’ll force him to put a leash on himself.” I paused. “You know your husband far better than I do, Mrs. Runyon. Is he capable of violence against another human being?”
“My God,” she said, “you don’t think Cahill’s right? That Vic did something to that woman?”
“I don’t, no. I’m asking your opinion, if you think it’s even remotely possible.”
“No,” she said. “Absolutely not.”
“Then no matter how much Cahill might prod and threaten, there can’t be anything for him to find, anything to set him off again. If I can find Nedra, alive or dead, and prove to Cahill that your husband is innocent, he’ll take himself right out of your lives.”
“If,” she said. “That’s a big if.”
“Maybe not. I’ve already turned up some leads.” I told her about the postcards Dr. Muncon had received.
“That proves Nedra is alive, doesn’t it?”
“Not to Cahill; he didn’t believe me when I told him about the cards. I’m not so sure I buy it either.”
“You doubt that she sent them?”
“Muncon said they were in her handwriting and handwriting isn’t as easy to fake as people think. What bothers me is that Muncon received cards but your husband apparently didn’t; and I’ve yet to find any evidence that she sent cards or letters to any of her clients. Why only to her therapist? Something doesn’t ring true.”
“Yes, I see what you mean.” She jabbed out her cigarette in an oyster shell ashtray, immediately lit another. “Even if you do find her, it’ll take time. Won’t it? A lot of time?”
“It might. Then again, I might get lucky.”
“What do we do in the meantime?”
“About Cahill? Unless your husband presses assault charges, I’m afraid there’s nothing much you can do. Except to not provoke him if he calls again. And first thing Monday, contact the phone company and have your number changed.”
“What if he comes here to the house?”
“I don’t think he will.”
“But if he does?”
“Don’t let him in, don’t talk to him under any circumstances. But the best safeguard is not to be here, none of you.”
“You mean convince Vic to go away for a while.”
“The three of you, yes. Visit friends... go someplace you’ve enjoyed together in the past, familiar surroundings.”
“He won’t do that either,” she said. “I can’t get him to do anything anymore. He just won’t listen to me.”
“Is he talking to you at all?”
“Barely.”
“Say anything about what happened with Cahill?”
“Not a word. He’s in a great deal of pain. I think if he wasn’t he’d have tried to leave, to go back to her house today. I hid his car keys, both sets. Ridiculous, isn’t it? Having to do a thing like that with a forty-year-old man?”
I put an awkward hand on her arm. Gently I said, “Maybe I can get through to him. He was willing enough to talk to me on the way to the hospital.”
“To a stranger but not to his wife and son.”
“Guilt, Mrs. Runyon. You know that.”
“Yes, I know, but it still hurts...” Angrily she snuffed out her second cancer stick. “Oh, shit,” she said, “let’s go inside. I don’t know why I came out here in the first place. I thought painting might ease my mind, but I should have known better. I can’t concentrate — I can barely think straight.”
Inside the house, in the kitchen, she said, “Would you like a drink? Some coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
“I’m going to have a Scotch. I need one. You want to talk to Vic alone, don’t you?”
“It would be better that way.”
“He’s in the TV room. At least, that’s where he was earlier. Straight through that door over there.”
I went through the door and across a dining area, following the muted babble of television voices. The TV room was large, comfortably furnished. No Dreamsicle effect here; the color scheme was autumnal browns and golds. Victor Runyon sat in a recliner, both feet flat on the floor. He wore slippers and a bathrobe. The bandage across the middle of his face, the bruises that had spread upward from his broken nose to darken his eyes, made him look grotesque and pathetic. I might have felt compassion for him if he’d been a different sort of man, suffering for different reasons; as it was, I felt nothing. All my tender mercies were reserved for his wife and son.
The pained eyes stared blankly at a twenty-five-inch TV screen, where cartoon characters screeched and gabbled and chased each other across a cartoon landscape. He didn’t know I was there until I moved over to form a block between him and the screen; then he blinked and his head lifted and he stared at me.
“Remember me?” I said. “I’m the detective who hauled your sorry ass to the hospital last night.”
That failed to get a rise out of him. He said in a monotone, “I remember.”
“I’ve identified the man who attacked you. His name is Cahill, Eddie Cahill. He’s been in prison twice before, once for felony assault. Two years ago, before he went to jail the second time, he threatened and harassed Nedra Merchant to the point where she had a lawyer obtain a restraining order against him. She never told you about that?”
“No.”
“He’s a dangerous man, Runyon. A threat to you and your family. Something has to be done about him.”
No answer.
“I’m telling you the hard truth here. I saw him again this afternoon, tried to talk sense to him; he won’t listen. He’s convinced you’ve harmed Nedra in some way. Sooner or later he’ll come after you, or maybe after your wife and son. You can prevent that by pressing assault charges against him. How about it, Runyon?”