Cyanide Wells
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by Pronzini-Muller Family Trust
All rights reserved.
Mysterious Press books are published by Warner Books, Inc., Hachette Book Group, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017.
Visit our Web site at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
.
An AOL Time Warner Company
The Mysterious Press name and logo are registered trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First eBook Edition: July 2003
ISBN: 978-0-446-55053-6
Contents
S
HARON
M
C
C
ONE
M
YSTERIES BY
M
ARCIA
M
ULLER
DEAD MIDNIGHT
LISTEN TO THE SILENCE
A WALK THROUGH THE FIRE
WHILE OTHER PEOPLE SLEEP
BOTH ENDS OF THE NIGHT
THE BROKEN PROMISE LAND
A WILD AND LONELY PLACE
TILL THE BUTCHERS CUT HIM DOWN
WOLF IN THE SHADOWS
PENNIES ON A DEAD WOMAN’S EYES
WHERE ECHOES LIVE
TROPHIES AND DEAD THINGS
THE SHAPE OF DREAD
THERE’S SOMETHING IN A SUNDAY
EYE OF THE STORM
THERE’S NOTHING TO BE AFRAID OF DOUBLE (
with Bill Pronzini
)
LEAVE A MESSAGE FOR WILLIE
GAMES TO KEEP THE DARK AWAY
THE CHESHIRE CAT’S EYE
ASK THE CARDS A QUESTION
EDWIN OF THE IRON SHOES
N
ONSERIES
POINT DECEPTION
For Robin and John Reese—members in good standing of the Top-of-the-Hill Gang
Thanks to:
Barbara Bibel, for aid in researching;
Victoria Brouillette, my Minnesota connection;
Joe Chernicoff, for information on antique firearms;
Charlie Lucke and John Pearson, for their photographic expertise;
And Bill Pronzini, who makes me work much too hard!
Saugatuck, Minnesota
Thursday, July 28, 1988
M
atthew Lindstrom?”
“Yes?”
“This is Sheriff Cliff Brandt of Sweetwater County, Wyoming. Are you married to a Gwen Lindstrom?”
“… Yes, I am.”
“And she drives a white Toyota Tercel, this year’s model, Minnesota license number four-four-three-B-C-Y?”
“That’s correct. What’s this about, Sheriff?”
“Her car was found in my jurisdiction, parked by the side of County Road Eleven, eight miles from Reliance. That’s a farming community north of Interstate Eighty. Nothing wrong with the vehicle, but there were bloodstains on the dash and other signs consistent with a struggle. A purse containing her identification and credit cards was on the passenger’s seat.”
“And Gwen? What about Gwen?”
“No sign of her. Tell me, Mr. Lindstrom, does she know anyone in Reliance? Or Sweetwater County?”
“As far as I know, she’s never been to Wyoming.”
“When did you last see Mrs. Lindstrom?”
“Two weeks ago, on the fourteenth.”
“Two
weeks
ago? And you’ve got no idea where she’s been since then?”
“We’re separated. Have filed for divorce. We met on the fourteenth to go over the property settlement.”
“I see. Messy divorce?”
“Amicable. We have no children and very little in the way of assets.”
“There was a student ID from Saugatuck College in your wife’s purse.”
“Yes, she’s a senior in the journalism department.”
“And what do you do, Mr. Lindstrom?”
“I teach photography there, operate a small studio on the side. Mostly wedding portraits, that sort of—Why are you asking me these questions? And what are you doing to find Gwen?”
“Just familiarizing myself with the situation. I take it you can account for your whereabouts during the past two weeks?”
“Of course I can! I was here in Saugatuck, teaching summer courses. Now, what are you doing to find—”
“Don’t get all exercised, Mr. Lindstrom. My last question was strictly routine. As for finding your wife, we plan to circularize her photograph, but we’re hoping you can provide a better likeness than the one on her driver’s license.”
“I’ll overnight several to you. If you find her, will you please ask her to call me? Or if…”
“
If
Mr. Lindstrom?”
“Well, if something’s happened to her…”
“Don’t worry. We’ll be in touch.”
Thousand Springs, Nevada
Thursday, July 28, 1988
T
hat’s a bad place to hitchhike. Somebody could pick you off coming around the curve. Where’re you headed?”
“West. Where’re you going?”
“All the way to Soledad County, California.”
“Good a place as any, I guess. If you’d like some company…”
“Hop in.”
“Thanks, I really appreciate it. I was starting to get spooked, all alone here.”
“Why were you alone, anyway?”
“My last ride dropped me off. I kind of…had trouble with him.”
“That’ll happen. Hitching’s not the safest way for a woman to travel.”
“I know, but it’s the only way I’ve got.”
“How long have you been on the road?”
“A couple of days.”
“Coming from where?”
“East. What’s this place—Soledad County—like?”
“Pretty. Coast, forest, foothills, small towns.”
“Lots of people live there?”
“No. We’re one of the most sparsely populated in the upper half of the state. Isolated, too; it’s a four-hour drive to San Francisco, even longer to Sacramento because of bad roads.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Well, you’ve got to like the quiet life, and I do. I live in the country, near a little town called Cyanide Wells.”
“So you think Soledad County is really a good place to live?”
“If you want, I’ll sing its praises all the way there. By the way, my name’s Carly McGuire.”
“Mine’s Ardis Coleman.”
Port Regis, British Columbia
Sunday, April 21, 2002
M
atthew Lindstrom?”
“Yes?”
“I’m calling about your wife.”
“I have no wife.”
“Oh, yes, you do. Gwen Lindstrom—”
“My wife disappeared fourteen years ago. Our divorce went through shortly after that.”
“I know, Mr. Lindstrom. And I know about your legal and professional difficulties surrounding the situation. They must have been very painful. Put an end to your life as you’d known it, didn’t they?”
“Who is this?”
“A friend. My identity’s not important. What’s important is that your wife is very much alive. And very cognizant of what she put you through when she disappeared.”
“Listen, whoever you are—”
“Aren’t you curious? I’m sure I would be if I were you.”
“All right, I’ll go along with your game. Where is Gwen?”
“Soledad County, California. Has lived there for the past fourteen years near a place called Cyanide Wells, under the name of Ardis Coleman.”
“Ardis Coleman? My God, that was Gwen’s mother’s maiden name.”
“Well, there you go. Let me ask you this, Mr. Lindstrom: Will revenge taste good served up cold, after the passage of all those years?”
“Revenge?”
“Surely you must feel some impulse in that direction, considering…”
“What the hell are you trying to do to me? Who
are
you?”
“As I said, a friend.”
“I don’t believe a word of this!”
“Then I suggest you check it out, Mr. Lindstrom. Check it out.”
Cyanide Wells, California
Sunday, April 21, 2002
H
ey, Ard, you’re awfully quiet. Something wrong?”
“Nothing that I can pin down, but I feel…I didn’t sleep well last night. Bad dreams, the kind you can’t remember afterwards, but their aura lingers like a hangover.”
“Maybe it’s your book. It can’t be easy reliving that time. And from what I’ve read, it’s a much more personal account than what you wrote for the paper.”
“It is, but that’s how I want it, Carly. Besides, I don’t think this is about the book—at least not completely.”
“What, then?”
“Matt, maybe.”
“After all these years?”
“I’ve been thinking of him a lot lately. Wondering…”
“And feeling guilty, I suppose.”
“In a way. When I found out they suspected him of murdering me, I should’ve come forward.”
“You found out way after the fact. And when you did try to contact him, he was gone, no forwarding.”
“I know, but instead of trying to find out where he’d gone, I just felt relieved. I didn’t want to hurt him any more than I already had.”
“So he’s better off.”
“No, he’d’ve been better off if I’d been honest from the first. I could’ve—”
“As my aunt Nan used to say, ‘
Coulda
’s,
woulda
’s, and
shoulda
’s don’t amount to a hill of beans.’”
“I guess. But I’m concerned for Natalie. My anxiety’s obvious, and it upsets her.”
“She hasn’t said anything about it to me.”
“You know her; she’s a child who holds everything inside. Carly, d’you think I’m being irrational?”
“…You’re stressed. You’ll get over it once the book is done.”
“Will I? Sometimes I think that given all the terrible things I’ve done, I don’t deserve another good night’s sleep in this lifetime.”
Port Regis, British Columbia
Wednesday, April 24, 2002
M
att Lindstrom watched the tourists struggle along the pier, laden with extra jackets, blankets, tote bags, and coolers. City people, up from California on holiday and unaccustomed to the chill temperatures and pervasive damp that characterized the northern tip of Vancouver Island at this time of year. Americans were also unaccustomed to going anywhere without a considerable collection of unnecessary possessions.
Smiling ruefully, he turned around, his gaze rising to the pine-covered slopes across the small harbor. When had he stopped identifying with the few U.S. citizens who ventured this far up-island? At first he hadn’t been conscious of his waning allegiance; it had simply crept up on him until one day he was no longer one of them, yet not a Canadian either. Stuck somewhere in between, perhaps permanently, and in an odd way his otherness pleased him. No, not pleased so much as contented him, and he’d remained contented until the past Sunday evening. Since then he’d felt only discontent, and a sense of unfinished business.
“Matt?” His deckhand, Johnny Crowe, stood by the transom of the
Queen Charlotte
, Matt’s thirty-six-foot excursion trawler. A full-blooded Kootenay, Johnny was a recent transplant from the Columbia River Valley. He asked, “You want me to button her up?”
“Yeah, thanks.” Matt gave him a half-salute and started along the dock, past fishing boats in their slips. The tourists he’d taken out for the morning’s charter were bunched around their giant Ford Expedition, trying to fit their gear among the suitcases piled in its rear compartment. They’d spent the night at Port Regis Hotel at the foot of the pier—an establishment whose accommodations one guidebook had described as “spartan but clean,” and from the grumblings he’d overheard, he gathered that spartan was not their first, or even second, preference.
When he reached the end of the pier, he gave the tourists a wide berth and a curt nod and headed for the hotel. It was of weathered clapboard, once white but now gone to gray, and not at all imposing, with three entrances off its covered front porch: restaurant, lobby, and bar. Matt pushed through the latter into an amber-lighted room with beer signs and animal heads on the walls and rickety, unmatched tables and chairs arranged haphazardly across the warped wooden floor. The room was empty now, but a few hours before, it would have been filled with fishermen returning at what was the end of their working day.
