Free Savages: A Nameless Detective Novel (Nameless Detective Novels) by Bill Pronzini

you; you make me feel safe.” And the feeling that came over him in that moment, sudden and sharp and overwhelming—the revelation that he was in love with Colleen McPhail and the certainty that he would marry her and they would be together until death did them part.
    He awoke dripping wet. Even the pillow was sodden—sweat, drool, tears. But his headache had dulled and except for a desert mouth and throat he felt better. A thin strip of fading daylight showed where the window drapes didn’t quite overlap; his watch said it was twenty of eight. In the bathroom he drank three glasses of water, checked the bandage in the mirror, then took a long, careful shower. He was hungry by the time he finished dressing. Another good sign.
    Still hot when he stepped outside and crossed to the coffee shop. Cool enough inside, though. Noisy. He sat at the counter, ordered iced tea and a sandwich. He was just finishing up when somebody sat down beside him and said, “Mr. Runyon? Can I talk to you?”
    Young woman, early twenties. Short ginger blond hair. Pale blue eyes. Pretty enough in a conventional way. Wearing shorts, a tank top, and an intense, nervous expression.
    He said, “Depends on who you are.”
    “Sandra Parnell. Jerry’s friend . . . Jerry Belsize.”
    “What can I do for you?”
    “Not here. You’re staying at the motel, right? Can’t we go to your room?”
    That made him wary. She didn’t look cheap or duplicitous—just an average small-town young woman worried about her boyfriend—but it paid to be cautious. One of the most vicious jackrolling hookers he’d encountered in Seattle had been a sixteen-year-old with a face like an angel. “I don’t think so.”
    “Outside, then. My car’s in the lot. Please?”
    There was still some daylight left and there were plenty of people around. He was still wary but curious enough to say, “All right.”
    Sandra Parnell went out first, stood waiting until he paid the check and joined her. “Over here,” she said, and led him to a beat-up Chrysler at least as old as she was. Convertible, with the top down. He waited for her to get in before he went around to the passenger side.
    She said, “Jerry’s father says you’re a detective. That you came up here to see Jerry about that mugging in San Francisco.”
    “That’s right.”
    “He’s not a bad person, Mr. Runyon. I mean, he shouldn’t have lied about getting a good look at the man with the knife, but he was scared. He’s scared a lot; he just can’t help it.”
    Runyon said nothing.
    “He and Manuel, they always got along. He just couldn’t’ve done what they’re saying.”
    “Why tell me?”
    “Nobody else will listen. The cops . . . Deputy Kelso. You know him?”
    “We’ve met.”
    “He kept trying to make me tell him where Jerry is. He hates Jerry because . . . never mind why; he just does. If he ever gets his hands on him . . .”
    “What do you think would happen?”
    “He’d beat him up. Maybe even kill him.”
    “He’d have to be the one to catch Jerry first.”
    “You think he couldn’t? He knows this county like nobody else.”
    “Does that mean Jerry’s still in the county?”
    “I didn’t say that.”
    “But you do know where he is.”
    “No!” Too quick, too emphatic. She knew, all right.
    “The best thing for him to do,” Runyon said, “is to walk himself into the county sheriff’s office and talk to Joe Rinniak. He’s the man in charge, not Kelso. The longer Jerry stays away, the worse it’s going to look for him.”
    “They’d just arrest him and convict him and send him to prison. They wouldn’t keep looking for the real criminal.”
    “Is that what you believe?”
    “It’s what Jerry believes.”
    “You need hard evidence to convict a man of arson and murder, Sandra. There’s no hard evidence against him.”
    “What about those kerosene cans and the stuff in his room?”
    “Circumstantial. No direct links to any of the fires. Or to the murder of the