With an Extreme Burning

by Bill Pronzini

  Cecca drove from the hospital to Better Lands. Work, the universal panacea. The Hagopians, minus their two children, were waiting for her—willing and eager to make a $250,000 offer on the Messner property in Brookside Park, just as she'd anticipated.

  She cared and she didn't care; mainly it gave her something involving to do. She took longer than usual preparing the offer sheet, going over the disclosure statement and other documents with them. Their credit appeared to be very good. And they intended to make a down payment of $135,000, thanks to the sale of a home they'd owned in Salina and to a cash loan from Mrs. Hagopian's father; financing for the balance shouldn't be a problem. If Elliot cooperated, it ought to be a done deal.

  She reached Elliot at the university right after the Hagopians left. He seemed delighted; and he wasn't bothered by the size of the offer. “I was afraid I had an albatross on my neck,” he said. “Of course I'd like a little more than two-fifty. I don't suppose these people would go two-sixty-five?”

  “I doubt it,” Cecca said. “Two fifty seemed to be about their maximum.”

  “Well, let me think about it for a couple of hours. I have a one o'clock class, but I can cut it short. I could be at your office around two.”

  “Fine.”

  “You're a wizard, Francesca. Nobody else could have sold that pile of mine so quickly.”

  Right. A backward ten-year-old could have sold that pile to the Hagopians. But she said, “It was a pleasure. I'll see you at two.”

  Elliot arrived at five minutes past. The first thing he did was to grab her by the shoulders and hug her. She endured it stiffly; casual hugs, casual touching—especially by men—had always turned her off. When he let go of her and stepped back, grinning in his bearish way, she could see the heat in his eyes. It annoyed her—more than it would have under better circumstances. It wasn't exactly sexual harassment, but this was a business office and theirs was a business relationship, and it was plain that he was thinking of her as a woman, how her body had felt fitted against his. Did he leer at his students that way? Try to seduce girls almost as young as Amy? Probably. He was the type. Earthy as hell, in spite of his intelligence. To the Elliot Messners of the world, there was never a question of mind over hard-on.

  She led him back to her office, leaving the door open after they entered. She was cool to him, but he didn't seem to notice. He kept grinning at her, flirting with his eyes, trying to touch her hand now and then as he spoke.

  He'd decided on the way in, he said, to counter at $257,500 firm. “It's not as much as I'd like, but I can live with it. If the Hagopians can afford two-fifty, they can afford two-fifty-seven-five. Right?”

  “I would think so. I'll write up the counteroffer and present it to them tonight.”

  “Will they decide right away, do you think?”

  “They might. I'll let you know either way. Will you be home all evening?”

  “No plans,” he said. “If they accept the counter, why don't you come by instead of calling? We'll have a drink or two to celebrate.”

  “I don't think so,” she said.

  “I'm really not bad company, once you get to know me.”

  “I'm sure you aren't. But I'm not interested, Elliot. I told you that at least twice.”

  “Women don't always mean what they say. Or say what they mean.”

  “I do. And I'd rather not have to say it again. Now, can we please get on with the business at hand?”

  He shrugged and said, “Sure thing.”

  She had been holding herself in check with an effort; it was a good thing he'd relented. If she blew up at him—and she might well have if he'd kept pushing—it would likely blow the deal, too, and the dubious satisfaction of telling him off wasn't worth that. He was carnal and irritating, but he wasn't the worst Mr. Macho around. Good God no, he wasn't. Besides, he seemed finally to have gotten the message. He left her alone as she wrote up the counteroffer. And when he signed it and stood to leave, his handshake was brief and formal, even if his smile wasn't totally impersonal. Good-bye, Francesca, thanks again. Good-bye, Elliot, I'll talk to you again tonight. And he was gone.

  She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat sipping it at her desk. Tom came in and congratulated her on the evident sale. But what he really wanted to talk about was Eileen and what had happened at Blue Lake. She let him do most of the talking. Tom Birnam, friend, employer, confidant for more than fifteen years—and she no longer felt at ease with him, no longer quite trusted him. Was even a little afraid of him at moments like this, when they were alone together.

  It was a relief when the phone rang and he left her alone to answer it. “Francesca Bellini,” she said into the receiver.

  “Hello, Francesca. This is Louise Kanvitz.” The chilly voice had warmth in it today, the crackly warmth of anger. “I think it's time you and I had another talk.”

  SEVENTEEN

  When she heard Kimberley yell, “Hey, look out!” Amy instinctively brought her foot down on the brake pedal. She saw the red light then, the cars starting to scream across the intersection in front of her, and braked hard. There was the screech of tires; the Honda tried to stand on its nose as it slid halfway through the crosswalk.

  “God, Amy, wake up.”

  “Sorry.” She put the transmission in reverse, backed up a few feet. Her heart was pounding.

  “What's the matter with you?”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “Where were you anyway? Mars?”

  “Just thinking too hard.”

  Kim sighed. “About Bobby Harrell, I'll bet.”

  She hadn't been, but she said, “Yes.”

  “I keep thinking about him, too. It's just such a shitty thing.”

  The light changed. Amy eased down on the accelerator, paying attention to her driving now. Going slow.

  “You hear anything more about his brother?” Kim asked.

  “Kevin's out of danger. But still critical.”

  “Burned like that, sixty percent of his body … jeez. You think he'll have scars?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Can they fix burn scars with plastic surgery?”

  “It depends on how bad they are.”

  “What if they're really gross? What if he ends up looking like Freddy Krueger or something?”

  “Kim, for God's sake.”

  “Well, it could happen. He was so cute for his age. Better looking than Bobby, even. Jeez.”

  Amy didn't say anything.

  “How's Mrs. Harrell?” Kim asked.

  “Still the same. My mom went to see her yesterday.”

  “I'll bet it was a bitch for her.”

  “It was.”

  “Are you going?”

  “Yeah. Up to see Kevin, too, when he can have visitors.”

  “I couldn't stand it,” Kimberley said. “I hate hospitals. I mean, they just totally gross me out.”

  “They're better than cemeteries.”

  “Anything's better than cemeteries.”

  Amy turned into Kim's street, pulled up in front of her house. Kim said, “You want to hang out later, after you get off work?”

  “I don't think so. Not tonight.”

  “Well, call me if you change your mind. And take it easy, okay? Driving, I mean. Bobby Harrell dying is, like, awful enough. I don't want to lose my best friend, too.”

  If you lose me, Amy thought, it won't be in a car accident. She waved, drove away slowly. Still paying attention to her driving, but she couldn't keep the thoughts from running around again inside her head.

  For the hundredth time: He can't be the one.

  Not him.

  It was so hard to imagine any of Mom's male friends, anybody they knew, as a stalker. The whole thing was just totally nuts. But Mom believed it, and after all that had happened, she believed it, too. Crazy things went down all the time. People killed people just to steal their car, or for no reason at all. It could happen to them the same as anybody else. It was happening to them.
>
  “Be very careful, Amy,” Mom had warned her. “Promise me that. Until we know who's doing this and why, don't trust anybody. No matter how well you think you know him.”

  Not even him. Especially not him, because what if he weren't really attracted to her the way she was to him? What if it were all a trick to win her confidence, get her alone somewhere so he could kill her like he'd killed three people already?

  It wasn't. But it could be.

  Cool it for now, then. What choice did she have? She didn't want to die. Cool it until they found out who the stalker really was, and then—

  Then.

  She was downtown now. She turned into Water Street, the narrow alley that bisected the block behind Hallam's Bookshop. There was a little parking area back there for employees; she parked in the space closest to Hallam's back entrance, locked the car, and hurried inside even though there was nobody around in the alley.

  Mr. Hallam had her work the front counter until four o'clock. Then UPS brought in several boxes of books, both new and used, and he asked her if she'd mind unpacking them, checking the contents against the packing slips, and shelving the books. She did mind; that was the part of working in a bookstore she disliked, being a box person and stock clerk. But Mr. Hallam didn't like you to argue with him, so she said okay.

  She did the used books first. There weren't many of those and they were mostly nonfiction trade paperbacks from a bookseller in the Midwest that Mr. Hallam traded with from time to time. There was a big box from Sunset—new gardening and home improvement books. Easy. She separated them by subject, checked the packing slip, then lifted an armload of titles to take out front.

  When she turned around, he was standing there in the stockroom doorway, smiling at her.

  Seeing him like that, unexpectedly, startled her; her step faltered and she almost dropped the Sunsets. He jumped forward and steadied the load, his fingers brushing her bare arm and wrist. Most of what the contact made her feel was like before, a kind of tingly excitement, but there was something else, too, this time: fear. His touch made her a little afraid.

  “Let me help you with those,” he said.

  “No, I can manage. You're not supposed to be back here.”

  “Well, you weren't in front. I thought this was where I'd find you. Sure I can't help?”

  “It's my job,” she said. She tried to smile at him, but the stretching of her mouth felt crooked and thin. “Um … excuse me, okay?”

  “Sure,” he said, and stood aside.

  She carried the Sunsets out to the gardening section. It was at the rear of the shop, not far from the stockroom; there was nobody else close by, just Mr. Hallam and one customer up by the register. She put the books down on the floor and began to shelve them.

  He came up next to her. Not too close, but still close. She could smell his cologne, the musky heat of his body.

  “I finished the Talese book,” he said.

  “… What?”

  “Thy Neighbor's Wife. That's why I stopped by—to tell you I finished it last night.”

  “Oh.”

  “Remember when I bought it? Our plans to find someplace quiet where we can talk?”

  “I remember.”

  “You haven't changed your mind?”

  “Well …”

  “It's all right if you have. I'll understand.”

  Such a terrific smile, so sweet and sexy. How could there be evil behind it? “No, I haven't changed my mind,” she said without quite meeting his eyes. “It's just … you know, everything that's happened. It isn't a good time.”

  His smile vanished; he nodded solemnly. “The Harrells.”

  “Yeah. Bobby and his dad … I knew them all my life.”

  “I know you did.”

  “So I think I'd like to wait a while, okay?”

  “Of course, Amy. It really was a terrible accident. It's going to take me a while to come to terms with it, too.”

  “I guess everybody feels that way.”

  “Those propane heaters are so dangerous,” he said. “Your dad doesn't use that kind at his cottage, does he?”

  “My dad?”

  “He does still have the beach cottage?”

  “Oh … sure. He wanted me to spend last weekend with him and his lady up there.”

  “Why didn't you?”

  “I don't like her. Besides, I had to work.”

  “Does he use propane appliances?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Well, you might want to ask him. I'm sure he's careful, even if he does; contractors don't usually make those kinds of mistakes. Still, it's always a good idea to be safety conscious.”

  “Next time we talk,” Amy said. “I'll ask him then.”

  “Is he still at the cottage?”

  “No, they came back Monday night.”

  “Going up again this coming weekend?”

  “I don't think so. He never goes two weekends in a row. Megan doesn't really like it there, and she gets bitchy when he goes without her.”

  “It must be a nice place,” he said. “Right near a big beach, isn't it?”

  “Manchester State Beach.”

  “I love the ocean, walking on the beach.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I had a feeling that was another thing we shared.”

  She didn't say anything.

  “Maybe you could show it to me sometime, Amy.”

  Oh God, she thought. She still couldn't look into his eyes. A day, a night, maybe even a whole weekend together at the Dunes, just the two of them. Walk on the beach, find out all about each other, make love in front of the fire … it put an ache in her chest just thinking about it. She wanted so much to say yes, I'll show you this weekend, I'll tell Mom I'm staying at Kimberley's and then we'll drive up and I'll show you everything. Everything.

  Be very careful, Amy.

  Dry-mouthed, she said, “Maybe. Sometime.”

  “Whenever you say. But not too long?”

  “Not too long.”

  “And it'll be our secret until then.”

  She nodded, thinking: Please don't let him be the one.

  He smiled at her again, that incredible sexy smile. But he didn't touch her, and that was good because she might have weakened if he had, she might have done something not very smart. He said, “Be good, Amy,” and left her alone.

  She trudged back to the storeroom. She'd always been so sure of herself, of what she wanted in her life; confident that the decisions she was making about college, career, love, and sex were the right ones for her. Mature beyond her years. A woman at seventeen. But now … now all of a sudden she was confused and uncertain. Everything had been turned upside down; her choices were no longer simple or clearly defined. And worst of all, she had begun to feel like the dorky little kid she'd once been, the kid who'd been afraid to sleep alone in the dark. She hated that. She hated being small and helpless and frightened. She hated not being an adult.

  The gun, which Dix had accepted wrapped and bound and therefore sight unseen from Czernecki in exchange for one hundred dollars cash, turned out to be a small, flat .25-caliber Beretta five-shot automatic. It was no larger than Dix's hand; if his fingers had been any thicker, he would not have been able to slide his index finger through the trigger guard.

  A woman's weapon. The kind a woman could carry comfortably in her purse, shoot with not much recoil and reasonable accuracy at close range.

  Czernecki's little joke.

  Dix waited until he got home to unwrap the package, and by then it was too late. Too late, probably, even if he'd insisted on examining the gun in Czernecki's office. The little bastard might have let him have his money back, but he wouldn't sell him another, larger caliber weapon. A one-shot deal—almost literally. If Czernecki was into lousy puns as well as slick irony, he was laughing his head off right this minute.

  Dix should have been angry, but he wasn't. His only emotion was a kind of dark, weary determination. Make do with what he had, do what
had to be done. There was nothing to be gained in wasting his rage on anyone but the tormentor.

  The Beretta's clip was fully loaded. Czernecki had provided one spare clip, also maximum full. Dix checked the action, then field-stripped the piece. The barrel was clean and all the parts were oiled and seemed to work smoothly. Well, why shouldn't they? One thing you could say about gun nuts: They took pride in their firearms, kept them in perfect condition, and wouldn't dream of turning one over to somebody else unless it functioned properly.

  He'd hung his gabardine sport jacket in the closet; he put the reassembled Beretta into the right side pocket. It was so small and lightweight that it made no discernible bulge, didn't even alter the hang of the jacket. Then he took the package wrappings into the kitchen, wadded them into the garbage bag. It was just four-thirty when he was done. Louise Kanvitz, according to her ad in the Los Alegres telephone book, closed Bright Winds Gallery at five o'clock. She lived out on Buckram Street, beyond the cemetery—less than a fifteen-minute drive from the Mill, even in traffic. If he left here at five-fifteen he'd be at her house by five-thirty. That ought to be just about right.

  He considered calling Cecca, telling her what he intended to do. No, better not. She'd want to go along, and if there was trouble over this—and there probably would be—he deserved to bear the full brunt of it. She had enough grief as it was. Just Kanvitz and him … and the Beretta. And God help her if she refused to tell him what she knew.

  He made himself a light Scotch and water. Not for Dutch courage; just to help pass the time. He didn't need any chemical assistance for this task. He was on his way to the living room with the drink when the doorbell sounded.

  Damn poor timing, whoever it was. He went and opened the door. Owen Gregory. Wearing a rumpled expression to go with his rumpled suit: a man with things on his mind.

  Dix's first thought was that he should have kept his jacket on, so the Beretta would be close at hand if he needed it. Then he thought: For Christ's sake! He said, “Well, Owen. What brings you here?”

  “Have you got a few minutes? I'd like to talk to you.”

  “I have to go out pretty soon. An appointment.”

  “This won't take long.”