With an Extreme Burning

by Bill Pronzini

  “I'm sure. And the hell you don't believe it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you knew she was cheating. You as much as admitted to Cecca last week that you knew. Why didn't you tell me?”

  “Oh, shit, Dix …”

  “Why didn't you tell me?”

  “I didn't know, that's why. Not for sure.”

  “Who's the man, Jerry?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “You must have some idea.”

  “But I don't, that's the hell of it.”

  “All right, then what made you suspicious of Katy?”

  “I saw her and a man together one afternoon about six weeks ago. In her car.”

  “Where was this?”

  “East Valley Road,” Jerry said. “I was coming back from seeing a client out that way and I passed her. Neither of us was going fast—forty, forty-five. It was Katy's Dodge and she was at the wheel; I'm positive of that. In fact, I waved. She … pretended not to see me. Looked away.”

  “You didn't get a good look at the man?”

  “No. He had his head down. I didn't even get an idea of his age.”

  “So far it sounds innocent enough. She may not have recognized you.”

  “I asked her about it,” Jerry said. “The next day—the swim party at Sid's, remember?”

  “Sid's party was on a Saturday. So the day you saw her was a Friday.”

  “A Friday, right.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Well, I wasn't trying to catch her out or anything. Just kidding around with her. You know, ‘Who was the man I saw you with on East Valley Road yesterday?’ ”

  “And?”

  “She denied it. It wasn't her, it wasn't her car. Said I must have been imagining things.”

  “Is that all she said?”

  “It was the way she said it, Dix. Nervous, flustered—guilty look on her face. And she told me not to say anything to you or anybody else about it because she didn't want rumors getting started. Practically warned me to keep my mouth shut.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes and no.” Jerry tugged at the knot in his tie, as if it had grown too tight. “I asked around here and there—you know, discreetly. To see if there was anything to find out.”

  “Was there?”

  “No. Hell, Dix, don't blame me for that. You're one of my best friends; I figured I had an obligation.”

  “So you'd have told me if you'd verified it, learned the name of her lover.”

  “Before the accident, I might have. After she was dead I couldn't have hurt you any more than you already were. That's why I kept quiet when you hinted around about it on the phone last week.”

  “You let it slip to Cecca.”

  “She's the only one. I was worried about you. I thought maybe you were taking Katy's death so hard because you'd found out somehow that she was having an affair. And you had.”

  “Not then. Just recently.”

  “You have any idea who the man is?”

  “Not yet. Soon, though.”

  “How'd you find out she had a lover? If you don't mind my asking.”

  “I do mind, Jerry. I'd rather not talk about it.”

  “Sure, if that's the way you feel. But if you decide you want to hash it out, a sympathetic ear—I'm available. Anytime, day or night. I really am on your side.”

  Are you? Dix thought.

  Can I trust you even if you aren't the tormentor?

  Everything was all right at her house. No new packages, no damages, no nocturnal intrusion. Cecca went through every room, checked each door and window, to make sure.

  When she was done she took another quick shower and changed clothes. Blouse and a pair of tailored slacks rather than the suits or dresses she usually wore on weekdays. She could not bring herself to go to Better Lands today. Face Tom, face a normal workday … no. There was one piece of business she did have to take care of this morning, though: deliver Elliot Messner's counteroffer to the Hagopians. She'd been too upset and too needy to do it last night.

  The family was living temporarily in a one-bedroom apartment on the east side, near the river; she drove there first thing. Mr. Hagopian had already left for work, but his wife and children were home. Cecca gave Mrs. Hagopian the written counteroffer, went over it with her, and then asked her to leave a message at Better Lands when she and her husband had reviewed it and made a decision. The impression Mrs. Hagopian gave was that the response would be quick and favorable. Seventy-five hundred dollars really wasn't much when you were already prepared to spend a quarter of a million.

  From there Cecca took the freeway north to Santa Rosa. On the way she allowed herself to think about last night—analytically, for the first time. On a purely physical level sex with Chet had been better, more exciting; he had almost always been able to make her climax, one way or another. But to him sex was an Olympic marathon event, with all sorts of wild experimentation, and he had worn her out in bed. Dix was much gentler, much more considerate. With him it was controlled, adult—and on a deeper level, more satisfying. If sexual boredom or dissatisfaction was what had driven Katy to another man, she must have suffered from some sort of biological deficiency. One that Cecca Bellini didn't have. After only one night with Dix Mallory, she felt she could be physically satisfied with and by him for the rest of her life.

  Which opened up the larger question: Was she in love with him?

  She thought she might be. But it was too soon to commit herself to it. The intense connection, the closeness, might well fade without the mortal danger they shared to enhance it. When their lives were normal again, if they ever were, then she would be better able to judge. Her feelings and his. How they interacted, how they communicated. Then she'd know for sure. Meanwhile—

  Meanwhile, don't even think about the future. Hold on to Dix and let him hold on to her because neither of them could get through this alone.

  Lieutenant St. John was “unavailable,” according to the desk sergeant at the police station. The sergeant wouldn't elaborate on that, nor would he give Dix any information on developments in the Louise Kanvitz investigation. “You'll have to ask the lieutenant,” he said. When would he be available? “I can't tell you that because I don't know.”

  The old runaround.

  The law didn't care what they were going through. All the law cared about was the law—the goddamn cold, sanctified letter of the law.

  At Santa Rosa Memorial they wouldn't let her see Kevin Harrell. Still in ICU; still not allowed visitors. His condition? No change: critical but stable.

  She didn't know what to do with herself when she left the hospital. At loose ends … maybe she should have gone to Better Lands. No, she'd made the right decision there; better alone today than dealing with Tom and office work. She drove out of town to the west, as far as Forestville in the Gravenstein apple country. There was a place just outside the village that sold homemade apple butter; she stopped and bought three jars. Then she drove back through Sebastopol to Santa Rosa, and without thinking about it, headed out to the Codding Town shopping center. It was after twelve by then. She went into one of the restaurants in the mall and ate a sandwich. Macy's and the Emporium and half a dozen other stores after that. She bought two slips, a blouse, a vest, a set of towels, none of which she needed or even wanted. Mindless shopping spree, and she didn't know why she was doing it until it was over and she was back in the car. It was a groping for normalcy. Drive in the country, apple butter, lunch at the mall, clothing and household items … activities, things, that represented the sane, mundane way of life—her life—she'd always taken for granted.

  Who is Cecca Bellini? Dix had asked last night, and she'd said “an unfulfilled woman.” Yes. A woman whose expectations had never quite been realized. Yes. But at this moment, on this bright sunny September afternoon, she would have given anything to be the old accepting, secure, unfulfilled Cecca Bellini again and for the rest of her life.

  The woman in
the hospital bed looked like a caricature of Eileen. The plump cheeks were sunken, as if some of the tissue in them had collapsed. The apple-rosy skin tone had bleached out to a chalky white. The mischievous eyes were dull, withdrawn. The big, competent nurse's hands lay on the blanket at her sides, unmoving, fingers cramped, like the arthritic appendages of an old lady.

  She was aware of him, though, in a remote kind of way. As soon as he entered the room and spoke her name, she said, “Dix. What're you doing here?”

  “Came to see you.”

  “That's nice. Everything okay?”

  “Yes. How about you?”

  “Wish they'd let me get up. I'm not sick.”

  “No, of course you're not.”

  “They tell me I need rest,” Eileen said. “But I just had a vacation—” Abruptly her face twisted and she made a thin sound in her throat, as if a terrible memory had just struck her. But it must have been a fragment, a kind of subliminal blip; her face smoothed almost immediately and she smiled at him with cracked, bloodless lips. “Dix?”

  “Yes, honey.”

  “Honey? Why, you flirt.”

  He could feel her pain; it seemed to flow out of her and into him, as if by osmosis. It hurt him and it made him feel all the more helpless. “I always flirt with attractive women,” he said.

  “Flatterer. I'll tell Cecca.”

  “She won't mind.”

  Eileen shifted her hips and upper body, wincing. Then she frowned and said again, “Tell Cecca. Dix … tell Cecca.”

  “Tell her what? That I flirted with you?”

  “No. The accident.”

  “What accident.”

  “Katy … the accident.”

  “Katy's accident? What about it?”

  “Pellagrin day.”

  That was what it sounded like. Her pronunciation was indistinct, as if the words were sticky in her mouth. He leaned closer. “I don't understand, honey. Say it again.”

  “Tell Cecca.”

  “I'll tell her. Pellagrin day. What does it mean?”

  “God, my mouth is die … dry. Water?”

  “On the table. I'll pour some for you.”

  “Big glass. Thirsty. Don't know why … so damn thirsty.”

  She seemed to like having company, despite the fact that she wasn't tracking very well. The hospital sounds and smells and the cloying scent of her get-well flowers had begun to dredge up memories of his mother's lingering death, but he would have forced himself to stay with her a while longer if Helen Garstein and Beth Birnam hadn't walked in. He tried then to make a quick exit, but they followed him out into the hall and pestered him to explain about Louise Kanvitz. It was just as well; give them what they wanted and maybe they would leave Cecca and him alone. He repeated the story he'd told Jerry earlier, fended off questions, and finally made his escape. He couldn't tell whether or not they were satisfied. He didn't care either way.

  Pellagrin day, he thought as he rode the elevator down to the main floor. Didn't make any sense. A pellagrin was a person who was afflicted with pellagra, a protein-deficiency disease that attacked the central nervous system. He didn't know anybody who suffered from pellagra. Another word instead … pelican? Pelican day. That didn't make sense either. How about Pelagian? he thought wryly. A Pelagian was one of the heretical followers of the British monk Pelagius, who denied the doctrine of original sin and held that man has perfect freedom to do right or wrong.

  Babble phrase, he decided. Meaningless non sequitur. What could “pellagrin day” possibly have to do with Katy's “accident”?

  * * *

  On the way back from Santa Rosa Cecca detoured by Los Alegres Valley Hospital. And for the second time today she was refused visiting privileges. Bad timing: Eileen had had several callers and Dr. Mulford had decided not to allow any more. She'd been given a sedative.

  Uptown Cecca stopped at Hallam's Bookshop to see if Amy was all right. Amy was fine. Uncommunicative but fine.

  As she drove to Shady Court, she agonized again over the wisdom of letting Amy stay with her folks. Suppose the tormentor went after her there, did something to all three of them, blew up the house as he'd blown up the Harrells' cabin? The thought was chilling, and no more unlikely than anything else that had happened. But Amy wasn't safe in her own home, and there was nowhere out of town to send her—or Ma and Pop—that was safe either. No safe place for any of them.

  The house was as she'd left it that morning. She called Better Lands to check her voice-mail. Nothing from the Hagopians yet; it was too early. Two messages from Elliot Messner, wanting an appointment “to take another squint” at the Andersen farm—that was all. She played back the first four messages on her own machine, none of which she cared to return. The fifth message was from the tormentor. As soon as she heard his voice saying her name, she shut off the machine and then rewound the tape.

  In her bedroom she packed a small overnight case. Then she locked the house and got back into the car and went the only place she had left to go—the only place, really, she wanted to be. Up to the Ridge. To Dix's house. To Dix.

  He sat up in bed, listening.

  The dark in the room was heavy, clotted. Cecca was asleep beside him; he could hear the steady rhythm of her breathing. He glanced at the bedside clock. The red digital numerals read 3:04.

  The last foggy remnants of sleep dissipated; he was fully alert now. He didn't know what it was that had brought him up out of a deep sleep. A sound? A psychic awareness of danger? Whatever it was, it had accelerated his pulse rate, put a clutch of tension across his shoulder blades.

  A wallboard cracked somewhere; otherwise the house was still. Something outside? He swung his legs out of bed, stood up. An early-morning chill had penetrated the bedroom and he was conscious of it on his naked body; he'd meant to put on pajamas after he and Cecca made love, but a warm lassitude had kept him burrowed under the covers and eventually carried him off to sleep. Shivering a little, he peered through the window in the front wall. The sky was black, coated with a high overcast that blocked out moonshine and starlight. There was a wind, thin, gusty, rustling and flexing the branches of the heritage oak. Through the branches he had a view of streetlights and night-lights winking on the flat part of town below. Beneath the angle of the roof, the near corner of the garage was visible; its back door was shut, as was the gate nearby that led to the front yard.

  Dix moved to the windows overlooking the side garden. Compressed shadows and vague shapes, all of them motionless except for the stir of the wind. The hillside with its tall, dry grass, rising beyond the boundary fence, seemed to harbor the same empty shadows. False alarm, he thought. He couldn't remember dreaming, but maybe he had been; maybe the feeling of menace had come out of a gathering nightmare—

  Movement on the far side of the garage, where a low cement retaining wall separated it from the hillside.

  A faint carrying sound—brittle, as of something breaking.

  There was a clenching sensation in his groin; he leaned closer to the glass. The movement wasn't repeated and he couldn't penetrate the darkness. An animal? The Ridge was crawling with raccoons, possums, skunks, deer. No reason for a man to be prowling over there. Nothing on that side of the garage except bags of rotting leaves he'd intended to use as mulch in the vegetable garden, some discarded pieces of lumber, a stack of dried-out prunings from the oak tree that he'd meant to haul to the dump—

  Sudden flare of light, down low to the ground.

  And behind it, for just an instant, the silhouette of a man crouched or kneeling.

  Almost immediately there was another flare, and this time it didn't wink out. It wavered, steadied—and began to blossom.

  Oh Jesus!

  He'd been frozen; now he whirled to the nightstand, bumped the drawer open, dragged out the little Beretta he'd brought in from the car on Wednesday night. The sounds he made woke Cecca. She sat up as he fumbled feet into slippers.

  “Dix, what's the matter?”

  “The son
of a bitch is outside setting a fire.”

  “Fire? The house—?”

  “Garage.” He ran around the foot of the bed, yanked his robe off the door hook. “Quick, get down to the yard … garden hose beside the door. I'm going after him.”

  Dix rushed downstairs in the dark, pulling the robe around him with one hand. Unlocked the side door and ran outside. The wind had caught the fire in the prunings and decaying leaves, was fanning it out low along the garage wall. If it got into the tinder-dry grass on the hillside …

  He pounded up the cutout steps to the flagstone terrace built around the oak's massive truck. The fireglow lit up a small portion of the hill behind the garage: empty as far as he could tell. He pushed through a nest of ferns, climbed over the grapestake fence onto the slope, and ran parallel to the fence until he could see the front section of his property. The asphalt parking area, the driveway, were empty; so was the lower sweep of Rosemont Lane. He swung his head to peer up the hillside. Nothing moved up there except the wind-ruffled grass.

  Which way? He stood shivering, aware but uncaring that his robe hung open and the breeze blew frigid against his bare skin. The rage in him was murderous, the gun cold and clammy in his fingers. Which way, goddammit?

  He went ahead a few more yards. Trampled grass appeared on his left, an irregular trail of it leading at an angle uphill past the darkened bulk of the Bradford house, his nearest neighbors a hundred and fifty yards to the north. He started to run upward along the swath. Too late, too late—he knew that even before he heard the car engine throb into life in the distance. The tormentor had driven his car to the top of the dead-end street that ran up the west side of the hill, parked it just below the crest. From there it had been an easy walk over and down this side.

  In frustration Dix slapped the flat surface of the Beretta against his leg. Part of him wanted to keep going, all the way to the top, even though the sound of the car was already diminishing. Reason and the crackle and smoke smell of the fire kept him from doing it. He turned back toward the garage.