He turned off Rosemont into his driveway, turned again at the top of the hill. The house looked all right from the outside; he hadn't expected any different. Jerry would not have made another arson attempt. His actions were erratic, but they didn't seem to run in repeat patterns.
Dix parked alongside Cecca's station wagon, hurried into the house. He put on lights; everything looked all right inside as well. Upstairs for the Beretta, which went into his jacket pocket. His voice-actuated cassette recorder was in the study downstairs; he made sure the battery was functioning before he pocketed it, too. He didn't bother to lock the front door again on the way out. Locked doors meant nothing now, one way or another.
Cecca had taken her overnight bag out of the Buick and was putting it into the wagon. He joined her. She faced him, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. Her cheeks had a talcum-powder whiteness in the light from the rising moon.
“You're sure you don't want to wait here?”
“I'm sure,” she said.
He read the luminous digits on his watch. “It's nine thirty-five. I'll call you or come to your place no later than eleven-fifteen.”
She didn't respond.
“It'll be all right,” he said.
“Will it?”
“He won't kill me and I won't kill him. I promise you that—”
“Don't. I don't want to hear any promises.”
He kissed her. Her mouth was cold and unresponsive, her body rigid. Neither of them had any more words; he left her and got into the Buick and backed it up and turned down the hill. A few seconds later the station wagon's headlights appeared in his rearview mirror. They stayed close behind him until he reached the bottom of Rosemont, then they veered off and he was alone.
His body felt cramped, achy, as he drove across town. Stress. But his mind was free of it, his thoughts clear and sharp. He was almost anticipating the confrontation with Jerry. Citizen's arrest, no violence. I don't want to hear any promises. Okay. Okay, then I won't make any.
Walnut Street. Dark, quiet. Jerry's house. And that was lightless and quiet, too. No sign of his car in the driveway or on the street. He wasn't home.
Dix parked across the street, doused his lights. His first reaction was disappointment. Where the hell was he? Saturday night, and Jerry Gordon Whittington Cotter was a popular guy, lots of dates, lots of social activities. Either that, or he was in his psycho mode, off somewhere making more torment. Better not be that, God damn him.
Then he thought: No, maybe it's better this way. Now there's time to search the house. Evidence … more leverage to force a confession out of him.
He left the car, crossed the street. Lights showed in both neighboring houses, people home, people alert … but he might not have to break in. One thing about their bogus friendship: It had been close enough for him to know where Jerry kept his spare key. Jerry'd used it once when they were together after a golf date, when he had forgotten his regular set of keys.
On the front porch Dix lifted the decorative iron frog that crouched among half a dozen fern planters. The spare key was still there underneath. He let himself in. Heavy silence, broken only by the ticking of a mantel clock. He found the light switch, flipped it. He couldn't search in the dark, and if he'd brought the flashlight from the car, he would only have been inviting attention from the neighbors or a passing police patrol. If Jerry came home while he was hunting, let him come.
There wouldn't be anything in the common rooms, the ones Jerry let visitors into. His bedroom, then. And the spare bedroom that he'd mentioned having turned into a home office. The third possibility was the garage. Dix crossed to the center hall, switched off the living room light, and put on the hall light. The door to Jerry's bedroom was open. He went in, fumbled around until he located the wall switch.
The room was almost monastic. Standard double bed, nightstand, dresser; no photographs, no pictures or wall coverings of any kind. All neat, dusted and vacuumed, the bed made and the coverlet smoothed out to a military tautness: Jerry was as fastidious about his surroundings as he was about his personal appearance. Dix opened the nightstand and dresser drawers, found nothing to hold his attention, and moved to the closet. It was deep and wide, not quite a walk-in closet. Clothing carefully arranged on hangers, half a dozen pairs of shoes on a shoe tree, a few small storage boxes. And on one of the shelves, in a back corner—
A trophy.
Thin-lipped, Dix dragged it off the shelf. Tennis trophy, figure of a player—a woman player—mounted on top. Heavy wood and brass, not pot metal like most trophies of the type. The brass plate on the front bore an etched inscription: Cheryl Adams. Singles Champion. Oregon Coast Invitational Tournament. Pelican Bay, 1979.
Dix stood holding the trophy. Jerry had kept it because it had probably belonged to his wife: Cheryl Adams, her maiden name, won before their marriage. A memento tucked away in his closet, where nobody was likely to see it. Nobody but Katy. Most of their assignations had been at La Quinta Inn or up on Lone Mountain Road, but at least once he'd made the mistake of going to bed with her here. Katy had been snoopy; while he was in the can or elsewhere, she'd poked around in the closet and found the trophy. Asked him about it then or later—probably later. What did he have to do with Pelican Bay, when he supposedly came from Washington State? Who was Cheryl Adams? That was why he'd killed her when he had. Only she'd already said something to Eileen. Something oblique, but the fact that she'd mentioned it at all meant that she'd been worried about the possible connection. But not worried enough to keep from meeting Jerry on Lone Mountain Road on the night of August 6. Not worried enough to save her life.
He was gripping the trophy so hard, its edge cut painfully into the pads of his fingers. He relaxed his grip, put the thing back on the shelf, and turned to the storage boxes. Nothing in any of them but sweaters and other winter clothing. He got down on his hands and knees and looked under the bed. Not even dust.
The spare bedroom/office was across the hall. Small desk, Apple pc, chair, catchall table, not much else. On the desk, spread partway open, was a map. Dix picked it up. Topographical map of Mendocino County. The open part was of the coastline; and the intersection of Highway One and Stoneboro Road, a secondary road that led to the southern end of Manchester State Beach, had been circled by a red felt-tip pen. A series of red dashes had been drawn along Highway One from the intersection, as far north as a short distance beyond the hamlet of Manchester, and as far south as Point Arena. Two sets of inked numbers in Jerry's precise handwriting were bracketed next to the dashes: 0.3 and 1.1 on the north, 2.3 and 4.7 on the south. Mileage, evidently. One set could be the distances from the intersection to Manchester and Point Arena. But what did the other set indicate?
Manchester State Beach. Wasn't that where Cecca and Chet Bracco had had their summer cottage? Yes, sure—the Dunes. He and Katy had gone there with them one weekend seven or eight years before. Chet had gotten the cottage as part of their divorce settlement; he remembered Cecca telling him that. Did he still own it? Probably. Chet never let go of anything unless he was forced to.
What the hell could Jerry have been planning for the Dunes? Nothing involving Cecca; she couldn't be manipulated into going there, not the way she felt about Chet and anything they'd once shared. Nothing to do with Dix Mallory. Chet? Did Jerry's mania extend to an ex-husband Cecca had been in the process of divorcing when the accident happened in Pelican Bay? Possible. Amy? More likely. Lure her to the cottage, blow it up the way he'd blown up the Harrells' cabin?
Dix rummaged quickly through the desk. Nothing else that concerned Mendocino County or Manchester State Beach, and nothing pertaining to the Dunes. But he did find one thing in a drawer: a small, round piece of electronic equipment that would fit over the mouthpiece of a telephone, that had a mouthpiece of its own and a control gizmo on one side. The phone filter Jerry had used to disguise his voice. Dix left it where it was without touching it. Not conclusive evidence in its own right, but evidence just the same.
He
opened the door to the office closet. Two heavy coats on hangers, some pc discs and other supplies on the shelves, and on the floor, a pile of blankets. He started to shut the door, paused, and looked again at the blankets! Why would they be on the floor like that, as neat as Jerry was? He knelt, tugged at them. And uncovered what was hidden underneath.
Two small oil paintings.
Katy's paintings, the ones Louise Kanvitz had sold for a thousand dollars apiece.
More evidence. Hard evidence.
He didn't touch the paintings either; recovered them with the blankets. Straightening, he checked his watch. Ten-twenty. Still plenty of time before he was due to call Cecca. Kanvitz's missing .32—that was the final piece of evidence that would condemn Jerry. He must have kept the weapon for some reason; otherwise, why take it from her house. Where? Not on his person, not Jerry. In his car, maybe. Or somewhere else in the house. Or out in the garage. His office downtown was also a possibility; he had a safe there, Dix remembered.
All right. Search the rest of the house, then the garage. After that … call Cecca, convince her to give him more time if he needed it. He was willing to sit there all night in the dark, waiting for Jerry to come home, and she should be willing to let him. Whatever it took to finish it.
He returned to the living room, put on the ceiling globe in there. He was opening a drawer in an old maple sideboard when he heard the noise out front. Somebody running up onto the porch, not being quiet about it. He took the Beretta out of his pocket, stood tensely listening.
The doorbell rang, a shrill ripping of the stillness.
Jerry wouldn't ring the bell. Who—?
The knob rattled, but he'd thought to reset the lock. The bell clamored again. And an agitated voice called out, “Dix? For God's sake, Dix, let me in!”
Cecca.
A fragmentary confusion gripped him. He put the gun away, crossed to the window nearest the door to peer past the shade. She was alone out there, pounding on the panel now with her fist. When he unlocked the door and pulled it open, she rushed in past him, stayed close as he pushed it shut again. In the ceiling light her face was bloodless, her eyes wide and frantic.
“What're you doing here? What happened to—”
“Amy, it's Amy. She isn't at my folks', they haven't seen or heard from her since this morning.”
“Calm down. It doesn't have to mean what you think. You know how kids are, she may be with friends—”
“No, it's him, it's Jerry. She was supposed to meet Kimberley at two, but she didn't show up. Dix, he's got her, I can feel it. He may have already … she may be …”
“Stop that, don't panic.”
“I prayed he'd have her here, that you'd found them and she was all right, but when I didn't see his car … Where would he have taken her? Where?”
The map, the red marks on the map.
Chet's cottage on the Mendocino coast?
Now that it was dark, the cottage was drafty and cold. He'd let her have a blanket and she sat wrapped up in it in Dad's old recliner, her feet pulled under her, but she still couldn't get warm. She'd practically begged him to let her put on the space heater, at least, but he wouldn't. They really didn't need it, he said, which had made her think they weren't going to stay much longer. But that had been hours ago and they were still there.
The cold didn't seem to bother him. Or if it did, he didn't let on about it. He hadn't even taken a blanket for himself. He was sitting over by the balcony doors, nothing on but his suit coat and slacks. She could see him in the pale moonlight that came in through the glass, a black, lumpy shape like a huge bird with its wings folded. For a long time now he hadn't said anything to her, not one word. He wasn't asleep though. She knew that if she tried to get out of the chair, he'd be on her in about two seconds flat.
What was he thinking about over there? What was he planning to do to her?
She was afraid again. A little, anyway, because of the way he kept sitting in the dark without moving. How much longer before he told her what he was going to do? Or went ahead and tried to do it? The worst part was the waiting. Not knowing was bad enough, but the waiting …
Her stomach hurt, too. That cold chicken soup … it was like a big greasy puddle sloshing around under her breastbone. He'd eaten some and told her to eat the rest and wouldn't take no for an answer, so what else could she do? Last supper, she thought. She pulled the blanket tighter under her chin.
At first, when he'd said he was hungry, she'd thought he might let her fix something to eat. The drawer with the kitchen knives in it—that had flashed into her mind right away. But no, he wouldn't let her near any of the cupboards or drawers. He'd found the soup and opened it and made her eat her share with a dinky little teaspoon. He was so smart, so smart. But he wasn't perfect. He'd make some kind of mistake, and then she—
His chair scraped. Amy sat up convulsively. Getting up? No … he'd just shifted position for the first time in a long time. Now he was motionless again.
How much longer?
She settled back and went over again in her mind all the things he'd said when they were out on the balcony. All the personal questions, all the crazy crap about one bad burn deserving another and sparks and being a zombie. And all the stuff later, after he'd run out of questions to ask her, that must have to do with what he was planning. But what, exactly?
That had been right after sunset. He'd been quiet for a while, watching the sky darken and the lighthouse beacon begin to revolve down on the headland; then he'd said he was hungry and finally let her come inside out of the freezing wind; and then he'd turned on the table lamp and sat down next to it and took a notebook out of his pocket and started reading whatever was written in it. It was one of those times he seemed to forget she was there, because when he started talking, it wasn't to her. He'd talked the whole time he was reading, more than five minutes, in that turned-on-faucet way he had in the car. She hadn't heard all of it—part of the time he mumbled—but what she had heard was still pretty clear in her mind.
“Point Arena or Manchester, Point Arena or Manchester. Longer walk to Point Arena, two point three miles compared to one point one … motel there … bus service but not on Sunday. Lose a full day if I stay over anyway.” Mumble. “Margaret? Only fast way to get back. Then it might as well be Manchester, phone at the general store. She'll come, no problem there, but what about the risk?” Mumble. “So little time. Does it really matter?” Mumble. “All right, Manchester. Good, settled. And Dix and Cecca tomorrow, if they're back by then.” Mumble. “Move the timetable up, no choice now. Both at once. But how? Equation for her won't work for him, too. Equation for him maybe. Think about it, adapt it. Doesn't matter if it's foolproof, just as long as they both die.” Mumble. “Mathematics, same as always. Numbers, numbers.” Mumble, mumble.
She understood what some of it meant. The stuff about Mom and Dix all too well. And Margaret had to be Margaret Allen, the woman who worked in his office. She had a thing for him; it seemed like half the poor females in Los Alegres had a thing for him. He was going to call Margaret and have her drive up and get him tonight, after he … afterward. Amy bit her lip, trying to work out the rest of it. Was he going to leave the Honda here or somewhere nearby with her in it, dead? But why not just leave her and drive the car back to Los Alegres and abandon it there? That would be less of a risk than calling Margaret, wouldn't it?
Walking to Point Arena or Manchester … that didn't make sense either. It was farther than 2.3 miles from here to Point Arena; it was almost five miles. And less than 1.1 miles to Manchester. What was 2.3 miles south and 1.1 miles north of here? Nothing that she could remember. Nothing but empty coastline—
And cliffs. High, steep dropoffs from the road to the ocean below.
Oh God—cliffs like the one near Pelican Bay!
Dix said, “We can't waste any more time.” They were at the cars, hers parked behind his Buick across the dark street from Jerry's house. “You have to decide one way or the other. R
ight now.”
“I still can't think straight—”
“I'm going to the Dunes; that's my decision. But Amy's not my daughter. You do what you think is best for her. If it's the police, all I ask is that you don't tell them where I am or what I'm doing.”
Common sense, all her conditioned reflexes, said the police—of course the police. Dix didn't know Jerry had taken Amy to the Dunes, the map didn't have to mean that. Guesswork, desperate hoping. Long way to the Mendocino coast, nearly three hours of driving, and what if they weren't there or hadn't been there? Another three hours to drive back, a total of six or seven hours until the authorities were finally notified.
But he'd had Amy six or seven hours already, enough time to do any number of unspeakable things to her. If she was still alive, why not at the Dunes? Where else was there to look for her? And the police were so skeptical and disapproving, so maddeningly slow to act … it might take three hours to convince them to do anything at all. St. John would be furious that she and Dix had withheld information, broken the law—he might not even believe her. She had no proof Amy had been abducted, couldn't even file a missing-person report after only a few hours. No proof that Jerry was a murderer; without a search warrant St. John couldn't, wouldn't, go into his house. And she was so tired, so strung out … she wasn't sure she could endure the endless questions, the awful passive waiting—
“I'm leaving,” Dix said heavily. He had the Buick's door open, was sliding in under the wheel. “Come with me or go to the police. Which is it going to be?”
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