With an Extreme Burning

TWELVE

Jerry's Saturday cookout was already under way when Dix arrived. Voices, a burst of laughter, rose from the backyard; he could smell charcoal smoke on the late-afternoon breeze. A fresh reluctance, almost an aversion, built in him as he opened the Buick's rear door and lifted out the bag with the three six-packs of beer—his contribution to the potluck affair. People, eight or ten of them. Friends, old friends, but still people to have to talk to, an entire evening of socializing to get through. He was not sure he was ready for this yet.

Not with the chance, however remote, that one of them might be the tormentor.

He stood for a little time with the beer cradled in one arm, listening to the party sounds. The heat wave was over now; the temperature hadn't gotten out of the seventies all day. Might even be cold once it got dark, if the wind picked up. He'd brought a sweater just in case.

Walnut Street intruded on his consciousness. Quiet residential street, one of the nicer ones, in the oldest section of town. Mixed architectural styles, everything from turn-of-the-century Victorians to modern three- and four-unit apartment houses. Shade trees lining this block and others, down the way three boys chucking a football back and forth, two dogs chasing each other, an old man dozing on a porch swing at the house next to Jerry's. The outside world had changed radically in the past thirty-odd years, Los Alegres had changed, but Walnut Street was still more or less the same. Take away the apartment houses, substitute Ford Galaxies and Chevy Impalas for the contemporary Detroit and Japanese products, and it would look and feel exactly as it had in 1960, when he was a kid riding over here on his Schwinn after school to play crazy eights with Eddie Slayton, shoot hoops in Eddie's backyard. Eddie was dead now … dead more than twenty years. Killed in Vietnam, blown up by a goddamn land mine. Another one gone. But the street, the town, the old way of life, were all still alive.

Weren't they?

I don't know anymore, he thought.

The feeling of aloneness was strong in him again.

The light wind gusted, brought a sharp whiff of the burning charcoal. It stirred him out of his frozen stance, prodded him along the front drive and onto the path between the house and the detached garage. The house was small, really a bungalow, built sometime in the forties, but the front yard was good-sized, dominated by a flowering magnolia tree, and the backyard was huge: lawn, patio area, vegetable patch, walnut and kumquat trees. Jerry had a lease option on it; he still wasn't sure if he wanted to stay there or move into something smaller like a condo apartment, but the betting was that he'd stay. Cecca had arranged the deal for him when he first came to Los Alegres. That was how he'd met the members of their little circle, through Cecca; how he'd become a part of it.…

Jerry?

Fun-loving, do-anything-for-you Jerry Whittington?

Newest member of the group, didn't talk much about his background or his divorce … what did anybody know about him, really? Katy had always found him attractive—“deliciously good-looking,” she'd said once. Katy and Jerry? That much was conceivable, but the rest of it, the phone calls, the earrings, the burned things to Cecca and Amy … cold-blooded murder? Even madmen had motives for what they did, no matter how warped. It was inconceivable that Jerry could so viciously hurt people who had befriended him, been good to him.

The party voices grew louder. Dix's stomach muscles clenched, his step faltered slightly, and then he was around behind the house to where he could see the others. They were all on or near the patio, standing or sitting on outdoor furniture, Jerry wearing a chef's apron and poking at the briquettes blazing inside a brace of Webers. Dix's gaze sought and found Cecca; she was talking to Owen, or rather listening to something he was telling her. Everybody else was there, too: Tom and Beth, George and Laura, Sid and Helen. And Margaret Allen, Jerry's redheaded secretary/aassistant, who made no bones about the fact that she wouldn't mind sharing his bed as well as his office on a permanent basis.

Jerry saw him first and called, “Hey, Dix!” That started it; they all flocked around him, fussing, as if he were a long-lost relative or a celebrity. He endured it. Even managed to keep the pasted smile in place. He caught Cecca's eye; she seemed tense, too. She touched his arm and mouthed the words “I'm glad you came.” He hadn't been sure he would when they talked last night; hadn't been sure he would until five minutes before he left the house today.

The fussing didn't last long. It would have turned awkward—almost did—and nobody wanted that. Sid Garstein gave him an out by offering to take the beer he'd brought and put it in the fridge. Dix said no, he'd do it, and kept smiling all the way into the house.

There was enough food in the kitchen to stock a homeless shelter. Thick T-bone steaks filling two big platters under Saran Wrap coverings. French bread, four different kinds of salad, corn on the cob and fresh fruit, and one of Beth's trufle dishes in the refrigerator. Plenty of beer, wine, hard liquor. Conspicuous consumption, he thought, while people starve on the streets. Residual liberal guilt. But what were you supposed to do? Stop enjoying yourself because others were hurting, give away what you had, what you'd worked hard for, and adopt the poverty lifestyle out of sympathy? He gave money to charity every Christmas; he did community work; he supported education and literacy programs, which were the only real hope for permanent social change. Wasn't that enough? Hell, maybe he should join the Peace Corps. He'd read about young retirees, men and women in their fifties, who were doing just that. Sold or leased their property holdings, put their personal belongings in storage, and went off to Africa or South America for two years or more. Giving something back, giving part of themselves. Could he do something like that? Was he that selfless?

No, he couldn't. No, he wasn't.

I got mine and fuck the world, wasn't that what it amounted to?

Mr. Mediocrity.

He was thirsty; he opened a beer, swallowed four or five ounces before he came up for air. And when he lowered the can he saw that Tom Birnam had come in and was standing there grinning at him. “Better go easy on that stuff, boy. Dinner's an hour off yet.”

“I'm not going to get drunk, Tom. This is only the second beer I've had all day.”

“Sure, I just meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Dix said. “I haven't been drowning my sorrows. I'm not a boozer, you ought to know that.”

“I do know it. No offense meant, Dix.”

Tom's grin was still fixed, like his own pasted smile a few minutes ago. Not natural, as if it were concealing something. Simple concern for an old friend's mental health, probably. Or—

Tom?

Paunchy, conservative, workaholic Tom Birnam?

He'd known Tom for more than thirty years, since … what, sixth grade? Not a mean bone in his body, everybody said, which wasn't quite true. He could be a ruthless businessman, and on occasion he exhibited a true I-got-mine-and-fuck-the-world mentality. He had a quick temper, too, but if it had ever exploded into violence, Dix wasn't aware of the circumstances. There was simply nothing in Tom's makeup to suggest a hidden psychosis, nothing in their relationship or in Tom's business or personal relationship with Cecca to foster a sick hatred. Besides, he was a faithful family man—the lust in his heart, he was fond of saying, was all for Beth. The idea of Katy taking him as her lover was ludicrous.

“—the party, what do you say?”

“What? Sorry, Tom, I was woolgathering.”

“I said, let's go outside and join the party. It's stuffy in here.”

“Yes,” Dix said. His fingers, tight around the beer can, made indentations in the soft aluminum. “It is at that. A little stuffy in here.”

Cecca saw Dix walk out of the house and glance her way. Come over here and rescue me, she thought, but he didn't. He stood for a moment, at loose ends, and then drifted to where Jerry and George were talking by the Webers. He didn't want to be partying any more than she did. Not after that damn package yesterday and what they both agreed it implied about the tormentor's identity. And especially not after the phone call that afternoon.

The call had almost made her stay home. But to what purpose? Amy had a date and refused to cancel it; it wouldn't have done either of them any good if she had. They weren't safe in the house. He'd already been in the house, for God's sake. Hadn't broken in, no, there wasn't the slightest sign anywhere of forced entry. Been invited in. Been given free run of the place, enough time alone to find out where she kept her bras, where Amy kept her panties, where the photograph album was tucked away in her bedroom closet. That ruled out delivery people or casual acquaintances. Amy swore she hadn't let Kimberley or any of her other friends wander around unsupervised. And that left only her own close male friends.

That left Owen and Jerry and Tom and George and Sid.

A betrayal by one of them, a man she had trusted completely, was almost impossible to credit. And yet, what other explanation was there? There had to be one … but she was sick with the thought that there wasn't.

Should she tell Dix now about the call? Or should she wait until after the party? Better wait. It would only make the evening more difficult for him.

Owen's voice droned in her ear. “I just don't think it's possible,” he was saying for the third or fourth time. Not to her, now, but to Laura and Margaret, who were standing next to her. “I mean, the whole concept is incredible.”

“Well, isn't it almost the same thing the Christian Scientists believe?” Laura asked. “An offshoot of the power of self-healing?”

“I don't see it that way. There's a certain amount of evidence to support self-healing. But the power of positive dreaming? It's pure fantasy.”

“The article said it's a matter of training the mind. Positive thinking while you're awake, positive dreaming while you're asleep.”

“Yes, but bad dreams, nightmares, can be good for you. Freud proved that. You get rid of aggression, work out things that are troubling you. Even if you could program yourself to dream positively every night, there'd be no release for the negatives that pile up in your subconscious.”

“The combination of positive thinking and positive dreaming eliminates the negatives over a period of time. See?”

“No, I don't see. The subconscious is a cesspool; you can't clean it out completely, because you're not always aware of what's growing in there. Dream your way to perfect mental health? I tell you, it's a crock—”

Shut up, Owen, she thought. You, too, Laura. Just shut up, all right?

In her mind's eye she kept seeing the contents of that gift box. The burned bra, the burned panties, the burned photo. Burning … the way Katy had died. And the phone call this afternoon to confirm the connection, in case she'd missed it. To make his intent perfectly clear.

Soon, Francesca. But not too soon. The hottest fires burn slow. One fire burns out another's burning, one pain is lessen'd by another's anguish.

He'd murdered Katy; she no longer had any doubt of that. And he meant to kill her and Amy and probably Dix, too. By fire. Burn them all to a crisp.

Dix had tried to talk her out of the idea last night. An implied threat didn't mean an actual threat, he'd argued. And they still didn't know Katy had been murdered. The package could have been another move in the tormentor's sick, sly game. But he didn't believe that any more than she did. What was happening to them wasn't a game, had never been a game. It was something much more deadly.…

“… Cecca? Are you all right?”

Owen's voice, no longer droning. Concerned. He was standing close to her now and he put his hand on her arm; involuntarily she shrank away from his touch.

The rebuff made him wince. “Are you ill?”

“No, I'm not ill. What makes you think that?”

“You're flushed and sweaty all of a sudden.”

“He's right,” Margaret said, “you are. Want to sit down?”

“No. It's … I feel fine, really.”

“Don't tell me you're having hot flashes,” Laura said. “Menopause at your age?”

“Not hardly.”

Owen didn't want to hear that kind of talk; it made him uncomfortable. He said quickly, “Maybe you'd better sit down. I'll bring you some water—”

“I don't want any water.”

“She's okay now,” Laura said. “These things pass. Maybe it was the gin and tonic. You didn't make it too strong, did you, Owen?”

“No.”

“How much gin did you put in?”

“A jigger and a half, that's all. Cecca, are you sure you don't feel feverish? You look like you're burning up …”

Shut up, shut up, shut up!

The burning charcoal in the Webers had a mesquite aroma now. And another, subtler scent that Dix couldn't identify. It was alder, he found out when he joined Jerry and George, because they were arguing about it.

“Alder is the wrong flavor for beef,” George said. “It's for chicken or fish.”

“Have you ever tried it mixed with mesquite?”

“Once. I had a rib-eye cooked that way.”

“And you didn't care for the taste.”

“No. The alder doesn't blend right with mesquite.”

“Enhances it, if you ask me.”

“Well, I'm a purist. What do you think, Dix?”

“I don't know. I've never cooked with alder.”

“We'll take a vote after we eat,” Jerry said. He punched Dix lightly on the shoulder. “Glad you decided to come. I'd just about given up on you.”

“It was the threat of being handcuffed that did it.”

Jerry laughed. George said, “Handcuffed?”

“Jerry said he'd put me in cuffs and haul me here bodily if I didn't show on my own.”

“Oh.”

Jerry winked at Dix. To George he said, “Tell me, counselor. If I'd gone ahead and done it, put the cuffs on Dix and dragged him down off the Ridge, would it have been a misdemeanor or a felony?”

“Felony.”

“Kidnapping rap, if Dix pressed charges?”

“Not unless you tried to take him out of state.”

“What would the charge be?”

“False imprisonment.”

“Denned as?”

“The unlawful violation of the personal liberty of another,' ” George said seriously. “Punishable by a fine or imprisonment for one year or both. Sections two-thirty-six and two-thirty-seven of the California Penal Code.”

“Damn good thing for both of us, then,” Jerry said, “that Dix came down on his own.”

George nodded without smiling; he had no idea that Jerry was jerking his chain. He had been born without a sense of humor, not even trace elements of one. He took everything with utter seriousness, including the business of having fun. Not that he was a stick-in-the-mud; he liked to socialize, he was a good sport, and he fit in well with the group. Besides which, Laura had enough laughter in her for both of them. She needled him constantly about his sobersidedness with the same absence of malice as Jerry's kidding; theirs was probably the best marriage in the group. The joking didn't offend him. He'd learned tolerance along with patience and tenacity in the San Jose barrio where he'd grown up. Those qualities, along with hard work, had made his law practice a success. He had both Hispanic and Anglo clients, both Hispanic and Anglo respect.

George Flores? Harboring deep-seated resentments against a group of friends who were themselves ethnically diverse and who had never done him even a whisper of harm? Inconceivable.

A bray of laughter diverted Dix's attention to where Sid Garstein was overflowing a lawn chair under a kumquat tree, holding court for Tom and Beth. Madras shorts, a bright pink shirt, and floppy sandals gave him a clownish aspect. Typical Sid; even in his business dealings, as head of the largest electrical contracting firm in the county, he dressed garishly and in dubious taste. He didn't give a damn how he looked to others. “I'm not Joe Average, so why should I dress like him?” Sid, the frustrated stand-up comic: He knew more smutty stories than a convention of salesmen. Sid, the ass-patter and propositioner of his friends' wives. Occasionally one of them chewed him out, but mostly they tolerated it because it was meaningless byplay, not intended to be taken sincerely. Katy: “The truth is, he's afraid of women. If one of us ever said, ‘Sure, Sid, let's go to bed,’ he'd run like a scalded cat.” Sid, the happy-go-lucky, childish bullshitter. Except that he was on the board of directors of the Los Alegres Boys and Girls Club, active in two antidrug programs and the county chapter of B'nai B'rith, and donated thousands of dollars each year to a variety of charities.

Sid Garstein?

Inconceivable.

Dix shifted his gaze again, to where Owen was still earnestly monopolizing Cecca's time. Owen was in love with her, had been for years. The hopeless, worshipful kind of love. He might take up with Cecca's best friend for revenge or spite, but neither of those applied to the situation. And Katy's feelings for Owen had always been maternal; if she'd found him physically attractive, she'd hidden it well. Owen: reserved, puppy-doggish, old-fashioned in attitudes and tastes; loved photography to the point of obsession, loved taking portraits of kids most of all. Still waters run deep, sure, and it was possible unrequited love for Cecca had turned to hate. But there was no earthly reason for him to want to harm Katy or Dix Mallory. None.

Owen Gregory?

Inconceivable.

These are my friends, he thought. Trivial in some ways, loaded with faults like everybody else in the world, but fundamentally good, decent men. Hateful and disloyal to even consider them.

But how can you know, really, what goes on inside another human being? I didn't know what went on inside the woman I loved and lived with for seventeen years. Didn't even know what went on inside myself until this week.

It could be one of them, all right.

It could be anybody.

In spite of her earlier resolve, she told Dix about the call as soon as they were alone together. She couldn't help herself. It was like a poisonous taste in her mouth that she had to spit out.

They were getting ready to eat. Jerry had put the steaks on; the aroma of barbecuing meat was strong on the cooling air. The smell made Cecca faintly nauseated. Her mind kept trying to associate it with human flesh cooking, Katy in her burning car. Most of the others were bustling around, setting up a buffet table on the patio, helping Jerry at the Webers, brokering drinks. Owen had gone off to the bathroom, thank God. He was driving her crazy with his solicitous hovering. She saw Dix by himself and went to him and drew him quickly onto the path between the house and the garage.

He said, “Christ,” softly when she blurted out the tormentor's threat.

“That last part,” she said, “about the lessen'd anguish. It sounds like some kind of quote.”

“It is. From Romeo and Juliet, I think.”

“Romeo and Juliet. Oh, fine.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Something about the package … did Amy and I like our presents.”

“Bastard. You did remember to switch tapes?”

“Tapes? What tapes?”

“In your answering machine. To preserve what he said.”

“It wasn't a message. I talked to him.”

“Talked to— I thought we agreed to let all calls go on tape. Why did you pick up?”

“I don't know. I was standing right there when the phone rang and I … habit, impulse, I don't know.”

“You didn't provoke him, argue with him?”

“No. I didn't say anything, I just listened.”

“You did record it?”

“I didn't have time. The cassette recorder was in my purse in the other room—”

“Cecca, what he said was the kind of evidence we need—”

“What good would it have done us? Don't you understand? He's planning to murder Amy and me. Unless we find out who he is, he'll kill us the way he killed Katy—”

“Keep your voice down, for God's sake. You're jumping to conclusions again.”

“I'm not. Not this time. And you know it.”

No answer.

“Dix, you know it. Stop pretending our lives aren't in danger!”

He ran a hand roughly over his face, pulled it down, and looked at it as if he expected to find it stained. “All right,” he said.

“We've got to do something.”

“What? What can we do?”

“Confront Louise Kanvitz, that's what.”

“Beg her to tell the truth about Katy?”

“Pay her. She'd take money.”

“Suppose she won't?”

“Force it out of her then.”

“Threaten her? Beat her up?”

“If that's what it takes, yes!”

“We're not thugs, Cecca. Besides, she could have us arrested, put in jail—”

“I don't care about that. At least we'd have his name.”

“If she really does know it.”

“She knows. I tell you, she knows—”

“Who knows what?”

Owen's voice, startling them both. Owen had come around the corner and was standing there, head cocked quizzically, half smiling at them. Damn you, Owen! she thought fiercely. Are you the one? Is that why you won't leave me alone?

“Did I interrupt something?” he asked.

Dix said, “No, we were just chatting.”

“Sounded pretty intense to me.”

“It wasn't intense,” Cecca said, “it was just a conversation. Can't I talk to somebody without you butting in?”

The words stunned him. She saw the hurt reshape his expression and didn't care; for all she knew he was the one. “Hey, I wasn't butting in,” he said. His voice had stiffened a little. “I came looking for you because Beth asked me to. She wants some help in the kitchen.”

“Tell her I'll be right there.”

Owen glanced at Dix, gave Cecca a longer, hurt look, and went away without saying anything else.

Dix said slowly, “Maybe we'd better not stay for dinner. This isn't the place for either of us tonight.”

“We can't leave now. How would it look to the rest of them?”

“You go, then. I'll make excuses—”

“No. We'll both stay. We'll get through this and then we'll go somewhere and talk, make a decision.”

He nodded. “You'll be okay?”

“I won't lose it and start hurling accusations, if that's what you mean. You go ahead. I'll be along in a minute.”

Alone on the path, she stood composing herself. She was on a ragged edge and it wasn't like her. She didn't fall apart in a crisis. Chet … yes, okay, she'd gone through a crumbly period when he walked out, but she'd still held herself and her life together, and come out of the divorce more or less whole. It was that this thing, this madness, was so foreign to anything in her experience. You couldn't adjust to it because it kept changing, shifting, so you couldn't get a grasp on any of it. The not knowing why, the gathering certainty that he was probably a man you knew well and liked and trusted … those were the things that made it so unbalancing.

But I can handle it, she thought. I am going to handle it. So is Dix. So is Amy. We'll be all right. We will.

It won't be us who ends up getting burned.

For a while Dix felt oddly detached, an almost schizoid detachment, as if only part of him were still there in Jerry's backyard. The other part … running around in a cage somewhere, rattling the bars, looking for a way out. Bits and pieces of conversation bounced off his mind without quite registering: food, baseball, taxes, local politics, jokes, old movies versus new movies, a kind of gibberish labeled the power of positive dreaming. He had no appetite, had to force down his first few bites of steak, but when dinner was over he saw with surprise that his plate was empty except for the steakbone and a few bites of pasta salad, as if somebody else had cleaned it for him when he wasn't looking. When Jerry asked him what he thought of the alder and mesquite combination, he said, “Wonderful, just wonderful,” without realizing until minutes later what the question related to.

Cecca, he noticed, ate almost nothing. Otherwise she seemed to be holding up better than he was, making more of an effort to join in. Trying too hard, but nobody noticed because they were also trying too hard—to recapture the old, easy, relaxed camaraderie of good friends enjoying each other's company. It was not he who was preventing it from happening; it was the specter of Katy. The sudden death of one of the flock was a reminder, consciously or subconsciously, of their own mortality. For all but one of them, maybe.

They stayed outside after they finished eating and the remains were cleared away. They had more drinks, they talked, they watched the sun sink lower in the west and turn the sky a streaky gold, then a darkening pink. And a slow change came over Dix. The feelings of detachment and fragmentation went away; he grew sharply aware of what was being said and done around him, of what was in his own mind. Tension seemed to seep out of him, leaving a kind of shaky peace—the kind that follows a crisis point reached and overcome. Mr. Mediocrity was no longer looking for a way out.

The breeze had picked up, turned the coming night as chilly as he had anticipated earlier; they all put on sweaters and jackets. The last of the sunset colors disappeared into smoky gray, and when dusk became dark, the wind sharpened again. Somebody said, “Brr, it's cold out here.” Jerry suggested they go inside, have some coffee, maybe a little dessert. Owen, still nursing his bruised feelings, said he'd pass, he had some film to develop and he'd better get on home. It was like a door being suddenly opened to reveal an escape route: The others made their own excuses as they trooped inside. Within ten minutes, despite Jerry's mild protests, the party was over—hours earlier than it would have been in the old days.

Dix's car was parked just ahead of Cecca's, so it was natural enough for him to walk her to the door of her station wagon. They were alone there, out of the earshot of any of the others. As she groped in her purse for her keys, he whispered, “You were right. We're not going to sit around and wait for something else to happen. We're going to put an end to it.”

She looked up at him, her face silver and shadow in the early moonlight.

“Tomorrow morning we'll go see Louise Kanvitz and find out what she knows. One way or another.”