With an Extreme Burning

TWENTY-ONE

The buildings that made up the Andersen farm—sixty-year-old one-story house, barn, chicken coop, pumphouse—looked fine from a distance. And from certain angles closer in, too, as in Owen's photographs. The setting was attractive: wooded hill behind the house and barn, eucalyptus-flanked access drive, fields of alfalfa and corn, a ten-tree apple orchard. It was only when you got up close to the buildings that you realized how much repair work needed to be done. The farmhouse wanted paint, a new roof, a new front porch; the barn had gapped and missing boards in two walls and its doors hung crooked from a sagging lintel. The wire on the coop was badly rusted and would have to be replaced, and the coop itself needed shoring up. The fences around the yard and those that bounded the fields and orchard were tumbledown. The fields hadn't been plowed or cultivated in four years, since old Frank Andersen had been diagnosed with cancer. Weeds and grass grew thigh-high under the apple trees.

From a real estate agent's point of view, it had seemed like a white elephant. Tom Birnam had taken on the listing as a favor to Andersen's widow and two daughters, and he'd asked Cecca to handle it as a favor to him. The first time she'd viewed it, ten days ago, she'd thought it was the kind of property that might well take up a lot of her time and effort and never make her a dime's worth of commission—one that would be looked at but not bought by dozens of straightforward clients and bargain hunters, all the while deteriorating more and more from lack of upkeep. One day in the far future, somebody would finally decide to take it on spec at a rock-bottom price, but it might not be her listing anymore—or Better Lands'—when that happened.

So then here came Elliot Messner, the very first prospect she'd shown it to, and it was beginning to look like a quick sale after all. As with the Hagopians, she'd sensed his positive reaction on the first showing; obviously he saw something in the place—a reclamation challenge, maybe—that she didn't and any number of others wouldn't. The fact that he'd asked for this second look was even more encouraging. He was hooked; she was fairly sure of it. If he didn't see anything today to change his mind, she thought he would make an offer as soon as the escrow closed on his Brookside Park property.

She wished she cared.

She didn't seem to care about much of anything today, including the fact that the Hagopians had come in first thing to accept Elliot's counteroffer and sign a purchase agreement. There was an apathy in her that she couldn't seem to shake. On the one hand, it had allowed her to function at the office and to keep her appointment with Elliot that afternoon. On the other hand, she knew how dangerous that sort of feeling could be if she allowed it to continue. Prelude to a breakdown, the inability to function at all. Underneath the layer of indifference, her nerves were like sparking wires: Fray them any more and they would short-circuit.

The dusty yard was deserted when she drove in. She was on time; Elliot was late. She parked near the picket fence fronting the farmhouse, sat there for a minute or two, and then decided to get out. Although she could see the buildings of a neighboring farm less than half a mile away, the place had a desolate, lonely feel. A family's home once, teeming with vitality—now dormant, waiting for somebody to breathe new life into it or else to die. Freda Andersen had moved out as soon as her husband passed away, into the home of one of her daughters in town; the other married daughter lived in Texas. Two goats and the chickens had been sold off. There was nothing left but ghosts.

The wind was strong out of a partly overcast sky; Cecca buttoned her beige linen blazer. Clouds running overhead made irregular shadow patterns on the fields and nearby hills. The only audible sound was the ratchety turning of the blades in a rusted windmill behind the pumphouse. To her, its rhythm was like the beating of a weak heart.

She glanced at her watch, then out toward Hamlin Valley Road. Still no sign of Elliot. This was the reason she preferred to pick up clients and bring them to a property. But Elliot had had some sort of meeting in San Francisco and insisted on coming here directly from that. Not that it mattered, really, if he was late. She had nothing else she needed or wanted to be doing.

When the wind began to chill her, she slid back inside the station wagon. Sat there with the apathy wrapped around her like a shawl. And yet in her mind's eye she could see again the image of Dix climbing over the fence last night with the gun in his hand. The image made her even colder.

Her fear and loathing of firearms was almost pathological. Why, she didn't know; some phobias even a psychiatrist couldn't explain. She had never been shot at or threatened with a gun; never seen anyone hurt with one; never even touched one. Yet the first time she'd been confronted with a real handgun, her grandfather's target pistol at the age of six, she had reacted with shrieking terror, as if it were a snake coiled to strike at her. Ever since, she couldn't bear anything to do with them. She even shied away from watching make-believe shootouts in films.

She'd urged Dix to get rid of the gun he'd bought; his refusal had led to a brief and futile argument. She could see his point: They had to have some sort of protection. But what if he'd lied to her, or at best evaded her, when he'd said he would not have committed cold-blooded murder last night? What if the opportunity arose again and he did shoot down the tormentor? He would never be the same to her again; she could not love him, be with him. Irrational or not, and no matter what the circumstances, a man who pointed a gun at another human being and pulled the trigger would always be a source of revulsion for her.

The sound of a car laboring in low gear penetrated her awareness. She glanced into the rearview mirror, saw Elliot's dark-blue Lexus jouncing through the ruts toward the farmyard. She waited until he drew up behind the wagon before she stepped out.

“Sorry I'm late, Francesca,” he said. “Meeting took a little longer than I expected.” His smile, boyishly lopsided, went at odds with his professional outfit of a tan corduroy suit and a black pullover sweater. Appropriate. As far as she could tell, that was exactly the way he was—a clashing mixture of the intelligent adult college professor and the irrepressibly horny kid. He and Chet would have got along famously, she thought, at least on the subject of women.

“No problem,” she said.

“Been waiting long?”

“Ten minutes or so.”

“You look tired. Rough night?”

“I didn't sleep very well.”

“Sleeping alone does have its drawbacks.”

He said that offhandedly, through his crooked smile, but his eyes were steady on hers; he wanted a reaction. She didn't give him one. She said, “Where would you like to start? The house?”

“Fine by me.”

He followed her onto the porch and she keyed them in. Cobwebs and dust. Musty smells of old wood, old wallpaper. All of the Andersens' furnishings had been taken away except for oddments here and there that the widow and her daughters hadn't wanted: a couple of chairs, a catchall table, some knickknack shelves, a carpet runner in the front hall. For Cecca, at least, there was a sadness in the leavings, in the dark squares and ovals on the walls where pictures had once hung. Elliot didn't seem affected. He took notice only of what interested him.

In the living room he said, “Look at that fireplace. I'll bet you don't see decorative tile inlays very often anymore.”

“No, you don't.”

In the parlor he said, “I could use this as my study. Plenty of light, view of the hills, no direct sun to fade book jacket spines. What do you think, Francesca?”

“I think it would make a fine study.”

And in the largest of the rooms at the rear he said, “This ought to be big enough for my bed. It's a California king.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Water bed. I wouldn't own anything else.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You have a water bed, Francesca?”

“No.”

“Ever slept in one?”

“A couple of times. I don't care for them.”

“Some aren't very good. Mine's the best they make.”

“I'm sure you wouldn't have settled for less.”

“You ever make love in a water bed?” he asked.

Grinning, looking for a reaction again. This time she gave him one. “That's none of your business, Elliot.”

“No, probably not,” he said cheerfully. “Have you made love in a water bed?”

She turned toward the doorway without answering.

“There's nothing like it,” he said behind her. “It's more comfortable, for one thing. And the motion of the water heightens the pleasure. No kidding, it really does.”

He had succeeded in doing what she hadn't been able to all day: chip through the shell of her apathy. She was angry now; she bit back a sharp rebuke. I do not need this crap, she thought. Today of all days, I do not need to be sexually harassed.

She walked into the kitchen. Half-dinette table, one rickety chair, and on the windowsill over the sink, a Mason jar filled with the dessicated remains of flowers so long dead they were unidentifiable. Elliot was close behind her, like a dog at heel. She turned at the sink to face him.

“The kitchen,” she said flatly. “Is there anything else you'd care to see?”

The boyish leer. “Yes. But not in here.”

“Then we'll go outside—”

He leaned past her to look briefly out the window. When he straightened again he was close to her, too close. She tried to slide away; he caught hold of her arms, turning her so that her hips were against the drainboard.

“Dammit, Elliot, what do you think you're—”

He kissed her. Not roughly or violently, not for long and not using his tongue, but the kiss was far from being gentle. For an instant she was shocked. Then her anger flared into outrage. She would have slapped him except that he still gripped her arms, still had her body pinned.

“Let me go,” she said between clenched teeth.

He was grinning again. “Come on, Francesca, it wasn't that bad, was it? Suppose we try it again.”

“No! Let me go or you'll regret it.”

“You don't mean that. Let's not play any more games.”

“If you think I'm playing a game—”

“We've both been playing games,” he said. “That's over now. It's time to stop playing. Time for it to happen, Francesca.”

Time for it to happen …

He's the one!

The thought was like an eruption in her mind. She recoiled from it, immediately sought to drive it away. It couldn't be Elliot, how could it? He wasn't one of their friends … but he knew Katy, he could have been Katy's lover … but he didn't know Eileen … but he knew Ted, she'd run into him once in Ted's office … but he'd never been inside her house, no one had broken in, how could he have stolen her bra and Amy's panties … key, key, the spare key she'd given Katy long ago, he could have got the key from Katy.…

She looked into his eyes, his leering face—and felt a surge of sick, raw terror.

He's the tormentor!

Dix had just two Friday classes, both in the morning. He thought he could get through them, as tired as he was; Cecca had said she was going to work today, so why shouldn't he? It proved to be the right decision. The campus activity and the routine of teaching distracted him, kept him from brooding.

When he returned to his office after his eleven o'clock, there was a message waiting from St. John. Would he call or stop by sometime today? That was all, so it was nothing urgent. Questions about the fire, probably. He'd reported it before leaving home that morning, not to St. John directly—he hadn't been in—but to the sergeant who'd taken the call.

Face-to-face, St. John had a way of getting under his skin and making him lose his composure. Dix called him instead. The first thing St. John said when he came on the line was that he'd just returned from investigating “the alleged arson attempt last night at your home.”

“Alleged arson attempt. That means you don't find any evidence that the fire was deliberately set.”

“None. But I don't doubt your version of the incident.”

“Uh-huh. If only I'd gotten a look at him or his car, right?”

St. John let that pass. “Have there been any other harassments?”

Dix saw no point in telling him about the tormentor's call yesterday morning. His relationship with Cecca was none of St. John's business. He said, “No.”

“Well, I do have a little positive news for you. Just so you know I'm doing my job. I spoke to Janet Rice again this morning. Louise Kanvitz's artist friend in Bodega Bay. More than a friend, actually; turns out they were lovers. She admitted lying about buying those last two paintings of your wife's. Ms. Kanvintz asked her to say she had.”

“Did Kanvitz tell her why? Or who did buy the paintings?”

“She says no on both counts. Claims Ms. Kanvitz was secretive about her motives. That lends credence to your blackmail theory.”

Credence, Dix thought. “I don't suppose there was anything at the gallery or among her effects that points to the man?”

“No.”

“And of course there's nothing new on her murder.”

“We still don't know that it was murder.”

“All right, her death.”

“Her nose was broken and there was a bruise on her jaw,” St. John said. “She could have been knocked out first and then thrown down the stairs. Then again, she might have gotten those injuries in an accidental fall. We did find a fingerprint that isn't hers on the newel post. Might be significant; we're running computer checks on it.”

Dix admitted, “That's encouraging.” But not very. “None of the neighbors saw or heard anything?”

“Apparently not. If she was murdered, her killer may have parked his car on the other side of the hill and walked to her house through the trees up there. There's a path kids use from the school over on Highland. It leads right past her backyard.”

Same damn method the bastard had used last night. Crazy but cunning.

“Did her missing handgun turn up?”

“Not yet.”

“So the upshot of all this is, you're still reserving judgment. You're inclined to believe Francesca Bellini and her daughter and I are in danger, but there's nothing much you can do about it.”

“You may see it that way, Mr. Mallory, but the fact is we're doing everything that can be done and we are making progress.”

“Right,” Dix said.

Status fucking quo, he thought.

It's him, it's Elliot!

Fear pushed Cecca toward the edge of panic. She couldn't get free of his clutching hands, his body pinning hers. He was half aroused; she could feel his burgeoning erection hot against her thigh.

He murmured, “Francesca,” and tried to kiss her again.

She managed to tear her right arm loose. In the next second she spat in his face, brought her knee up, and swept the Mason jar off the windowsill and slammed it against the side of his head.

Her knee missed his groin, but the jar connected solidly, part of the glass fragmenting on impact, a shard of it cutting her palm. He grunted in pain, released her and stumbled away to one side. She had a brief impression of glazed eyes, blood streaming down from his temple. Then her back was to him and she was running.

She ran through the parlor, across the hall, dragged the front door open. Get inside the car, lock the doors! She plunged through, hitting the screen door with her shoulder; took two steps and then was violently yanked back and half around, a sharp wrenching in her left shoulder. She thought in that first confused moment that he'd caught her. But it was her purse, the strap of her purse had caught on the screen-door handle. In her panic she heaved backward, trying to free it—and the strap broke and she backpedaled off balance into the porch railing, the purse flying past her head. She twisted around as it hit the front walk and burst open, spilling its contents in a wide fan.

The car keys!

She stumbled down the steps. Didn't see the keys, bent to scoop up the purse, pulled it wide open so she could look inside, and the keys weren't there either—

Thudding footfalls. Her head jerked up; he appeared in the doorway. Holding his head with one hand, the left side of his beard glistening with blood. Saying dazedly, “Francesca, for Christ's sake,” saying something else she didn't hear.

She took flight again.

Out through the gate, past the station wagon, across the empty yard. The barn was straight ahead, its sagging doors drawn shut but not locked, a gap like a skinny mouth yawning between them. She raced toward the doors, looking back over her shoulder.

He was behind her, chasing her in a lurching run, still clutching his head, still calling her name.

Just as she reached the doors, her foot slid on dry, loose earth and she went down hard on her left hip. The jarring pain was one of several; she barely noticed it. She lunged upward, grasped the latch on one door, dragged herself upright, and then scraped the door back and squeezed her body inside.

A half-darkness enveloped her, broken and thinned by fingers of dusty sunlight poking in through gaps in the walls and roof. The air was close, thick with the smells of hay and manure and harness leather; it clogged her nostrils, her throat, wouldn't let her catch her breath. She looked around wildly, trying to penetrate the gloom. Empty floor, empty stalls, loft above with remnants of moldy hay and nothing else—

Pitchfork.

It was propped against one of the vertical support beams for the loft. She hobbled over and caught it up. Rusted and crooked tines, a cracked handle that immediately became slick and sticky with blood from her cut palm. She whirled around with it, facing the door as it creaked open wide.

Elliot stood silhouetted there, backlit by the daylight outside. Looking for her, seeing her. Coming inside.

Instead of backing up, she went toward him. Now that she had the pitchfork, a weapon, some of her terror had been submerged by an adrenaline rush of fury. She jabbed the tines in his direction, belly high.

“Stay away from me,” she said. “Don't come near me, you son of a bitch.”

Elliot stopped, swaying a little, as if he were still dizzy from the blow with the Mason jar. He was in one of the shafts of incoming sunshine; she could see his red-stained face clearly enough to tell that the dazed expression was mostly gone, that in its place was an emotion that surprised her. What she'd expected was a fury to match her own, an implacable hatred. What she saw was fear.

He touched his temple again, stared at the blood smears on his fingers. “Jesus, Francesca,” he said shakily, “you almost broke my skull.”

“I wish I had.”

“Why? I didn't mean … I misread the signals …”

“What signals? What're you talking about?”

He took another step forward, his hand held out to her as if in supplication. She reacted by advancing on him, closing the distance between them to ten feet, jabbing again with the pitchfork. “I'll put this all the way through you, I mean it.”

He stopped, spread his arms. “I wasn't trying to attack you. Is that what you thought? Rape?”

“Rape?”

“It wasn't like that, I swear to God. I thought you wanted me as much as I wanted you. Playing games, being coy.”

His apparent confusion had infected her, but not enough to make her relax her guard. She was sweating, a thick, oily sweat, and that smell combined with the barn stench was making her nauseated. “Turn around,” she said. “Walk outside and keep walking.”

“Francesca—”

“Do it, goddamn you, or I swear I'll stick you.”

He turned, hunching his shoulders. And walked and continued to walk without looking back. She followed at a cautious distance, blinking when she came out of the dark barn into the sun-glare. He went halfway across the yard before his step faltered and his head swiveled toward her.

“Keep going. All the way to your car.”

No argument; he did as he was told. His obedience had built an odd, grim sense of power in her. Now she was in control. Now he was the one scared and cringing. She hated the feeling—and relished it at the same time.

When he reached the Lexus she told him to stop. He stopped. “Francesca, what are you going to do?”

“Never mind what I'm going to do. Your car keys—where are they?”

“Jacket pocket.”

“Take them out, put them on the hood. Then back up. Keep backing up until I tell you to stop again.”

Once more he obeyed. When he was far enough away she moved forward and picked up the keys and put them in her blazer pocket.

“I wasn't going to force myself on you,” he said. “You have to believe me. If you go to the police … the university, my tenure … I'm sorry I came on so strong, I mean it, I'm sorry …”

“Stay where you are. Don't move.”

She backed up between the cars, not taking her eyes off him; backed through the gate to where her purse and its spilled contents lay spread over the walk. Elliot hadn't moved except to take out a handkerchief; he was dabbing blood off his temple, rubbing it out of his beard. She got down on one knee, the pitchfork in her right hand, and used her left hand to pick up wallet, change purse, compact, lipstick, comb, pen … key case. The case was partially hidden under a summer-dead bush; that was why she'd missed seeing it earlier. When she had everything in the purse she straightened and walked out to the station wagon.

Elliot made the supplicating gesture again. “Please don't report this to the police. I'll never bother you again, I'll never come near you, I'll buy this place and insist you have the commission … all right? Francesca? Just believe that I'm sorry, I never meant to hurt you, I made a mistake …”

“Shut up,” she said.

He shut up.

“Walk away farther. Over by the chicken coop.”

“Please,” he said, and walked away.

The feeling of power was gone now; so was most of her anger. She felt … empty. She opened the car door, threw the pitchfork down, slid inside, and immediately locked all the doors. Now she was aware of the dull throbbing pain in her palm, of the blood that was dripping from the cut onto her clothing. Handkerchief in one of the blazer pockets … she found it, wrapped it around the hand.

Elliot was standing in front of the chicken coop, arms out slightly from his sides—a forlorn figure, like a poorly made scarecrow. Cecca started the engine, ran her window partway down. “I'll leave your keys in the mailbox,” she called to him.

He called something back that had the word “please” in it.

She made a fast U-turn, drove fast out of the farmyard. Once she cleared the gate, she ran her gaze up to the rearview mirror. He was still standing by the chicken coop, fumbling with cigarettes and matches—diminished and diminishing.

At the end of the lane she stopped long enough to throw his car keys into the mailbox. Then she turned east on Hamlin Valley Road, drove straight to town, and straight home. In her driveway she shut off the engine and set the brake. But she didn't get out. She just sat there.

I'm sorry, I never meant to hurt you, I made a mistake.

Truth.

She'd been wrong.

Elliot Messner wasn't the tormentor.

Misread him as he'd misread her. Overreacted. He was a macho asshole who didn't really like or respect women, who until today had been secure in the belief that he could seduce—not rape, seduce—any woman he wanted because she must in turn want him. But that was all he was. Not dangerous; just a pig. Report him to the police? No, she wasn't that vindictive. She'd punished him enough out there—punched a huge hole in his ego and given him a scare that he wouldn't shake for days. He might not learn a lasting lesson from what had happened, but he would never forget this afternoon.

Neither would she.

She rested her forehead against the steering wheel. This is what living on the edge has done to me, she thought. Before, she would have been able to handle Elliot; she wouldn't have panicked, she wouldn't have resorted to violence. As it was, she had almost allowed herself to become the sort of person she despised. She'd worried that Dix was a potential killer. Well, so was she. If Elliot had come at her in the barn, she would have stuck him. She would have run that pitchfork all the way through him and killed him dead.

She kept on sitting there. Very calm now, still very much in control. Except that she couldn't seem to make herself get out of the car.