With an Extreme Burning

THREE

He didn't believe it about Katy.

Not for a minute.

A vile lie, part of the tormentor's sleazy bag of tricks. Vicious goddamn sociopath. Out there somewhere, enjoying himself, laughing behind his anonymity.

No, he didn't believe it, none of it.

Then why couldn't he stop thinking about it?

He walked; he couldn't seem to stop walking, either. The restlessness had driven him out of the house, into the Buick, up here to the university. Familiar surroundings, and a place where he could have people near him and still be alone. Not too many people; he couldn't have stood crowds. A few conscientious summer-school students, a smattering of teachers, custodial people, campus security … just enough to give him a feeling of human connection without intrusion.

She was having an affair. A very torrid affair. For a little more than three months before she died.

I'd have known, he thought. Wouldn't I have known, after seventeen years of marriage?

It started on May second, at two o'clock in the afternoon, at La Quinta Inn in Brookside Park.

Specific place. Clever touch; it gave the lie weight and substance. But it could be checked, proven false.

After that, usually twice a week. Monday and Friday afternoons, when you thought she was studying with Louise Kanvitz. That is what she told you, isn't it?

Even easier to check. The tormentor didn't care, that was the point. He wants me to check, because checking means doubt, and doubt means he's got me hooked.

Once in a field off Lone Mountain Road.

Another clever touch. Lone Mountain Road was the scene of the accident. Got that out of the paper. But what was she doing up there, alone, at nine o'clock on a Friday evening? Nothing off Lone Mountain Road except a few scattered dairy ranches. Hilly area, mostly cattle graze with patches of woods, hairpin turns in the road like the one she'd missed, deep ravines like the one her Dodge had crashed into. Isolated … known as a lover's lane. But there was nothing in that; the possibility had never even occurred to him. The highway patrol: Why was she up there, Mr. Mallory? Do you have friends on Lone Mountain Road? No, no friends. She said she was going for a drive; she liked to drive when she was nervous or out of sorts or blue, it relaxed her. Was she nervous or out of sorts or blue tonight, Mr. Mallory? Twitchy—that was the word she used. She was feeling twitchy and thought she'd go for a drive. What time did she leave? About six. Mmm, two and a half hours before the accident—did she usually stay out for such a long time? Not usually, no …

And more than once in her car, in the backseat, dog-fashion.

Bullshit. But she'd been fond of that position. “Do me from behind, sweetie, you know I love it that way.” Dammit, no. A devilishly lucky guess, that was all it was.

I was her partner.

No.

I'm the man who was fucking your wife.…

He walked. Balboa was one of the newer state schools, built in the mid-sixties for a limited enrollment; now the student roster was upward of seven thousand, with another three thousand in the extension and graduate programs. A dozen new buildings had been added, from a huge library to prefab overflow classrooms and offices, and until the massive state education cutbacks, a new gymnasium had been planned for the following year. Commuter school, limited student housing, but the campus already covered more than fifty acres. Gray concrete buildings for the most part, institutional modern, purely functional—ugly. But the unlovely architecture was offset by parklike landscaping that included hundreds of shade trees. Good place to walk even on hot days. Relaxing.

But not today.

Down past the library, over by the Foundation Center and the Student Health Center, detour past the Hall of Sciences, veer left toward Guiterrez Hall, where he taught most of his classes and where his office was. Hurting inside. And disliking himself for that small nagging worm of doubt that seemed to have burrowed deep into his mind.

Three months. A long time. There would have been little indicators to arouse his suspicions, but there hadn't been. Had there? Very little physical contact between them in those three months. Not tonight, dear, I'm really not in the mood. Once that he could remember; maybe twice. Part of the vague dissatisfaction they both felt: cooling passions. That was what he'd thought, when he thought about it at all.

Another thing: She'd been withdrawn. Spent more time away from home than usual, and when she did stay in she'd preferred to be alone in the back bedroom she'd converted into a studio, working on one of her paintings.

Katy, he thought, I was faithful to you the whole time we were married. Seventeen years. Mind-sin now and then, sure, I'm no better than Jimmy Carter or anybody else, but I never did anything about it. Never even came close. Wouldn't have hurt you that way, didn't think you'd hurt me that way either. Trust.

I'm the man who was fucking your wife.

It never happened. Not even once, let alone twice a week for more than three months. Couldn't have with somebody like that. Out of all the men in Los Alegres, not a vicious sociopath. But Katy might have had no idea of what he was because he'd kept it hidden, seemed outwardly normal. And if he was good-looking? And sympathetic, patient, reasonably intelligent, accomplished at seduction? And if the circumstances and the timing were just right?

Dix was at the student union now. Closed on weekends, nobody around except for a young man in cutoff jeans reading on one of the outside benches. The angle of the sun was such that it turned the windows into mirrors: He saw himself walking past. The reflection was shimmery, oddly indistinct, as if all his molecules and atoms had begun to separate. Star Trek image: Beam me up, Scotty. He looked away, quickening his pace.

Three months, three months … if it was true, then it hadn't just been a fling, it had been serious or had serious undertones. On Katy's part, at least. How long would it have gone on if the accident hadn't happened? A while, maybe, but not indefinitely. He may not have known Katy as well as he'd thought, but he'd known her that well: She hadn't been duplicitous by nature, hadn't gotten off on illicit intrigue. She had to have been under tremendous pressure. Caught and unable to make up her mind which way to go—

Driven to a third alternative?

Too much guilt, too much pressure? And suppose her lover had let his mask slip and she'd seen him as he really was?

Dix stopped walking.

What if it hadn't been an accident at all?

What if she had missed that turn on Lone Mountain Road on purpose?

The Brookside Park La Quinta Inn was just off the freeway, less than four miles from the university. Big place, three separate buildings, over a hundred rooms; visiting football teams put up there in the fall. Crowded on this late-summer Saturday: most of the parking slots were filled and twenty or thirty adults and children were making noise in the motel pool. Dix parked behind one of the shuttle vans near the lobby entrance. And sat there watching people go in and out.

I don't want to do this, he thought.

But he was there now, and the need to know was stronger than his fear of the truth. Get it over with. He prodded himself out of the car, across to the entrance.

Inside, the air-conditioning had been turned up high; the cold air was a shock. There were two clerks behind the desk, a middle-aged man and a young woman, both wearing La Quinta blazers. They were attending to three customers, one of whom was talking loudly about a restaurant that specialized in mesquite-grilled steaks. Dix hesitated, then sat down on a piece of lobby furniture. He couldn't do this with other people nearby.

It was five minutes before the customers left and the male clerk disappeared through a doorway behind the desk. Dix stood, went quickly to where the young woman was tapping at a computer terminal. Her professional smile wavered slightly when she glanced up at him. He thought: I must look like the wrath of God.

“May I help you, sir?”

“I hope so. I'm trying to find out …”

“Yes?”

The rest of the words wouldn't come. He reached for his wallet, fumbled it open to the photograph of Katy. It was a color portrait photo taken by Owen Gregory as part of a Christmas-gift package two years ago. Quite a good likeness not only in the physical sense but in that it captured Katy's vivacity, even hinted at her puckish sense of humor; Owen was the best professional photographer in Los Alegres. Dix held the wallet out so the young woman could see Katy's image.

“Do you recognize this woman?”

The clerk squinted close, lifted her head again. Her smile had gone. “No, I'm sorry, I don't know her.”

“Never saw her before? You're certain?”

“Well, you know, I see a lot of people …”

“She may have stayed here more than once. Several times, in fact, beginning about three months ago. Weekdays, afternoon check-in … Monday, Friday …”

“Then I really can't help you, sir,” the clerk said. “I don't work weekdays. Just Saturday and Sunday.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.” Sweat seeped out of him despite the air-conditioned coolness. He brushed a drop of it off his nose. “I guess I'll have to come back on Monday then … a weekday.”

“Well …”

The male clerk came out through the doorway. The bar tag over one pocket of his blazer said that he was an assistant manager. His disapproving expression said that he'd been listening and didn't like what he'd heard.

“I'm sorry, sir,” he said, “but we don't give out information about our guests.” He turned reproachful eyes on the young woman. “Joyce knows that, don't you, Joyce?”

Dix said, “I don't mean to cause any problems, it's just that I … my wife … I'm trying to find out if she stayed here …”

“Under no circumstances, sir. That's our policy.”

The young woman, Joyce, was looking at him in a new way. A look that said she'd figured out what this was all about. A look that was half sympathetic and half pitying.

Dix turned and fled.

He was almost an hour late arriving at Elliot's. He wasn't sure why he bothered to keep the appointment at all, his present state being what it was; the prospect of polite chitchat was distasteful. But he was a man who honored his commitments, and he was already in Brookside Park, and Elliot's home was close by. One drink, he thought, quick discussion about his expanded teaching schedule, then he'd make excuses and leave.

He had trouble finding the house—another reason he was so late. He'd been there twice before, but Elliot's street, Raven's Court, was one of dozens of short, twisty cul-de-sacs that made a maze of the sprawling development. Brookside Park had been built a few years before Balboa State and had grown proportionately, if indiscriminately, from an unincorporated country tract spread out along the freeway into a full-fledged town with a population larger than Los Alegres's. The ranch-style houses and tree-lined streets looked alike to an outsider. Several of his fellow professors—those with enough tenure to afford the relative luxury—lived there because of its proximity to the university.

Elliot's front lawn had sprouted a Better Lands Realty FOR SALE sign, new since Dix's last visit. He parked in front of it, looked at himself in the rearview mirror. Gaunt and dull-eyed, but otherwise not too bad. His hair was mussed and damp with sweat; he ran a comb through it before he went up and rang the bell.

Elliot didn't seem annoyed by his tardiness. He said mildly, “I'd about given up on you, my friend.”

“Sorry I'm so late …”

“Don't apologize. You all right? You look wobbly.”

“Nerves. And this damned heat.”

“Come in, sit down. I'll get you a drink.”

The drink was gin and tonic, not too strong. Dix drank half of it in one swallow. “Oh, I needed this.”

“I don't doubt it.”

They settled in what had once been the living room and was now Elliot's study. Books and papers covered most of the furniture, were scattered in little piles on the floor: Neatness was not one of his virtues. The only uncluttered surface was a prominent wall shelf on which Elliot's own books were displayed. He took the university system's publish-or-perish edict seriously; he had published a dozen volumes in the past twenty years, most with university and regional presses, two with small New York publishers. The centerpiece of the display was the book he considered to be his magnum opus, an eight-hundred-page combination biography of the crusading San Francisco newspaperman Fremont Older and history of California journalism. Not a modest man, Elliot Messner.

Dix moved a stack of pamphlets to make room for himself on the couch. Elliot occupied his huge cracked leather armchair. It needed to be huge because he was a big man, three or four inches over six feet, weight about two-twenty. Shaggy hair and a thick beard, both flame-red, coupled with his size and rough I'll-say-what-I-please manner gave him the aspect of one of the rugged-individualist pioneers of the last century. The image may have been calculated to reflect his academic specialty, California and Pacific Coast history, but Dix didn't think so; Elliot had his faults, but role-playing wasn't one of them. He was two years older than Dix, divorced, and if you believed campus rumors, not averse to laying women teachers, TAs, and regular students whenever the opportunity arose. If this was true, at least he was discreet about it. He didn't flaunt his conquests the way some men did.

Dix said, “I didn't know you were selling your house.”

“Trying to. Not much interest so far.”

“How long have you had it on the market?”

“Six weeks. If the Democrats don't turn the economy around, I may never sell the damn place. It's not a financial decision, in case you're wondering. I'm just tired of living in a frigging tract. I never did like it here, you know. It was Grace's idea to buy in Brookside Park. Hell, I should have realized then that the marriage was doomed.”

“Where will you go when it does sell?”

Elliot shrugged. “Out in the country someplace. Not too far away; I hate commuting. A farm, if I can find one that's affordable. I always did want to own a farm. Grow my own fruit and vegetables.” He laughed his seal-bark laugh. “Chop the heads off my own chickens for recreation.”

Dix finished his drink. Elliot did the same and got immediately to his feet. “We can both use another one,” he said, and took the glasses away before Dix could protest.

When he came back with the refills, he asked, “Feel like talking about it?”

“About what?”

“What it is that's got you all worked up.”

“I'm not … it's just the heat, that's all.”

“Bullshit,” Elliot said. “It's more than that. More than what happened to Katy. Looks to me like you've had a shock of some kind.”

“No … all right, yes.”

“I'm a good listener,” Elliot said.

“I know you are.”

“But? Tell me it's none of my business and I'll drop it.”

Dix hesitated. He didn't want to talk about it. Talking about it seemed disloyal, to give the doubts weight, the accusations merit. And yet the need to unburden himself was strong. He said at length, without making a conscious decision, “I've been getting … phone calls.”

“Oh?”

“The anonymous kind. Half a dozen since just after the funeral. Heavy breathing, crank stuff—somebody who read about the accident in the newspaper. They didn't bother me much until today.”

“What happened today?”

Dix told him about the call earlier. But not the details, and he didn't voice his doubts. “‘Lies,” he said, “evil lies.”

Elliot was shaking his head. “Any idea who he is?”

“No.”

“Well, it's likely he's someone you know.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The altered voice, for one thing. Why bother to disguise his voice unless he's afraid you might recognize it.”

“Christ,” Dix said. He hadn't thought of that before.

“Another thing. If he's a stranger, he'd have to be one hell of a diligent researcher. And that's not the pattern in these crank-call cases.”

“So many private details, you mean.”

“More than he could've gotten out of the paper.”

“It's hard to imagine anyone I know personally doing a thing like this.”

“Doesn't have to be a friend or acquaintance. Man who works in a store you trade in, for instance—knows who you are, knows people who know you and can provide the details.”

“That's possible. But why me?”

“Random selection. Or he was triggered by news of the accident. He might even be a former student of yours.”

Dix hadn't thought of that, either. He nodded slowly.

Elliot said, “Failing course grade, low grade on a term paper or thesis, some other slight real or imagined … things like that prey on young minds. Hell, you've been a teacher as long as I have. You know how much hostility some of the little shits can generate.”

“All too well.”

“Even with the voice filter, could you tell his age?”

“No.”

“But you're sure he's a man?”

“Positive. Women don't play sick games like that.”

“Not usually. But it has been known to happen.”

Dix finished his second gin and tonic. Even though Elliot had made the drinks light, he could feel the effects of the alcohol. When Elliot asked him if he wanted a third, he said, “No, I'd better not. The last thing I need is a DUI arrest on the way home.”

Elliot rummaged on the table beside his chair, came up with a package of Pall Malls. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked perfunctorily, and when Dix shook his head, he said, “I've got to quit one of these days,” and lighted up. He didn't mean it about quitting; he said the same thing every other time he had a cigarette, had been saying it as long as Dix had known him. He had cut back to a pack a day in the past year, but the faculty betting was that he would never go all the way.

“I wish I could offer you some sage advice on handling this guy,” he said, “but I can't. I don't know what I'd do if I were in your shoes. Change my telephone number, I suppose, and hope for the best.”

“That's what I intend to do,” Dix said.

“In any case, he'll go away eventually. They always do. Meanwhile … it's his shit and you don't have to wallow in it. Right?”

“Right.”

“So. On to a more pleasant topic. I spoke to Lawrence Hampton after you called this morning. Under the circumstances, he's willing to let you take his four-five-three for this semester.”

“He is? That's good of him.”

History 453 was the Age of Jackson, 1815–1850. Expansion and sectional change, economic sectionalism and national politics, the rise of Jacksonian democracy, and social and political reform in the U.S. from the Peace of Ghent to the Compromise of 1850. It was supposed to be a department course, with rotating instructors, but Hampton's specialty was pre—Civil War U.S. history and he'd taught 453 for the past several years by tacit agreement.

“Three classes, six hours a week,” Elliot said. “Not much, really, but there'll be refamiliarization and preparation to keep you busy over the next few weeks.”

“It'll help. Anything in the extension program?”

“One Saturday class, ten A.M. to noon. Twentieth-Century California History. Starts mid-September.”

“That's one of yours,” Dix said.

“It is, and I'll be glad to get shut of it. Open up my Saturdays for a change.”

“If you're sure you don't mind …”

“Absolutely,” Elliot said. “But there is a contingency: You have to take it for three semesters, not just one. Give me a full year of free Saturdays. Fair enough?”

“More than fair. Thanks, Elliot.”

“Least I can do. You'll need to get together with Lawrence before classes start next week; he has some material for you. I told him you'd call.”

“As soon as I get home.”

He was aware of the emptiness of the house the instant he walked in. The heavy silence seemed to gather around him, to take on a weight he could feel. Could he go on living here alone? It was a question he'd asked himself before and he still wasn't certain of the answer. On the one hand, it was the only place other than his parents' home that he'd ever felt comfortable living in. Too large for one person, one man alone—but so was Elliot's house, so were a lot of other people's. Money wasn't a consideration, at least not right now; and the prospect of putting the house up for sale, dealing with potential buyers trooping through and pawing possessions he'd shared with Katy, and then having to pack up and move and reacclimate elsewhere filled him with distaste. On the other hand, he saw and felt Katy in every room, every stick of furniture, as if some part of her lived on here. Maybe that ghostly quality would fade in time and he would grow used to the emptiness and the silence. And maybe not. You couldn't tell after only three weeks. How could you make any kind of long-range decision after only three weeks?

The message light on the answering machine was blinking: two blinks, two messages. No, he thought, not tonight. He went into his study and looked up Lawrence Hampton's number in his Rolodex. Four rings, and Lawrence's machine answered. He left a message, thinking: What did we do in the days before all these technological gadgets? How did we ever manage to communicate with one another?

He built himself a gin and tonic, stronger than the ones Elliot had given him, and took the drink out to the balcony off the living room. Almost dusk. He watched the last of the sunset colors fade and the sky turn a smoky lavender. Going to be hot again tomorrow. Streetlights and house lights came on, on the Ridge and across the valley and in scattered wink-points up on the eastern hills. In the new dark, crickets set up a throbbing racket. Somewhere a dog barked. In the east side rail yards a locomotive whistle sounded, thin and haunting, like a chord in a sad, lost melody.

And all at once the loneliness struck him, a sudden stabbing sensation so sharp that his flesh seemed to curl inward around it, as if it were a blade.

Katy, he thought. I'm so sorry, Katy.

Sorry she was gone, sorry for doubting her fidelity, sorry for thinking she might have taken her own life. Sorry for himself, his loss, his pain. Sorry that he had to keep on trying to find out if the accusations were true.

Sorry that he was the kind of man who always had to know.