With an Extreme Burning (23 page)

The brief visit with Eileen left Cecca bleak and depressed. She'd been prepared for the worst, had tried to erect defenses to guard her own tender feelings, but imagining what Eileen would look, act, and sound like didn't match the reality of seeing her, listening to her. So pale, lying there; the stunned eyes and minimal awareness; the slurred voice and disjointed speech patterns.
Tired. Stoned. Sad and lost
. It had been a shock and it had shaken her. Even through an effort of will she hadn't been able to hold back the tears.

“Mrs. Harrell's mind is bruised,” her attending physician, Dr. Mulford, had told Cecca beforehand. He'd insisted on seeing her first, to warn her that under no circumstances was she to mention the explosion, or what had happened to Ted and Bobby and Kevin. “She's in a great deal of emotional pain. She doesn't remember anything about that night, won't allow herself to even though at a deeper level she knows she has to eventually. She's afraid to face the enormity of it. But I don't think she'll let herself suffer that way for long. The wife and mother parts of her are too strong; she'll have to face the tragedy in order to find out what happened to her family. That's when the healing process can begin. But the decision to face it must be hers, must come from within.”

“You couldn't even tell her that Kevin is out of danger?” Cecca had found that out from Eileen's brother earlier. And thank God for that much, at least.

“No. Not until she's ready to accept the rest of it.”

Cecca drove from the hospital to Better Lands. Work, the universal panacea. The Hagopians, minus their two children, were waiting for her—willing and eager to make a $250,000 offer on the Messner property in Brookside Park, just as she'd anticipated.

She cared and she didn't care; mainly it gave her something involving to do. She took longer than usual preparing the offer sheet, going over the disclosure statement and other documents with them. Their credit appeared to be very good. And they intended to make a down payment of $135,000, thanks to the sale of a home they'd owned in Salina and to a cash loan from Mrs. Hagopian's father; financing for the balance shouldn't be a problem. If Elliot cooperated, it ought to be a done deal.

She reached Elliot at the university right after the Hagopians left. He seemed delighted; and he wasn't bothered by the size of the offer. “I was afraid I had an albatross on my neck,” he said. “Of course I'd like a little more than two-fifty. I don't suppose these people would go two-sixty-five?”

“I doubt it,” Cecca said. “Two fifty seemed to be about their maximum.”

“Well, let me think about it for a couple of hours. I have a one o'clock class, but I can cut it short. I could be at your office around two.”

“Fine.”

“You're a wizard, Francesca. Nobody else could have sold that pile of mine so quickly.”

Right. A backward ten-year-old could have sold that pile to the Hagopians. But she said, “It was a pleasure. I'll see you at two.”

Elliot arrived at five minutes past. The first thing he did was to grab her by the shoulders and hug her. She endured it stiffly; casual hugs, casual touching—especially by men—had always turned her off. When he let go of her and stepped back, grinning in his bearish way, she could see the heat in his eyes. It annoyed her—more than it would have under better circumstances. It wasn't exactly sexual harassment, but this was a business office and theirs was a business relationship, and it was plain that he was thinking of her as a woman, how her body had felt fitted against his. Did he leer at his students that way? Try to seduce girls almost as young as Amy? Probably. He was the type. Earthy as hell, in spite of his intelligence. To the Elliot Messners of the world, there was never a question of mind over hard-on.

She led him back to her office, leaving the door open after they entered. She was cool to him, but he didn't seem to notice. He kept grinning at her, flirting with his eyes, trying to touch her hand now and then as he spoke.

He'd decided on the way in, he said, to counter at $257,500 firm. “It's not as much as I'd like, but I can live with it. If the Hagopians can afford two-fifty, they can afford two-fifty-seven-five. Right?”

“I would think so. I'll write up the counteroffer and present it to them tonight.”

“Will they decide right away, do you think?”

“They might. I'll let you know either way. Will you be home all evening?”

“No plans,” he said. “If they accept the counter, why don't you come by instead of calling? We'll have a drink or two to celebrate.”

“I don't think so,” she said.

“I'm really not bad company, once you get to know me.”

“I'm sure you aren't. But I'm not interested, Elliot. I told you that at least twice.”

“Women don't always mean what they say. Or say what they mean.”

“I do. And I'd rather not have to say it again. Now, can we please get on with the business at hand?”

He shrugged and said, “Sure thing.”

She had been holding herself in check with an effort; it was a good thing he'd relented. If she blew up at him—and she might well have if he'd kept pushing—it would likely blow the deal, too, and the dubious satisfaction of telling him off wasn't worth that. He was carnal and irritating, but he wasn't the worst Mr. Macho around. Good God no, he wasn't. Besides, he seemed finally to have gotten the message. He left her alone as she wrote up the counteroffer. And when he signed it and stood to leave, his handshake was brief and formal, even if his smile wasn't totally impersonal. Good-bye, Francesca, thanks again. Good-bye, Elliot, I'll talk to you again tonight. And he was gone.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat sipping it at her desk. Tom came in and congratulated her on the evident sale. But what he really wanted to talk about was Eileen and what had happened at Blue Lake. She let him do most of the talking. Tom Birnam, friend, employer, confidant for more than fifteen years—and she no longer felt at ease with him, no longer quite trusted him. Was even a little afraid of him at moments like this, when they were alone together.

It was a relief when the phone rang and he left her alone to answer it. “Francesca Bellini,” she said into the receiver.

“Hello, Francesca. This is Louise Kanvitz.” The chilly voice had warmth in it today, the crackly warmth of anger. “I think it's time you and I had another talk.”

SEVENTEEN

When she heard Kimberley yell, “Hey, look out!” Amy instinctively brought her foot down on the brake pedal. She saw the red light then, the cars starting to scream across the intersection in front of her, and braked hard. There was the screech of tires; the Honda tried to stand on its nose as it slid halfway through the crosswalk.

“God, Amy, wake up.”

“Sorry.” She put the transmission in reverse, backed up a few feet. Her heart was pounding.

“What's the matter with you?”

“I said I was sorry.”

“Where were you anyway? Mars?”

“Just thinking too hard.”

Kim sighed. “About Bobby Harrell, I'll bet.”

She hadn't been, but she said, “Yes.”

“I keep thinking about him, too. It's just such a
shitty
thing.”

The light changed. Amy eased down on the accelerator, paying attention to her driving now. Going slow.

“You hear anything more about his brother?” Kim asked.

“Kevin's out of danger. But still critical.”

“Burned like that, sixty percent of his body … jeez. You think he'll have scars?”

“I don't know.”

“Can they fix burn scars with plastic surgery?”

“It depends on how bad they are.”

“What if they're really gross? What if he ends up looking like Freddy Krueger or something?”

“Kim, for God's sake.”

“Well, it could happen. He was so cute for his age. Better looking than Bobby, even. Jeez.”

Amy didn't say anything.

“How's Mrs. Harrell?” Kim asked.

“Still the same. My mom went to see her yesterday.”

“I'll bet it was a bitch for her.”

“It was.”

“Are you going?”

“Yeah. Up to see Kevin, too, when he can have visitors.”

“I couldn't stand it,” Kimberley said. “I hate hospitals. I mean, they just totally gross me out.”

“They're better than cemeteries.”

“
Anything's
better than cemeteries.”

Amy turned into Kim's street, pulled up in front of her house. Kim said, “You want to hang out later, after you get off work?”

“I don't think so. Not tonight.”

“Well, call me if you change your mind. And take it easy, okay? Driving, I mean. Bobby Harrell dying is, like, awful enough. I don't want to lose my best friend, too.”

If you lose me, Amy thought, it won't be in a car accident. She waved, drove away slowly. Still paying attention to her driving, but she couldn't keep the thoughts from running around again inside her head.

For the hundredth time: He can't be the one.

Not
him
.

It was so hard to imagine any of Mom's male friends, anybody they knew, as a stalker. The whole thing was just totally nuts. But Mom believed it, and after all that had happened, she believed it, too. Crazy things went down all the time. People killed people just to steal their car, or for no reason at all. It could happen to them the same as anybody else. It
was
happening to them.

“Be very careful, Amy,” Mom had warned her. “Promise me that. Until we know who's doing this and why, don't trust anybody. No matter how well you think you know him.”

Not even him. Especially not him, because what if he weren't really attracted to her the way she was to him? What if it were all a trick to win her confidence, get her alone somewhere so he could kill her like he'd killed three people already?

It wasn't. But it could be.

Cool it for now, then. What choice did she have? She didn't want to die. Cool it until they found out who the stalker really was, and then—

Then.

She was downtown now. She turned into Water Street, the narrow alley that bisected the block behind Hallam's Bookshop. There was a little parking area back there for employees; she parked in the space closest to Hallam's back entrance, locked the car, and hurried inside even though there was nobody around in the alley.

Mr. Hallam had her work the front counter until four o'clock. Then UPS brought in several boxes of books, both new and used, and he asked her if she'd mind unpacking them, checking the contents against the packing slips, and shelving the books. She did mind; that was the part of working in a bookstore she disliked, being a box person and stock clerk. But Mr. Hallam didn't like you to argue with him, so she said okay.

She did the used books first. There weren't many of those and they were mostly nonfiction trade paperbacks from a bookseller in the Midwest that Mr. Hallam traded with from time to time. There was a big box from Sunset—new gardening and home improvement books. Easy. She separated them by subject, checked the packing slip, then lifted an armload of titles to take out front.

When she turned around,
he
was standing there in the stockroom doorway, smiling at her.

Seeing him like that, unexpectedly, startled her; her step faltered and she almost dropped the Sunsets. He jumped forward and steadied the load, his fingers brushing her bare arm and wrist. Most of what the contact made her feel was like before, a kind of tingly excitement, but there was something else, too, this time: fear. His touch made her a little afraid.

“Let me help you with those,” he said.

“No, I can manage. You're not supposed to be back here.”

“Well, you weren't in front. I thought this was where I'd find you. Sure I can't help?”

“It's my job,” she said. She tried to smile at him, but the stretching of her mouth felt crooked and thin. “Um … excuse me, okay?”

“Sure,” he said, and stood aside.

She carried the Sunsets out to the gardening section. It was at the rear of the shop, not far from the stockroom; there was nobody else close by, just Mr. Hallam and one customer up by the register. She put the books down on the floor and began to shelve them.

He came up next to her. Not too close, but still close. She could smell his cologne, the musky heat of his body.

“I finished the Talese book,” he said.

“… What?”

“
Thy Neighbor's Wife
. That's why I stopped by—to tell you I finished it last night.”

“Oh.”

“Remember when I bought it? Our plans to find someplace quiet where we can talk?”

“I remember.”

“You haven't changed your mind?”

“Well …”

“It's all right if you have. I'll understand.”

Such a terrific smile, so sweet and sexy. How could there be evil behind it? “No, I haven't changed my mind,” she said without quite meeting his eyes. “It's just … you know, everything that's happened. It isn't a good time.”

His smile vanished; he nodded solemnly. “The Harrells.”