With an Extreme Burning (34 page)

“I won't try to run.”

When he opened the door, she took her time unkinking her body. He stood back a few paces, his hand on the gun in his belt. No, she wouldn't try to run. Even if he didn't shoot her, he could probably chase her down; he wasn't that old and he was in such good shape. Stay cool, she told herself. There'll be a time when he forgets to be careful.

He made her climb the outside stairs ahead of him, one hand on her arm. His touch was no longer silky or electric; it made her skin crawl. The wind was chilly on her face, sharp with the salt tang of the ocean. It would be cold later, when the sun—already falling and starting to turn red around the edges—dropped below the horizon. How long would he keep her here? All night? She'd have to try to find out about that right away.

On the narrow landing at the top she said, “How are we going to get in?”

“With the key your father gave you.” He jangled her key ring, then held it out to her. “One of these. Find the right one and use it.”

As soon as she had the door open, he took the key ring back and put it into his pants pocket. The right-hand pocket. When they were both inside, he turned the deadbolt lock, put the chain on. The only other ways out were off the balcony or through one of the windows. He knows that, too, Amy thought. He knows everything about the Dunes.

The big front room smelled of sea-damp and old smoke from the cigarettes Megan sucked on constantly and the joints she and Dad smoked when they were alone. It was a mess, too. Papers and crap on the floor, tables littered with dirty glasses and ashtrays, even a plate with sandwich crumbs on it. If she hadn't known better, she'd think kids or homeless people had gotten in despite regular patrols by the county sheriff and the park rangers. But it was just that Dad was sloppy and Megan and that dickhead son of hers were total slobs.

He didn't seem to notice. He'd pulled the drapes open over the sliding door to the balcony, letting sunlight pour in, and he was peering out with that little smile on his mouth again. Admiring the view. “You can see for miles from up here,” he said. “All the way from the lighthouse to Irish Beach. Come take a look, Amy.”

“I've seen it before. I still have to go to the bathroom.” It wasn't a lie this time. She really did have to pee now.

“All right. Go ahead.”

For a couple of seconds she thought he was going to make the mistake of letting her go by herself. But no, he followed her down the hall. And when she went into the tiny bathroom he stood leaning against the wall right outside.

“Leave the door open,” he said. “And come right out again when you're done.”

“Are you going to watch me?”

“I wouldn't do that. I'll look away.”

Useless to argue with him. She moved to the toilet, made sure he wasn't looking before she hiked up her skirt and slid her panties down. But she had trouble going with him out there, even if he wasn't watching. The embarrassment of it made her hate him even more.

She didn't come right out afterward. She stepped over to the sink, and when he didn't object, she washed her hands, taking her time, thinking that there might be something in the medicine cabinet she could use as a weapon, a packet of Dad's razor blades or something. Could she reach up and open it without him seeing? No. Shit. The bathroom was too small and she could see him in the mirror, which meant that he could see her, too. And his eyes were on her again.

Back in the living room she said, “It's cold in here. There's plenty of wood—I could make a fire.”

“No, no fire.”

“We'll freeze once the sun goes down.”

“Isn't there some kind of heater?”

“There's a space heater, but it's old and it doesn't work too well. We always just make a fire.”

“Well, we'll just have to find other ways of keeping warm.”

Oh-oh, she thought. “How long are we going to be here?”

“A while,” he said.

“All night?”

“A while. Several hours at least.”

“Doing what all that time?”

“Getting to know each other better,” he said. “Isn't that what we talked about, Amy? What we planned?”

A little fear wiggled back into her. But mostly what she felt was determination. And the hate, like a wad of something in her throat, choking her. “When do you want to start? Now or later?”

“There's no point in waiting.”

“Whatever you want.” In her mind were pictures of things she would do to his private parts, if she just had the chance. She could endure anything for that chance. “You won't have to rape me,” she said, and began to unbutton her blouse.

They were in the rented car again, moving through the wet afternoon toward Highway 101. Freezing in there after the warmth of Martin Delaney's house; Cecca reached out automatically to turn the heater up. It was already on as high as it would go. She pressed her hands between her thighs.

“Jerry,” she said. “My God.”

“You didn't look surprised when Delaney described him.”

“No. I thought at the library it had to be Jerry.”

Dix nodded and said bitterly, “Mr. Congeniality. The guy who'd do anything for you, give you the shirt off his back. All an act contrived to win our friendship and trust.”

“I can't imagine a mind that could conceive of such a … a hideous revenge.”

“I can, at least up to a point. What I can't imagine is that much hate. He killed someone I loved—in cold blood, not by accident—but I don't hate him nearly as much as he must hate us. Do you?”

“No,” she said, “not that much.”

“Ironic as hell, isn't it? Before the accident, he wasn't much different from you, me, any of us—a more or less normal person with a family, a job, an average middle-class life. It was the hate that pushed him over the edge.”

“But the accident was
his
fault.”

“Transference,” Dix said. “If he'd accepted culpability, he'd have been a monster in his own eyes. He couldn't bear that. So he made you three the monsters instead.”

“How could he live so close to us for so long and never let any of it show?”

“Force of will. Four years is a long time to us, but not to a man like him. His family was his whole life; without them he has nothing left except revenge. Just killing each of you wasn't enough for him. It would've been over too fast and then he'd have no more reason to live. He had to savor his revenge, make it last. Get to know you first, get as close to you as he could. Katy was the driver that night, Katy was his primary target. He set out to seduce her and he probably didn't care how long it took. You can't get any closer to a woman than inside her body.”

I almost let him inside my body, too, Cecca thought. Came nearer than I ever want to admit.

Dix said, “Hard to tell if he murdered Katy on some sort of timetable or if something happened—the trophy business, maybe—to make him do it before he wanted to. Once he committed himself, though, he was driven to go after the rest of us.”

“Our families … we took his, he'd take ours.”

“ ‘One's pain is lessen'd by another's anguish.’ Yeah, that was part of his plan all along.”

“But why go after you once Katy was gone?”

“Maybe he meant to kill me first, and blames me because he couldn't do it that way. Or his hate for Katy was so great, it included me: guilt by association. Or he'd decided all family members have to die no matter what. One thing I'm fairly sure of: Ted and his sons were the targets at Blue Lake, not Eileen. He knew about her evening walks, counted on her being away from the cabin when the timer set off the propane. The whole idea was for her to see her family destroyed by explosion and fire, as his was.”

“Sick, so sick …”

“He had it all planned like that, in detail. To him it must all make perfect sense, fit some kind of pattern of retribution. His mind has to be deteriorating though. The things he's done since Katy have been progressively more bizarre and disconnected.”

Cecca watched the rain slant against the side window. After a time she said, “He must have loved his own children. How could he justify harming Bobby, Kevin, Amy? Innocent young lives.”

“They're not innocent young lives to him. None of us is even human to him anymore, if we ever were. This is a grim analogy, but I'll bet it's reasonably accurate: In his mind we're like germs, the source of all his torment. You don't look at germs as individuals. Don't think twice about killing germs that have infected you.”

“Germs,” she said.

“Prevalent psychology today. Gang wars, freeway shootings, mass murders … the ones who commit those atrocities are exterminators of objects, bugs, germs, not people. Get in their way, hurt them somehow, and they feel they have every right to destroy you.”

Again Cecca watched the rain form its teardrop patterns on the window glass. “It makes me feel so damned helpless,” she said. “The idea of a man none of us ever met or saw, a man we barely knew existed, plotting our deaths from hundreds of miles away—and then moving to our town, making friends with us and a whole new life for himself just so he could destroy us from within. If that kind of thing can happen …”

“I know,” Dix said.

An uneasy silence built between them. Hiss of tires, clacking of the wipers, rush of wind and water as trucks and cars passed—all external sounds. Then Cecca realized they were approaching a town. A roadside sign materialized through the misty rain: Neskowin.

She sat up. “Where are we going?”

“Back to Portland. We ought to be able to make the five o'clock flight to SFO.”

“We should've stopped in Pelican Bay,” she said. “We'd better stop here.”

“What for?”

“To call St. John.”

“You think he'd listen? Act without proof? All we have to give him are sketchy facts and supposition. We can't even prove to him quickly that Jerry Whittington and Gordon Cotter are the same man, and even if we could, there's no evidence to link Jerry with Katy's death, the explosion—any of it.”

“There has to be something at his house.”

“Yes, but St. John can't get at it without a search warrant. And he can't get a search warrant without probable cause.”

“He could
talk
to Jerry, couldn't he? Let him know we're on to him. And least that might stop him from doing anything else.”

“Would it? I don't think so,” Dix said. “I think it would have the opposite effect. He doesn't care what happens to him, Cecca. His whole focus is revenge—finishing what he started.”

“… You want to go after him yourself, don't you?”

“I don't
want
to, no. I don't see any other choice.”

“Use that gun you bought? Shoot him down like a dog?”

“No. My God, I'm not a murderer.”

“Do what, then?”

“Force him to admit the truth, get it down on tape. It won't be admissible in court, but it'll damned well get St. John's attention. Then search his house for evidence and make a citizen's arrest. There'll be legal repercussions, but I don't care about that now. All I care about is saving our lives.”

“If you're right about his mental state, he won't let you search his house or arrest him. He'll make you use the gun, he'll make you kill him.”

“I won't let that happen.”

“You may not have a choice.” She was thinking about yesterday afternoon, Elliot Messner, the pitchfork. How close she'd come to an act of deadly violence herself—a sudden step, a menacing gesture, was all it would have taken. And how she'd felt afterward.

“Cecca? You know there's no other way.”

“If you use that gun,” she said, “no matter what the reason, you and I will suffer for it—and I don't just mean legally. We'll suffer and Gordon Cotter will have his revenge on both of us, too. He'll have won.”

“How can you say that? We'll be alive, won't we? Safe?”

“He'll have won,” she said.

“
Rape
you? Lord, Amy, is that what you think?”

“Well? You want to fuck me, don't you.”

He winced. “No. Not like this.”

“But you said we should get to know each other better …”

“I didn't mean that way.”

“I don't … what did you mean?”

“For us to talk. About you, things that matter to you.”

“You never wanted to have sex with me?”

“Yes, I did. Very much. But that was before, when it was part of the equation. It would have been right then. It isn't right now. It's too late. It wouldn't have any meaning.”

“I don't understand …”

“I know you don't. It's all right. Button up your blouse and we'll talk. Go on, button your blouse.”

She buttoned it. She was confused, relieved, frustrated, all at the same time. Confused because she didn't know where he was coming from, he was so crazy and weird; relieved because he didn't want her body after all; frustrated because as much as she would have hated having him inside her, she could have hurt him—oh, could she have hurt him!—and then gotten away.

“Let's go out on the balcony,” he said.

“Why?”

“I like to look at the ocean, smell the sea air. Don't you?”