With an Extreme Burning

by Bill Pronzini

  Amy's little Honda, that her granddad had bought her over Cecca's protests last Christmas, was neither parked out front nor in the driveway. Off somewhere with her friends; she finished work at Hallam's Bookshop at one on Saturdays. Cecca felt a small disappointment. Eileen had psyched her up and she thought she knew now how to approach Amy on the subject of sex, if not the subject of the condoms. You had to walk such a fine line with the girl sometimes. Most of her hostility was gone, but it still flared up now and then, when Amy felt she was being threatened in some way. “If you and Dad had stayed married, it wouldn't be like this.” Insecurity. Distrust. Thank you again, Chet Bracco, you deceitful jerk. At least Amy's hostility had extended to her father as well, and in fact seemed to be lingering there, where it belonged. Cecca couldn't have stood it if she had somehow been twisted around in her daughter's mind so that she became the villain.

  Some leaves were down already, she noticed as she dragged the groceries out. Elm and magnolia both. Still August, hundred-degree temperatures, and the trees were showing fall color and losing leaves. Easterners were wrong about California not having seasons, but there was no getting around the fact that the seasons were erratic.

  It was relatively cool on the porch. She thought she would sit out there for a while and wait for Amy to come home. The porch was her favorite part of the house—a half wraparound that extended to the back on the south side, with rounded pillar supports and intricate filigree work, wide enough for plenty of furniture and plants without crowding. The house, a two-story frame, had been built in 1926, when life was much slower paced and people had time to sit and relax on porches like this. The fact that modern architects wouldn't even think of putting such a porch on a new house was a sad commentary on present-day lifestyles. Houses weren't built to last like this one either. Nearly seventy years old and in sound condition; its succession of owners had treated it well. The people she'd bought it from had painted it four years before, in rich browns and tans, and done the interior with such style and taste that she hadn't had to alter much of it at all. Eight large rooms, two and a half baths, a detached garage … too much house, really, for just Amy and her.

  Just her in another year, she thought. Amy seemed determined to move out next summer, take an apartment with a couple of girlfriends who were also planning to attend UC Berkeley. Eighteen and caught up in the wild Berkeley scene … every small-town mother's nightmare. She wouldn't listen to Cecca's touting of Balboa State. She wanted to be out on her own, she said, and she had the grades to get into UC, and UC's journalism program was so much better than Balboa State's—a point Cecca could hardly argue. Amy wanted to be an investigative reporter, either TV or newspaper/magazine, but preferably TV. She would probably succeed at one level or another; she had the talent and the determination. But she was still so young, prone to letting her emotions rule her common sense. And now this thing with the condoms. Good or bad, wise or foolish—Cecca couldn't decide which.

  There was one message on the answering machine, for Amy. Cecca put the groceries away, drank a glass of ice water, and went upstairs to change into shorts and a thin blouse, no panties or bra. One good thing about having small breasts: When you turned forty, you didn't have to worry about sagging, flopping, rounded shoulders, or the need for sweaty uplift on hot days. Downstairs again, heading for the porch—and the telephone rang.

  Her first thought was that it might be the Agbergs; she'd given them her home as well as her office number. She did a quick about-face, hurried into the kitchen to pick up.

  “Hello? This is Francesca.”

  Silence. A steady, rhythmic breathing.

  Him again.

  How many times now? Five, six? Never said anything, just breathed. Something to be grateful for, that, since twice it had been Amy who answered. But Cecca was not going to tolerate any more of it. The man at the telephone company had told her to buy a big whistle and to put it up close to the mouthpiece and blow on it as hard as she could; sometimes that hurt their eardrums enough to make them think twice about calling again. She opened the drawer under the counter, found the whistle she'd picked up at K-mart, lifted it out.

  “Don't hang up.”

  Male voice, but weirdly distorted, unreal.

  Oh, God, she thought, now it starts. The filth, the profanities. She put the whistle in her mouth, thinking: No, you don't, I won't listen to that, not in my own kitchen.

  But she didn't blow it because when he spoke again it wasn't sexual obscenities she heard. It was something worse—something much more chilling.

  “Do you know where Amy is, Francesca?” he said. “Do you have any idea what's happening to that little bitch of yours this very minute?”

  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, li
mited 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 se
em 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.