With an Extreme Burning

by Bill Pronzini

  “If that's what it takes, yes!”

  “We're not thugs, Cecca. Besides, she could have us arrested, put in jail—”

  “I don't care about that. At least we'd have his name.”

  “If she really does know it.”

  “She knows. I tell you, she knows—”

  “Who knows what?”

  Owen's voice, startling them both. Owen had come around the corner and was standing there, head cocked quizzically, half smiling at them. Damn you, Owen! she thought fiercely. Are you the one? Is that why you won't leave me alone?

  “Did I interrupt something?” he asked.

  Dix said, “No, we were just chatting.”

  “Sounded pretty intense to me.”

  “It wasn't intense,” Cecca said, “it was just a conversation. Can't I talk to somebody without you butting in?”

  The words stunned him. She saw the hurt reshape his expression and didn't care; for all she knew he was the one. “Hey, I wasn't butting in,” he said. His voice had stiffened a little. “I came looking for you because Beth asked me to. She wants some help in the kitchen.”

  “Tell her I'll be right there.”

  Owen glanced at Dix, gave Cecca a longer, hurt look, and went away without saying anything else.

  Dix said slowly, “Maybe we'd better not stay for dinner. This isn't the place for either of us tonight.”

  “We can't leave now. How would it look to the rest of them?”

  “You go, then. I'll make excuses—”

  “No. We'll both stay. We'll get through this and then we'll go somewhere and talk, make a decision.”

  He nodded. “You'll be okay?”

  “I won't lose it and start hurling accusations, if that's what you mean. You go ahead. I'll be along in a minute.”

  Alone on the path, she stood composing herself. She was on a ragged edge and it wasn't like her. She didn't fall apart in a crisis. Chet … yes, okay, she'd gone through a crumbly period when he walked out, but she'd still held herself and her life together, and come out of the divorce more or less whole. It was that this thing, this madness, was so foreign to anything in her experience. You couldn't adjust to it because it kept changing, shifting, so you couldn't get a grasp on any of it. The not knowing why, the gathering certainty that he was probably a man you knew well and liked and trusted … those were the things that made it so unbalancing.

  But I can handle it, she thought. I am going to handle it. So is Dix. So is Amy. We'll be all right. We will.

  It won't be us who ends up getting burned.

  For a while Dix felt oddly detached, an almost schizoid detachment, as if only part of him were still there in Jerry's backyard. The other part … running around in a cage somewhere, rattling the bars, looking for a way out. Bits and pieces of conversation bounced off his mind without quite registering: food, baseball, taxes, local politics, jokes, old movies versus new movies, a kind of gibberish labeled the power of positive dreaming. He had no appetite, had to force down his first few bites of steak, but when dinner was over he saw with surprise that his plate was empty except for the steakbone and a few bites of pasta salad, as if somebody else had cleaned it for him when he wasn't looking. When Jerry asked him what he thought of the alder and mesquite combination, he said, “Wonderful, just wonderful,” without realizing until minutes later what the question related to.

  Cecca, he noticed, ate almost nothing. Otherwise she seemed to be holding up better than he was, making more of an effort to join in. Trying too hard, but nobody noticed because they were also trying too hard—to recapture the old, easy, relaxed camaraderie of good friends enjoying each other's company. It was not he who was preventing it from happening; it was the specter of Katy. The sudden death of one of the flock was a reminder, consciously or subconsciously, of their own mortality. For all but one of them, maybe.

  They stayed outside after they finished eating and the remains were cleared away. They had more drinks, they talked, they watched the sun sink lower in the west and turn the sky a streaky gold, then a darkening pink. And a slow change came over Dix. The feelings of detachment and fragmentation went away; he grew sharply aware of what was being said and done around him, of what was in his own mind. Tension seemed to seep out of him, leaving a kind of shaky peace—the kind that follows a crisis point reached and overcome. Mr. Mediocrity was no longer looking for a way out.

  The breeze had picked up, turned the coming night as chilly as he had anticipated earlier; they all put on sweaters and jackets. The last of the sunset colors disappeared into smoky gray, and when dusk became dark, the wind sharpened again. Somebody said, “Brr, it's cold out here.” Jerry suggested they go inside, have some coffee, maybe a little dessert. Owen, still nursing his bruised feelings, said he'd pass, he had some film to develop and he'd better get on home. It was like a door being suddenly opened to reveal an escape route: The others made their own excuses as they trooped inside. Within ten minutes, despite Jerry's mild protests, the party was over—hours earlier than it would have been in the old days.

  Dix's car was parked just ahead of Cecca's, so it was natural enough for him to walk her to the door of her station wagon. They were alone there, out of the earshot of any of the others. As she groped in her purse for her keys, he whispered, “You were right. We're not going to sit around and wait for something else to happen. We're going to put an end to it.”

  She looked up at him, her face silver and shadow in the early moonlight.

  “Tomorrow morning we'll go see Louise Kanvitz and find out what she knows. One way or another.”

  THIRTEEN

  It was going to be another beautiful night.

  Eileen went out for her evening walk earlier than usual, right after they got back from Lakeport, leaving Ted and the boys to play Monopoly. This was their last night at the cabin—the end of another vacation, home tomorrow afternoon, school and dental office and hospital and the rest of the familiar grind on Tuesday—and she wanted to savor the sunset, the lake view, the coolness, the solitude.

  She walked along the road toward the Milbank cabin several hundred yards to the east. It was the same route she'd followed every night the past week, had followed nearly every night up here since they'd bought the cabin twelve years ago: past the Milbanks', through the woods and along the water's edge, then up onto the promontory, where she would sit and watch the sky and the water until dusk began to settle. It was a ritual and a tradition. Her life was governed by rituals and traditions, not that she minded; it was comforting to do the same things over and over, year after year, things you enjoyed. Every summer, on their last night at the cabin, they drove into Lake-port and ate raviolis stuffed with cheese and Italian sausage, Oliveri's specialty of the house. Oh, lordy, those raviolis! They were to die for. She'd not only eaten her platter but half of Kevin's. He'd always been a light eater, Kevin, the only one in the family who was. Regressive gene, probably. Well, she and Ted and Bobby made up for him. Did they ever.

  Nobody was home at the Milbanks'. Gone out for Sunday dinner, a later one; not everybody liked to stuff their faces as early as the Harrell clan. Eileen walked on past, entered the thick growth of pines on the footpath that branched off the road. It was cool and darkish in there, with the branches thick-woven overhead. If this were Los Alegres, it would have made her uneasy to be in there alone at this hour; even fat women in their forties had to worry about rape these days. But not here in the country. Very little crime in the Blue Lake area, except for an occasional winter break-in like the one at the Scotts', their neighbors to the west, a couple of years ago. You were safe enough wandering around alone, although she wouldn't have tempted fate by going out walking after dark. Animals prowled at night, even if people didn't.

  She wondered, as she made her way along the path, if Ted would want to make love tonight. She hoped so. That was another ritual: lovemaking on their last night, as long as they were both healthy and not fighting about something. And truth to tell, she was horny again. Must
be the mountain air. Thursday night, the last time they'd had sex, had been very very good. A giggle rose up in her as she remembered its aftermath. In the moments following her orgasm she'd clutched at Ted and whispered, “You're a tiger, you are,” and without missing a beat he'd panted, “What, you think I have a striped pecker?” The image that conjured up had struck her as hysterically funny. In her convulsions she'd almost rolled him off the bed onto the floor. He'd finally had to grab her and muffle her laughter against his chest to keep it from waking Bobby and Kevin. “You want the boys to think their mother's high on laughing gas?” he'd whispered, which only prolonged the spasms.

  The pines thinned near the water and the ground, thick with ferns, rose in a long sweep to the promontory. There was dry grass up there now, but in the spring wildflowers bloomed in a riot of color: purple lupines, golden poppies, dark-red Indian paintbrush. A rocky projection, complete with a worn-smooth section that was just the right size for her broad heinie, provided a natural bench. She sank down on it, sighing, relieved to take the weight off her feet.

  Now that the sun had ridden low in the west, the lake was silver-sheened. Half a dozen skiffs and powerboats moved over the surface, one of the inboards towing a pair of teenage water skiers trying to perform a crossover maneuver. The kids weren't very adept at it: One of them got his tow rope tangled in the other's and both of them went ass-over-teakettle into the boat's wake. Eileen smiled. Kevin and Bobby were much better water skiers. The Milbanks had a Chris-Craft and the boys had been out with them three or four times again this summer. I wish Ted weren't so stubbornly attached to that old outboard of his, she thought. A powerboat would be nice for the boys. Just a small one, with a sun awning in case she decided to go along for the ride. She'd have to talk to Ted about it again before next summer.

  She watched the lower rim of the sun edge closer to the horizon. The sky was already taking on color—mostly different shades of red. That was one of the pleasurable things about sitting out there night after night: Each sunset was different, if only just a little. When she and Ted both retired and could spend the entire summer at the cabin, she'd have to see how many nights it took before there was a sunset rerun. Scores, she'd bet, if not hundreds.

  She thought about Cecca and Dix and Katy. It was creepy to think that someone they all knew had not only been Katy's lover but a sleaze who made scary phone calls. Brrr. Cecca still hadn't had any idea who it was when they'd talked on Thursday evening, but at least there hadn't been any more calls or other surprises … so far. She'd racked her brain and finally remembered, just that morning, the thing that had been bugging her since Monday. It was something Katy had said to her just a few days before she died, something odd about Pelican Bay and a trophy she'd seen. Eileen had tried to get her to elaborate, but she'd closed up like a clam. “I'll let you know if it means what I think it means”—that was the last thing Katy had said about it. In light of what had happened since … well, there just might be a connection. As soon as she remembered, she'd tried to call Cecca and got her machine. And Cecca hadn't called back, or if she had, it was while the Harrell crew was inhaling raviolis in Lakeport. Probably better if they discussed it face-to-face anyway. Tomorrow night, if Cecca was available when they got back to Los Alegres.

  In any case, it was going to be all right. You had to believe that. Whoever the asshole was, he'd be found out and that would be the end of it. Then maybe Cecca and Dix would get together. It would be the best thing in the world for both of them. They'd make a cute couple, too. When you got right down to it, they'd make a cuter couple than Cecca and Chet or Dix and Katy. Funny how things worked out sometimes, for some people. They had to suffer through the worst kind of tragedy in order to find a new and better happiness. That was soap-opera stuff, of course, the same sort that was on All My Children, the day-shift nurses' favorite lunchtime program, but it was the truth nonetheless.

  The sun was already half gone. For a couple of minutes there were wine-red streaks shooting out around it, then they bled away and so did all the other colors as the sun disappeared completely. Then there was nothing left but ashy gray and a thin band of yellow along the horizon. Shadows were gathering along the shoreline and in the patch of woods below. Almost dusk. And time to start back, like it or not.

  Reluctantly Eileen got to her feet, stretched a kink out of her lower back, and picked her way down through the ferns to the footpath. She hurried through the woods, as she always did. There was nothing in any stretch of woods to make her tarry; trees didn't interest her in the least. Reagan had been a crappy president, but she'd never understood why people got so upset at his “Seen one tree, you've seen them all” line. She slowed to a leisurely pace again when she reached the road. More night shadows now, the sky darkening overhead. Dusk. Her second favorite time of day after sunset.

  The Milbanks were home: lights on in their cabin, their car parked in front. She debated stopping long enough to say good-bye, see you next summer, but she didn't do it. Time enough for that in the morning.

  She came around the slight bend in the road to where the lighted windows of their cabin became visible. It was almost dark now. Any second the outside lights—blue and white baby spots that Ted had mounted on the front and side walls—would come on; they were on a timer switch.

  She walked even more slowly, savoring these last few minutes of her outing, the almost-night.

  Out on the lake somewhere, a boat engine made a low, throaty whine. From another direction she heard faint snatches of music from a radio abruptly turned up loud, that rap crap the boys liked. An owl hooted and another one answered it. A mosquito buzzed her ear.

  The night-lights came on, just briefly, almost a flicker—

  And the cabin blew up.

  It just … it … there was a terrific explosion that assaulted her eardrums, caused the roadbed to tremble under her feet … the walls bulged and burst, the roof vanished in a huge spurt of flame and smoke … it was as if a giant house-size match had been struck …

  Ted Kevin Bobby!

  Stunned disbelief gave way to horror; her head seemed to fill and swell with it. Her legs wouldn't work, and then they would, and she was running frantically, into gusting waves of heat that robbed her lungs of air and set her gasping.

  Drops of fire rained down around the raging shell of the cabin, landed on nearby trees and caused them to erupt in flashes of yellow-red. Roiling smoke choked the new darkness. The lake reflected the blaze so that it, too, seemed to be burning.

  Ted what happened

  Bobby Kevin

  Oh my God no

  Someone, she couldn't tell who, materialized ahead of her. Wasn't there, then was … running out of the flames, away from the flames, except that he he

  He was on fire, wearing spines of fire on his back, shoulders, arms, and he was

  Screaming

  No!

  Running, stumbling, falling, getting up, racing toward the lake, trailing fire, and not for a second did he stop screaming.

  She veered toward him on a converging path. The swelling pressure smothered thought, made her head feel loose and enormous, like a balloon at the end of a string.

  He reached the beach before she did, plunged across it, hurled himself into the dark water. Thrashed around wildly, churning the water to froth. The cries stopped and the flames went out with a hiss she could hear above the pulse of the inferno. A cloud of steam rose like a bloody mist, stained crimson by the fireglow.

  She staggered through the rocky sand and into the water, cold, and groped for him, touched his back, hot, hot. He was still moving but feebly now, facedown … drowning. Her hands, strong hands, nurse's hands, caught hold of him and dragged him backward, out of the lake and onto the beach. She sank to her knees beside him, eased him onto his back—

  Kevin

  Her baby Kevin

  His face oh Jesus his poor face

  Raw blistered red and black the hair all burned off

  But still alive breath bubb
ling in his throat

  Kevin

  He whimpered, the same sound he'd uttered in his crib when he was little, and she gathered him into her arms and held him gently, fiercely. The fire hammered and crackled behind her … Ted, Bobby … and a long way off there were people shouting. But it was Kevin she heard. He whimpered again and she began to rock him, to croon to him.

  “Hush baby hush it's all right. Mama's here. Mama's here …”

  The thing in her head, the horror in her head, swelled and swelled—

  And then it burst.

  PART TWO

  Fast Burn

  FOURTEEN

  They said it was a freak accident.

  They said there was no doubt of that.

  They said the cabin had a propane water heater in a small windowless basement area and that the pilot light must have blown out somehow and the safety valve had been defective, allowing the gas to leak out. When that happened, the heavy propane spread out in a trapped layer across the floor. It was the timer mechanism for the exterior night-lights, which was also in the basement—a photoelectric sensor arcing through a relay switch when the timer activated it—that had caused the explosion. Propane was extremely volatile. Once enough of it seeped out, a single tiny spark was all it took for ignition. A tragic accident, the kind that happens now and then when people aren't careful.

  “They're wrong,” Dix said angrily. “Wrong as hell. It wasn't an accident, it was cold-blooded murder.”

  Police Lieutenant Adam St. John was silent. He had a lean, fox face that didn't reveal much of what he was thinking, and an irritatingly phlegmatic manner. He sat rolling an unlit cigarette between his fingers, alternately shifting his gaze between Dix and Cecca, sitting pale and tense beside him. He was trying to quit smoking, he'd told them last week. Toying with the cigarette was his way of easing himself out of the habit.

  At length St. John slid his chair forward, laid the cigarette carefully on his desk blotter. He said, “Lake County has a highly competent team of arson investigators. They spent all morning going through what's left of the cabin, and the head of the team assured me there's been no mistake. It was a propane leak that caused the explosion.”