With an Extreme Burning

by Bill Pronzini

  She was still woozy and she couldn't think clearly. And the whole lower left side of her face felt as if it were on fire. She could hardly move her jaw. Broken? As hard as he must have hit her, it might be. She couldn't remember the blow or anything until she'd woken up in the car. He must have carried her all the way in from the dunes.

  He was saying something, but not to her. Babbling to himself again. Hunched over the wheel, hair all wind-tangled, eyes not blinking—throwing up words into the light-spattered dark.

  “How could they have found us? Showing up like that, spoiling, spoiling, always spoiling. Damn their souls! Too late to burn them now. Too late. Only one thing left to do. Cheryl, I'm sorry. Donnie, Angie, I'm so sorry. I should have done a better job of it, I shouldn't have waited so long …”

  They were going so fast now, the night was a blur around them. As fast as the Honda would go; it shimmied and groaned and rattled, as if it were getting ready to fly apart at the seams. The road had been string-straight, but now it was starting to wind a little again.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “O God, forgive me.”

  Turn coming up—sharp right-hand turn. Beyond where the road bent, Amy could see the ocean shining a silvery black in the distance. And closer in, a narrow parking area with a guardrail along its outer border. Guardrail … dropoff, cliff …

  “ ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me …’ ”

  Chills chased each other along her back. She tried to yell No! at him, but her jaw hurt so much she couldn't form the word. She clawed at him, clawed at the wheel; couldn't break his grip. It was as if his fingers had fused with the wheel's hard composition plastic.

  “ ‘He leadeth me beside still waters. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures …’ ”

  And they were off the road, rumbling over the rough surface of the parking area. Amy's head cracked into the window glass. Instinctively she clutched at the dash, at the hand-bar again, to hold her body in place.

  The white horizontal lines of the guardrail rushed at them.

  Heaving impact. And then they were airborne.

  As soon as Dix saw the Honda careen off the road, he knew it was deliberate: no skidding, no flash of taillights. The mad final act he'd been dreading. He jammed his foot down harder on the accelerator—but it was a reflex action, nothing more. They were still three hundred yards behind the Honda when it crashed through the guardrail.

  “Amy!”

  Cecca's anguished cry sawed at his nerves. A hundred yards from the turnout he began to pump the brakes, but they were still going a little too fast when the Buick came off the road onto the gravel. The front end tried to break loose into a skid. He fought the wheel, maneuvered the car under control and to a rocking stop halfway across. Cecca was already out and running by the time he yanked at the hand brake.

  He expected to hear crash sounds or their afterechoes; he expected to see a burst of flame and smoke from below the rim. He heard and saw neither. Far-off clatterings, that was all. Cecca reached the splintered guardrail first, half turned as he came up and gestured frantically, shouting something that the sea wind shredded. He looked past her—and the despair in him gave way under a rush of hope.

  The ground below the turnout, rocky and covered with thick grass and gorse bushes and scrub pine, fell away in a long, gradual slope—nearly a hundred square yards of it—before the land sliced off in a vertical drop to the ocean. The Honda was still on the slope, its erratic downhill path marked by dislodged rocks and torn-up vegetation that had slowed its momentum. What had finally stopped and held it was a pair of boulder-size outcroppings near the cliff's edge. It was canted up on its side, the two upthrust tires spinning like pinwheels in the wind, lodged in a notch between the outcrops. There was enough moonlight for Dix to make out that the sides and front end were caved in but that the top was uncrushed. The car had somehow managed to stay upright after it landed. If it had flipped and rolled, there would be little chance that Amy was alive down there. As it was …

  Cecca said something else that the wind tore away, jumped down onto the slope. He was right behind her, then moving past her. The angle of descent wasn't steep enough to require handholds to maintain his footing, and he could see well enough to avoid obstacles in his path. The thing that impeded his and Cecca's progress was the wind. It was strong here with nothing to deflect it, gusting straight into their faces, the force of it like hands trying to push them back. It numbed him, filled his ears with moans and shrieks and the sullen wash-and-thunder of the surf below the cliff. The nearer he got to the edge, the harder he had to struggle through the heaving blow.

  When he finally reached the Honda he saw that it wasn't anchored as solidly between the outcrops as it had looked from above. The wind had it and was shaking it like a dog with a toy. The passenger side was the one tilted skyward, at little more than a fifteen-degree angle. He was able to look through the spiderwebbed window glass without much of a stretch.

  The interior was thick-shadowed: the crash and slide had knocked out the car's electrical system. He thought he detected movement, but he couldn't be sure. The cracked glass distorted the shapes inside.

  Cecca crowded in next to him as he tugged at the door handle, added her strength to his. At first the door wouldn't budge. It was badly dented and he was afraid it was frozen shut. Together they wrenched and pulled at it, the wind burning Dix's eyes, watering them so he was nearly blind. The door gave a little, a little more, and then the latch tore free and they were able to wedge it open. She held it as he wiped his eyes clear, leaned in to feel for Amy in the darkness.

  She was twisted down against the driver's seat, half on top of her abductor. Jerry wasn't moving, but she was, struggling feebly to free herself.

  Dix grasped her arm. She stiffened, crying out in pain when he tugged on it. He could feel the car quivering under and around him as the wind gusted; he couldn't afford to be gentle. He slid his other hand under her armpit, then braced himself and lifted her. The strain on his arms almost broke his grip, would have if she hadn't been able to help by pushing upward with her feet. Another few seconds and he had her out, safely cradled in his arms.

  With Cecca's help he carried Amy upslope, shielding her with his body. The blow at their backs made the climb up easier than the one going down. Still, Amy's weight and the uneven ground surface had his legs trembling by the time they reached the Buick.

  It was the only car there. And they were the only people. Highway One stretched black and empty in both directions. As late as it was, nobody had driven along this lonely section in the past few minutes; or if anybody had, they'd either failed to notice what had happened or ignored it. He thought sardonically: Still nobody to help us but ourselves.

  He laid Amy gently on the backseat. She was conscious and she seemed alert. Black streaks of blood, a swollen and discolored mouth and jaw, made a Halloween mask of her face. None of her limbs seemed to be broken or dislocated. He stood aside to let Cecca get in and minister to her, question her. There was a blanket in the trunk; he went and got it, shook it out, reached in to drape it over the girl's body.

  He asked tersely, “Internal injuries?”

  “No, thank God,” Cecca said. “Glass cuts … and I think her jaw is broken.”

  “Nothing more serious?”

  “Doesn't look like it.”

  Urgent to get her medical attention, but not so urgent that a few more minutes would be crucial. He said, “Make her as comfortable as you can. I'm going back down to get Jerry.”

  “Get him? Dear God, you're not going to—?”

  “Don't worry. I won't be long.”

  “Just leave him in the car!”

  “I can't.”

  The wind had pushed the Honda over a little, so that its two tilted-up tires almost touched the ground. When it was upright again, it would be free of the notch and then it would slide or be wind-prodded over the edge. The passen
ger door had blown shut; he popped it open, managed to jam it back on its sprung hinges. He leaned in. Jerry Gordon Whittington Cotter was a still-unmoving mass in the driver's seat, the seat belt buckled across his middle. Dix fumbled with the buckle release, then took fingerholds on clothing slick with blood and hauled him up across the passenger seat. When he had Jerry's inert weight on the ground, he half carried and half dragged him a short way upslope. He was exhausted by then. All the muscles in his body seemed to be vibrating with fatigue.

  He lowered himself to one knee long enough to cleanse his hands on a tuft of grass, then to put fingers to Jerry's neck. Faint irregular pulse. All right.

  Dix stood. One more thing to do before he climbed up to Cecca and Amy. He took the Beretta from his pocket, hefted it on his palm as he looked down at Jerry. And then he hurled it into the teeth of the wind, with just enough strength to get it out over the cliffs edge.

  He had learned a lesson tonight. One of those hard lessons that ought to be easy but seldom are.

  Guns and revenge were the tools of mediocre men.

  And Dix Mallory didn't have to be mediocre anymore.

  EPILOGUE

  Ashes

  Dix sat on the terrace alongside the pool, the sun hot on his bare chest and legs, his head and shoulders shaded by the beach umbrella canted next to his chair. It was a warm day, the temperature in the high seventies—the probable final day of a brief Indian summer. Unseasonable weather for early October, and the reason he hadn't kept to his usual schedule of shutting the pool equipment down on the first of the month. Might as well get the last bit of use out of it before fall took a firmer grip. The forecasters had promised fog tonight, cooler temperatures tomorrow, and a slight chance of showers by Monday night.

  Cecca had gone into the house to use the bathroom. Amy was in the pool swimming laps. He felt drowsy sitting there alone in the quiet. Almost relaxed for the first time in a long while. Birds cluttering, the faint sounds Amy made as she stroked back and forth, the faraway pulse of Los Alegres—horns, car engines, kids' voices—filtering up from below. There was a sense of peace in his surroundings, at least, if little enough in him.

  He watched Amy swimming. She was graceful in the water, long arms and legs making very little splash. Her underwater turns were particularly smooth. He was a good swimmer himself, but that kind of turn was something he'd never been able to master. Maybe he could still learn. A minor project for next summer.

  If he was still here next summer.

  The sun had gotten under the lip of the umbrella and was toasting his chin. The skin on his belly and legs was hot, too. He moved his chair back beyond the umbrella, into the dappled shade under one of the liquidambar trees. Better. Direct sunlight was supposed to be bad for you anyway: skin cancer from the UV rays. His mouth quirked wryly. A lot of things were supposed to be bad for you these days. Most foods, many activities, the water you drank, the air you breathed, the sun that warmed you. But nothing could be worse for you … nothing … than your fellow man.

  Amy had finished her laps and was at the side ladder near where he sat. When she climbed out he asked her, “How many did you do?”

  “Fifty.”

  “I'm impressed. It took me weeks to get up to fifty.”

  “Well,” she said seriously, “I'm younger than you are.”

  Physically, anyway, he thought. She'd done a lot of growing up in the past several weeks. Cecca: “Amy used to think she was mature for her age, already an adult. Now she really is.” She'd paid a hell of a price for her maturity, though. Was still paying it. Under the harsh sun, as she stood drying off, he could see the tiny scars on her face where flying glass had cut her. Most would fade in time; one or two might remain as outward reminders of what she'd been through. At least she hadn't had to suffer through the lengthy, wired-up healing process of a fractured jaw. Hers had been bruised and dislocated, not broken, that night four weeks ago today.

  A great deal had happened in those four weeks, much of it unpleasant. The suffering hadn't ended on the Mendocino coast; only the cause of it had been neutralized. It wouldn't be over for anybody involved for a long time to come. And for some, it would never be over.

  Jerry Gordon Whittington Cotter. Survived his second cliffside smashup in about the same condition as he had the first; was still hospitalized in the prison ward at Santa Rosa Memorial with half a dozen broken bones, a punctured lung, other injuries. As a precaution he'd been put on antipsychotic medication, even though he'd exhibited no outward leanings toward violence. During his lucid periods he continually begged for forgiveness—from his wife, his children, his God. But not from his victims. A small but vocal segment of the media conveniently overlooked this, portraying him as a pathetic figure, a victim even more tragic than those he had hurt and killed.

  Eileen. Out of the hospital now, being cared for by her brother in Fairfax. Slowly coming to terms with her loss. But she would never be completely whole again. How could she, with her husband and one of her sons dead, and her other son facing years, perhaps a lifetime, of skin grafts and plastic surgery?

  Cecca and himself. Under official siege for the laws they'd broken, charged with willful obstruction of justice and illegal trespass. That much was tolerable, if just barely. You were responsible for your actions, right or wrong, and you had to be willing to accept the consequences. Even when you held on to the conviction that you'd been justified in all you'd done. Even when you knew you'd do most of the same things, if not in precisely the same way, if you had to live through it all again.

  What wasn't tolerable was punishment for being victims. Official or otherwise. From strangers like the county district attorney and the media people who made allowances for Cotter. And most galling of all, from those you considered to be your friends …

  Cecca was on her way back from the house. He smiled at her as she dragged her chair over beside him and sat down. “You were in there a long time,” he said. “I was beginning to worry.”

  “There was a call. I thought I'd better answer it.”

  “Let me guess. Drummond.”

  “The very same.”

  “What now?”

  “He wants to go over a few more things with us.”

  “Today? Can't it wait until Monday?”

  “He insisted. The hearing date is close and he wants our case to be tightly scripted. That was the phrase he used—‘tightly scripted.’ ”

  “Christ. What did you tell him?”

  “That we'd have dinner with him tonight.”

  “In Santa Rosa?”

  “Brookside Park. Scannell's. Do you mind?”

  “I guess not. Necessary evil.”

  Michael Drummond was their lawyer. From Santa Rosa, and a good one—up to a point. He believed in them, and that the charges were an unreasonable—“unconscionable” was the word he liked to use—political backlash, the product of an upstaged Los Alegres Police Department and the county D.A.'s overzealousness in trying to make an example of them as a deterrent to the concept of “vigilante justice.” Drummond hadn't been able to get the charges dropped, but he was confident that there wasn't a jury that would convict under the circumstances. The problem was, he was as big a publicity hound as the D.A., with political axes of his own to grind, and over their protests he insisted on fighting the case in the media. Currying public favor was smart strategy, he claimed. Dix had twice come close to firing him. But where were they going to find a better lawyer at this late date, and at an equally affordable fee?

  When the charges were first brought, he'd asked George Flores to represent them. George had hemmed and hawed and finally declined, on the grounds that he was too close to the principals and might not be able to provide adequate counsel. Which was bullshit. The truth was, George felt uncomfortable with the whole sorry business. He wanted to forget it had ever happened, that he'd walked arm in arm for four years with a homicidal lunatic. And to do that he had to disassociate himself from the lunatic's primary victims.

>   George wasn't alone.

  Laura, Tom and Beth, Sid and Helen … all cut from the same cloth, all scrambling to avoid the taint of evil. Solicitous at first, then backing away as more facts came out and the publicity heated up, and now mostly invisible. Using the excuse that they felt betrayed—Dix had made the mistake of admitting that he and Cecca had been suspicious of all their male friends—when in fact they were the betrayers. Owen, at least, was honest enough to have shunned them all along: too hurt by Cecca's relationship with Dix to make even a pretense of caring. Friends for years, these people, some for nearly a lifetime, all of whom he'd forgiven time and again for their sins and shortcomings—and one by one they'd gone away.

  It was the same sort of thing elsewhere in the community. When Amy returned to school, she'd found herself a social misfit; even her best friend, Kimberley, had begun to avoid her. At Better Lands, Tom had taken to giving newer agents listings that should have gone to Cecca. She wouldn't be surprised, she said, if he found an excuse to fire her before long. At the university, the president and the dean of faculty affairs had been supportive in the beginning, before the criminal charges were pressed; now Dix sensed that if he were convicted, he might well be asked to resign—or at least to relinquish his tenure—in the best interest of the state university system. He could fight that with Drummond or an ACLU attorney, and he'd probably win, but it would be a hollow victory.

  At the university, too, he had been treated like a freak in a sideshow: stares, whispers, avoidances, even a few tactless and infuriating questions. The one time he'd encountered Charles Czernecki, the smug little bastard had laughed in his face. Elliot, embarrassed and self-protective—Cecca had told Dix about the episode at the Andersen farm—would have nothing to do with him, communicating on faculty business through memos. If he were squeezed out, Elliot would be relieved. Might even go so far as to actively lobby for his dismissal. For all of these reasons he'd considered resigning immediately, to make sure he kept his tenure, and then finding a position at another school. But he wouldn't do it any more than he would sell his house and voluntarily leave Los Alegres. It would be running away, and he was all through running—from people, things, phantoms, and himself.