With an Extreme Burning

be—”

“No, Cecca.”

“He could be after us, too. You, me, Amy.”

“That's what I meant by letting imagination—”

“But why us? Why would anybody want to hurt us?”

“We don't know that anybody does.”

“Those calls, the things he said—”

“—Could be nothing more than a sick game. There are all kinds of psychoses. He doesn't have to be violent.”

“Katy … the earrings …”

“He knew her, he got them from her—all right. But her death is still an accident as far as we know. The highway patrol, the county sheriff, were satisfied of that; we have to be, too. Dammit, I could kick myself for opening up this can of worms.”

“What're you saying? Just forget it?”

“That part of it, yes.”

Inside her now was a visceral sense of something unseen and terrible lying in wait for her—the kind of nameless terror she'd had as a little girl. Bogeyman in the closet, monster under the stairs. “I don't know if I can,” she said.

“You have to. We both have to. Wild speculations aren't doing either of us any good.”

“We can't just sit back and pretend none of this is happening.”

“I know that. We need to focus on identifying the tormentor, putting a stop to his damn games.”

“Tormentor,” she said. “That's the right name for him.”

Dix said, “Options. All right, we can go to the telephone company. They can trace one of his calls if they're set up for it and he stays on the line long enough. But I don't think that would work. He's too smart to fall into that kind of trap. Chances are, he makes his damn calls from a public phone anyway.”

“The police?”

“I doubt if there's much they can do without some idea of who he is. We'll have to try to find that out ourselves.”

“Us? How?”

“I've got some ideas. Are you willing?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“I don't see one for either of us. Except a stopgap measure: have our home phone numbers changed.”

“What good will that do? He could still call me at the office. Besides, a third of my business calls come to me at home. A realtor can't afford an unlisted number.”

“I see your point. But I'm still going to have mine changed. If nothing else, it may help narrow the field a little.”

“I don't understand. Narrow the field?”

“If he gets hold of the new unlisted number, keeps calling, it'll tell us he's someone we know.”

“Someone we know,” Cecca said.

“Not a friend—a casual acquaintance, a clerk or gas station attendant, somebody who took a disliking to us for some reason.”

“How would a clerk or a gas station attendant get your new unlisted number?”

Dix made no reply.

“It would have to be somebody we know fairly well in that case, wouldn't it?”

“Not necessarily.”

“But probably. And I don't want to believe that anymore than I want to believe Katy's death wasn't an accident.”

An afternoon breeze had come up; Cecca could feel it wafting in through the open balcony doors, carrying the scents of pine and dry grass. Outside the windows, a hawk wheeled down and sat fluffing its wings on the electrical wires strung from the house to the pole on Rosemont. From one of the neighboring yards she heard the shrieks and laughter of children in the midst of a swim party. Normal Sunday afternoon in late summer. Small town, small-town life: familiar, comfortable. Nonthreatening. Safe. The conversation they'd just had, the revelations that had made it necessary, seemed unreal … no, surreal, like a scene in a murky avant-garde play.

How can this be happening? she thought. I don't understand how a thing like this can happen to us.

She said abruptly, “I'd like that drink now.”

“I can use one, too. Bourbon, Scotch, gin, vodka?”

“Scotch. A double, on the rocks.”

He let go of her hand—she was surprised to discover that he'd still been holding it—and stood and went into the kitchen. She sat there staring out at the valley. Then, slowly, her head moved and her gaze shifted until she was looking again at Katy's “Blue Time” painting.

Facade, she thought, little snippets of the real Katy Mallory. What had lain behind the facade, what did the little snippets mean? Smile, wink—that's for you to figure out, sweetie.

I thought I had. I thought I knew her pretty well.

Maybe I didn't know her at all.

And what if Katy weren't the only one in Los Alegres she thought she knew well who was hiding behind a facade? Darkness concealed by a smile. Evil covered by a mask of normalcy. But no facade is perfect; that was one of the first lessons you learned in the real estate business. There are always little flaws, little indications of what lies hidden, if you look for them closely enough. The naked truth is there to be figured out, sweetie, if you can stand to face it. It's all there behind the facade.

SEVEN

It was cool and shady on the cabin's enclosed sun porch. Cool and shady most of the day, a fact that had always amused Eileen. A sun porch was supposed to be sunny, right? Or else it would be called a shade porch. But the angle at which the cabin had been built, the thick growth of pine and redbud that flanked it down to the water's edge, kept the sun's rays from hitting the windows there until late afternoon. This was one of the things she'd always loved about the cabin, coming up to the lake. She could sit here most of the day in perfect lazy comfort if she felt like it—and she often did. She had no use for direct sunlight; she burned easily, she had a light sensitivity that affected her vision, and she began to sweat like a pig as soon as the temperature climbed above eighty. Early evening was her time to stir her stumps. And the hour before sundown was the best time of all. Cool then, with the night sounds just starting, the lake changing color under a sky that darkened slowly into a velvety black … oh, yes.

From where she was sitting in the big rattan easy chair next to the window, she had a clear view of the lake and the stubby pier directly below. Bobby and Kevin were in the water just off the forward edge of the pier, playing some kind of game with a beach ball. The noise they were making drifted up to her, brought a smile to her mouth. Teenagers. So damn much energy. She'd gone for a quick swim herself earlier, or, rather, a dunking because it had lasted for all of thirty seconds. The lake was just too cold in the morning. Maybe she'd go in again before her evening walk; the water would be warm then from the day's drippy heat. But probably she wouldn't. Swimming was too much like work. Let the boys exercise all they wanted. Ted, too. A leisurely sunset stroll—and a good-night screw if she and Ted were both in the mood—was more than enough physical exertion for her. Vacation days, as far as she was concerned, were for reading the new Danielle Steel, stuffing herself until she got sleepy, and then going in and taking a nap. With minor variations over seven glorious days.

She snagged the last of the English muffin with cream cheese from the plate beside her, popped it into her mouth. Her gaze fell on her thighs as she chewed. White and chubby; the fat cells rippled when she moved, like little winking eyes. I really ought to go on a diet, she thought. She knew she was only kidding herself. Diets were a torment, and she was not into self-abuse these days. Besides, she was forty-one and entitled to be middle-aged pudgy, and Ted liked her just the way she was. “Lying on you is like lying on a cloud,” he'd said a couple of months ago after they'd finished making love. She'd thought he was being smart-ass and smacked him one, but he'd been serious. Men. Alien creatures. Not that she'd trade her three, not for any amount of