With an Extreme Burning

Dry-mouthed, she said, “Maybe. Sometime.”

“Whenever you say. But not too long?”

“Not too long.”

“And it'll be our secret until then.”

She nodded, thinking: Please don't let him be the one.

He smiled at her again, that incredible sexy smile. But he didn't touch her, and that was good because she might have weakened if he had, she might have done something not very smart. He said, “Be good, Amy,” and left her alone.

She trudged back to the storeroom. She'd always been so sure of herself, of what she wanted in her life; confident that the decisions she was making about college, career, love, and sex were the right ones for her. Mature beyond her years. A woman at seventeen. But now … now all of a sudden she was confused and uncertain. Everything had been turned upside down; her choices were no longer simple or clearly defined. And worst of all, she had begun to feel like the dorky little kid she'd once been, the kid who'd been afraid to sleep alone in the dark. She hated that. She hated being small and helpless and frightened. She hated not being an adult.

The gun, which Dix had accepted wrapped and bound and therefore sight unseen from Czernecki in exchange for one hundred dollars cash, turned out to be a small, flat .25-caliber Beretta five-shot automatic. It was no larger than Dix's hand; if his fingers had been any thicker, he would not have been able to slide his index finger through the trigger guard.

A woman's weapon. The kind a woman could carry comfortably in her purse, shoot with not much recoil and reasonable accuracy at close range.

Czernecki's little joke.

Dix waited until he got home to unwrap the package, and by then it was too late. Too late, probably, even if he'd insisted on examining the gun in Czernecki's office. The little bastard might have let him have his money back, but he wouldn't sell him another, larger caliber weapon. A one-shot deal—almost literally. If Czernecki was into lousy puns as well as slick irony, he was laughing his head off right this minute.

Dix should have been angry, but he wasn't. His only emotion was a kind of dark, weary determination. Make do with what he had, do what had to be done. There was nothing to be gained in wasting his rage on anyone but the tormentor.

The Beretta's clip was fully loaded. Czernecki had provided one spare clip, also maximum full. Dix checked the action, then field-stripped the piece. The barrel was clean and all the parts were oiled and seemed to work smoothly. Well, why shouldn't they? One thing you could say about gun nuts: They took pride in their firearms, kept them in perfect condition, and wouldn't dream of turning one over to somebody else unless it functioned properly.

He'd hung his gabardine sport jacket in the closet; he put the reassembled Beretta into the right side pocket. It was so small and lightweight that it made no discernible bulge, didn't even alter the hang of the jacket. Then he took the package wrappings into the kitchen, wadded them into the garbage bag. It was just four-thirty when he was done. Louise Kanvitz, according to her ad in the Los Alegres telephone book, closed Bright Winds Gallery at five o'clock. She lived out on Buckram Street, beyond the cemetery—less than a fifteen-minute drive from the Mill, even in traffic. If he left here at five-fifteen he'd be at her house by five-thirty. That ought to be just about right.

He considered calling Cecca, telling her what he intended to do. No, better not. She'd want to go along, and if there was trouble over this—and there probably would be—he deserved to bear the full brunt of it. She had enough grief as it was. Just Kanvitz and him … and the Beretta. And God help her if she refused to tell him what she knew.

He made himself a light Scotch and water. Not for Dutch courage; just to help pass the time. He didn't need any chemical assistance for this task. He was on his way to the living room with the drink when the doorbell sounded.

Damn poor timing, whoever it was. He went and opened the door. Owen Gregory. Wearing a rumpled expression to go with his rumpled suit: a man with things on his mind.

Dix's first thought was that he should have kept his jacket on, so the Beretta would be close at hand if he needed it. Then he thought: For Christ's sake! He said, “Well, Owen. What brings you here?”

“Have you got a few minutes? I'd like to talk to you.”

“I have to go out pretty soon. An appointment.”

“This won't take long.”

“All right. Come on in.”

Owen declined the offer of a drink, went to perch on the edge of a chair in the living room—stiff-backed, his big hands gripping his knees. Dix occupied the sofa across from him.

“What's on your mind, Owen?”

“Cecca. She's always on my mind, it seems.”

“… Yes?”

“You know how I feel about her. It's no secret.”

“Yes?” Dix said again.

“I have to know this, Dix: Is there something between you and her? Are you … involved?”

“What makes you think that?”

“The way the two of you acted at Jerry's Saturday night, for one thing. And the way she's been toward me lately—cold, distant. That's not like her, not at all.”

“She has a lot of things on her mind,” Dix said.

“What things?”

“Losing one close friend and half the family of another in less than a month. You're not that insensitive, are you, Owen?”

“Of course not. It's been a terrible time for all of us. But that isn't what I mean. I'm talking about her personal attitude toward me, as if I'd done something to her. As if she'd be glad if she never laid eyes on me again.”

“I'm sorry if that's how you feel, but—”

“It's not just how I feel,” Owen said, “it's the way things are. And you haven't answered my question. Are you and Cecca involved?”

“No. Not the way you mean.”

“What other way is there?”

“You don't have to sleep with a woman to have a rapport with her.”

“Is that all it is with you two? A rapport?”

“That's all it is.”

“You swear to that?”

“If it's what it takes to convince you, yes, I do solemnly swear I am not having an affair with Cecca Bellini.”

“Then it's something else,” Owen said. “Or somebody else.”

“I don't think she's romantically involved with anyone. In fact, I'm sure she's not.”

“Would she have told you if she was?”

“I think so, yes.”

“What is it, then? Why has she turned against me?”

“Maybe you're misinterpreting her actions—”

“I'm not.”

“All right, then maybe it's that you're coming on too strong. Hanging around her all the time, calling her, dropping over at her house uninvited. Back off a little. The last thing she needs right now is to be pressured.”

“I can't help it,” Owen said miserably. “I think about her all the time, I dream about her, I can't stand not being near her. Dix, what am I going to do?”

His expression was even more rumpled; he looked like a big, gangly kid getting ready to bawl. Dix had always regarded him as something of an Inadequate Personality—likable, but emotionally underdeveloped. (And wasn't that a joke, him sitting in judgment of another man's inadequacies? In some ways he was an IP himself. Too many ways.) In the past he'd viewed Owen with compassion; you made allowances for your friends. But sitting here now,