With an Extreme Burning

he could no longer work up any sympathy for the man. No feelings other than wariness, a lingering mistrust, and a vague dislike.

All of this an act, part of some sly ploy? Owen the tormentor, a cunning madman laughing behind his poor, fumbling, IP facade? It was possible. Anything was possible, no matter how bizarre; that was one lesson Dix Mallory had learned well in recent weeks. And even if Owen were as harmless as he'd always believed, his weakness was much less tolerable than it had been in the past. He sat diminished in Dix's eyes. Maybe, Dix thought harshly, because he himself sat diminished in his own eyes.

He said, “I don't have any advice for you, Owen.” He meant to keep his voice neutral, but the words came out sounding cold. “Except what I said before. Back off, give Cecca some breathing room.”

“I don't know if I can.”

“If you care about her, you will.”

It took him a few more minutes to pry Owen off the chair and out of the house. Five-ten by then: almost time to leave. He'd been calm enough before Owen's arrival; now he was keyed up, restless. The little scene they'd just played bothered him, and not only because he was uncertain of Owen's motives or his discovery that in any case he no longer cared for the man. Owen's questions had made him face something he'd been avoiding: his own feelings for Cecca.

He had told the truth about their relationship, but it was less than the complete truth. They were not involved, and yet they were. Bound by more than just their shared torment—a growing closeness, stirrings and yearnings that he sensed in her as he felt them in himself. Neither was yet ready or willing to bring it out into the open, to add another complication to their lives; and he wasn't sure he could handle a deeper relationship so soon after Katy's death. But the feelings, the capacity, were there, want them or not. Owen, whatever his motives, had cut straight through to the heart of the matter.

EIGHTEEN

Buckram Street was two blocks long and ran up the side of a hill at a steep slant. The houses in the lower block were small bungalows and ranch-style homes, on quarter-acre lots; the houses in the upper block were fewer and larger, mostly white frame and brick over stucco, built on half- to one-acre lots. Louise Kanvitz's property was one of the two biggest parcels, at the top on the east side—a two-story frame house with a partially enclosed front porch, surrounded by trees and shrubbery. The front yard was a cactus garden littered with exotic, and not very tasteful, wrought-iron, wood, and cement sculptures. A Jeep Wrangler was parked in the driveway. But what caught and held Dix's attention was the Ford station wagon drawn up at the curb in front.

The wagon was Cecca's.

He drove on past, made a tight loop where the street dead-ended at a patch of woods that crowned the hill, and braked to a stop behind the Ford. What was she doing here? On the same mission he was, probably. But she shouldn't have come alone, without telling him and without bringing along anything that had the persuasive power of the Beretta. She was inordinately afraid of guns; she'd made Chet sell two handguns and his hunting rifles after they were married. That was another reason Dix had wanted to confront Kanvitz alone.

He hurried through the garden, up onto the porch. There was an old-fashioned doorbell, the kind with a button inside a recessed circle like a nipple on a miniature breast; he pushed it. Chimes, not very melodious. He waited, but the front door stayed shut. He pushed the button again, and when that also didn't bring anybody, he moved over to a nearby window. Drawn shade behind chintz curtains; he couldn't see inside. He worked the bell a third time. Still no response.

The restlessness in him had given way to a formless unease. He left the porch, followed a path through the cactus garden and along the side of the house, paralleling the driveway. At the rear the path right-angled toward a set of steps that led to a porch entrance. He climbed up there and knocked on the screen door. Listened to silence, knocked again, listened to more silence.

On impulse he opened the screen and tried the inner door. It was unlocked. He pushed it open, took a cautious step inside. Service porch, an archway on his left opening into the kitchen. Both the porch and the kitchen were empty. The house was still except for the faint hum of a refrigerator.

“Hello,” he called. “Hello?”

Silence.

“Cecca? Louise? It's Dix Mallory.”

He thought he heard something this time, movement somewhere toward the front. Footsteps? He couldn't be sure because the sound wasn't repeated. His unease deepened. He slid his hand into his jacket pocket, closed fingers around the Beretta, then walked all the way inside, letting the screen door bang behind him.

“Cecca? Are you in here?”

Movement again, the creak of a floorboard—definitely footsteps, hurrying. He went ahead to the archway. Just as he stepped into it, a swing door on the far side of the kitchen opened partway, cautiously, and Cecca's head appeared. There was a frozen moment as they stared across at each other. The look of her changed his edginess to alarm: Her face was milk white, her eyes wide and dark with fright.

“Oh, Dix!”

He went to her, yanked the door all the way open. She came up hard against him, put her arms around his waist and her head tight to his chest. There was a thin quivering in her body, like a wire vibrating in a high wind. He held her for a few seconds, then took her arms and moved her back away from him. Her skin was cold, and when he glanced down he saw that her arms were rough with gooseflesh.

“Cecca, what is it, what's happened?”

“God,” she said.

“Where's Louise? Why didn't you answer the bell?”

“I was on the phone to the police. I didn't know it was you. I thought … I was afraid he'd come back.”

“The police? What—?”

“The front hall,” she said, “the stairs …”

He started to turn her so she could show him. She balked. “No, I'm not going back in there.”

“All right. Wait here.”

He crossed a formal dining room to the hallway beyond. The palms of his hands were moist; his mind seemed to be working in stuttering fashion, thoughts coming too fast and then not at all. The hall led him past a staircase to the upper floor. Two paces into the front foyer, he came to an abrupt standstill. There was no surprise in what he saw there, only a sick feeling of helplessness. His gorge rose; he swallowed to keep it down.

Louise Kanvitz lay crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, hips and legs twisted upward over the first three risers, veined and mottled flesh showing where her skirt had hiked up. Her head and shoulders were on the carpeted floor, head twisted at an impossible angle. Blood from a smashed nose streaked the lower half of her face. One eye, wide open, bulging goiterlike, stared sightlessly up at him.

Fell down the stairs, he thought. Tripped somehow … an accident …

But it wasn't. He knew that as unequivocally as he knew her neck was broken.

He retreated until he could no longer see her, then turned and ran back into the dining room. Cecca wasn't at the swing door; he found her in the kitchen, splashing her face with handfuls of cold tap water. He tore off a long section of paper towel from a hanging roll, gave it to her so she could dry off. There was a little color in her cheeks now. She seemed to have a better grip on herself.

She said, “He killed her, Dix. He killed her to keep her from telling who he is.”

Dix nodded grimly. “How long have you been here?”

“Not long. A few minutes before you rang the bell.”

“Why did you come alone?”

“She called me at the office this afternoon. She said she wanted to talk, she had something to tell me.”

“About Katy's lover?”

“She wouldn't say. But it's obvious, isn't it?”

“You should have let me know.”

“I tried to. You'd already left the university, so I called you at home, left a message on your machine.… You didn't get the message?”

“No. I didn't think to check the machine.”