With an Extreme Burning

“What did she say?”

“Well, I wasn't trying to catch her out or anything. Just kidding around with her. You know, ‘Who was the man I saw you with on East Valley Road yesterday?’ ”

“And?”

“She denied it. It wasn't her, it wasn't her car. Said I must have been imagining things.”

“Is that all she said?”

“It was the way she said it, Dix. Nervous, flustered—guilty look on her face. And she told me not to say anything to you or anybody else about it because she didn't want rumors getting started. Practically warned me to keep my mouth shut.”

“Did you?”

“Yes and no.” Jerry tugged at the knot in his tie, as if it had grown too tight. “I asked around here and there—you know, discreetly. To see if there was anything to find out.”

“Was there?”

“No. Hell, Dix, don't blame me for that. You're one of my best friends; I figured I had an obligation.”

“So you'd have told me if you'd verified it, learned the name of her lover.”

“Before the accident, I might have. After she was dead I couldn't have hurt you any more than you already were. That's why I kept quiet when you hinted around about it on the phone last week.”

“You let it slip to Cecca.”

“She's the only one. I was worried about you. I thought maybe you were taking Katy's death so hard because you'd found out somehow that she was having an affair. And you had.”

“Not then. Just recently.”

“You have any idea who the man is?”

“Not yet. Soon, though.”

“How'd you find out she had a lover? If you don't mind my asking.”

“I do mind, Jerry. I'd rather not talk about it.”

“Sure, if that's the way you feel. But if you decide you want to hash it out, a sympathetic ear—I'm available. Anytime, day or night. I really am on your side.”

Are you? Dix thought.

Can I trust you even if you aren't the tormentor?

Everything was all right at her house. No new packages, no damages, no nocturnal intrusion. Cecca went through every room, checked each door and window, to make sure.

When she was done she took another quick shower and changed clothes. Blouse and a pair of tailored slacks rather than the suits or dresses she usually wore on weekdays. She could not bring herself to go to Better Lands today. Face Tom, face a normal workday … no. There was one piece of business she did have to take care of this morning, though: deliver Elliot Messner's counteroffer to the Hagopians. She'd been too upset and too needy to do it last night.

The family was living temporarily in a one-bedroom apartment on the east side, near the river; she drove there first thing. Mr. Hagopian had already left for work, but his wife and children were home. Cecca gave Mrs. Hagopian the written counteroffer, went over it with her, and then asked her to leave a message at Better Lands when she and her husband had reviewed it and made a decision. The impression Mrs. Hagopian gave was that the response would be quick and favorable. Seventy-five hundred dollars really wasn't much when you were already prepared to spend a quarter of a million.

From there Cecca took the freeway north to Santa Rosa. On the way she allowed herself to think about last night—analytically, for the first time. On a purely physical level sex with Chet had been better, more exciting; he had almost always been able to make her climax, one way or another. But to him sex was an Olympic marathon event, with all sorts of wild experimentation, and he had worn her out in bed. Dix was much gentler, much more considerate. With him it was controlled, adult—and on a deeper level, more satisfying. If sexual boredom or dissatisfaction was what had driven Katy to another man, she must have suffered from some sort of biological deficiency. One that Cecca Bellini didn't have. After only one night with Dix Mallory, she felt she could be physically satisfied with and by him for the rest of her life.

Which opened up the larger question: Was she in love with him?

She thought she might be. But it was too soon to commit herself to it. The intense connection, the closeness, might well fade without the mortal danger they shared to enhance it. When their lives were normal again, if they ever were, then she would be better able to judge. Her feelings and his. How they interacted, how they communicated. Then she'd know for sure. Meanwhile—

Meanwhile, don't even think about the future. Hold on to Dix and let him hold on to her because neither of them could get through this alone.

Lieutenant St. John was “unavailable,” according to the desk sergeant at the police station. The sergeant wouldn't elaborate on that, nor would he give Dix any information on developments in the Louise Kanvitz investigation. “You'll have to ask the lieutenant,” he said. When would he be available? “I can't tell you that because I don't know.”

The old runaround.

The law didn't care what they were going through. All the law cared about was the law—the goddamn cold, sanctified letter of the law.

At Santa Rosa Memorial they wouldn't let her see Kevin Harrell. Still in ICU; still not allowed visitors. His condition? No change: critical but stable.

She didn't know what to do with herself when she left the hospital. At loose ends … maybe she should have gone to Better Lands. No, she'd made the right decision there; better alone today than dealing with Tom and office work. She drove out of town to the west, as far as Forestville in the Gravenstein apple country. There was a place just outside the village that sold homemade apple butter; she stopped and bought three jars. Then she drove back through Sebastopol to Santa Rosa, and without thinking about it, headed out to the Codding Town shopping center. It was after twelve by then. She went into one of the restaurants in the mall and ate a sandwich. Macy's and the Emporium and half a dozen other stores after that. She bought two slips, a blouse, a vest, a set of towels, none of which she needed or even wanted. Mindless shopping spree, and she didn't know why she was doing it until it was over and she was back in the car. It was a groping for normalcy. Drive in the country, apple butter, lunch at the mall, clothing and household items … activities, things, that represented the sane, mundane way of life—her life—she'd always taken for granted.

Who is Cecca Bellini? Dix had asked last night, and she'd said “an unfulfilled woman.” Yes. A woman whose expectations had never quite been realized. Yes. But at this moment, on this bright sunny September afternoon, she would have given anything to be the old accepting, secure, unfulfilled Cecca Bellini again and for the rest of her life.

The woman in the hospital bed looked like a caricature of Eileen. The plump cheeks were sunken, as if some of the tissue in them had collapsed. The apple-rosy skin tone had bleached out to a chalky white. The mischievous eyes were dull, withdrawn. The big, competent nurse's hands lay on the blanket at her sides, unmoving, fingers cramped, like the arthritic appendages of an old lady.

She was aware of him, though, in a remote kind of way. As soon as he entered the room and spoke her name, she said, “Dix. What're you doing here?”

“Came to see you.”

“That's nice. Everything okay?”

“Yes. How about you?”

“Wish they'd let me get up. I'm not sick.”

“No, of course you're not.”

“They tell me I need rest,” Eileen said. “But I just had a vacation—” Abruptly her face twisted and she made a thin sound in her throat, as if a terrible memory had just struck her. But it must have been a fragment, a kind of subliminal blip; her face smoothed almost immediately and she smiled at him with cracked, bloodless lips.