seem to shake. On the one hand, it had allowed her to function at the office and to keep her appointment with Elliot that afternoon. On the other hand, she knew how dangerous that sort of feeling could be if she allowed it to continue. Prelude to a breakdown, the inability to function at all. Underneath the layer of indifference, her nerves were like sparking wires: Fray them any more and they would short-circuit.
The dusty yard was deserted when she drove in. She was on time; Elliot was late. She parked near the picket fence fronting the farmhouse, sat there for a minute or two, and then decided to get out. Although she could see the buildings of a neighboring farm less than half a mile away, the place had a desolate, lonely feel. A family's home once, teeming with vitality—now dormant, waiting for somebody to breathe new life into it or else to die. Freda Andersen had moved out as soon as her husband passed away, into the home of one of her daughters in town; the other married daughter lived in Texas. Two goats and the chickens had been sold off. There was nothing left but ghosts.
The wind was strong out of a partly overcast sky; Cecca buttoned her beige linen blazer. Clouds running overhead made irregular shadow patterns on the fields and nearby hills. The only audible sound was the ratchety turning of the blades in a rusted windmill behind the pumphouse. To her, its rhythm was like the beating of a weak heart.
She glanced at her watch, then out toward Hamlin Valley Road. Still no sign of Elliot. This was the reason she preferred to pick up clients and bring them to a property. But Elliot had had some sort of meeting in San Francisco and insisted on coming here directly from that. Not that it mattered, really, if he was late. She had nothing else she needed or wanted to be doing.
When the wind began to chill her, she slid back inside the station wagon. Sat there with the apathy wrapped around her like a shawl. And yet in her mind's eye she could see again the image of Dix climbing over the fence last night with the gun in his hand. The image made her even colder.
Her fear and loathing of firearms was almost pathological. Why, she didn't know; some phobias even a psychiatrist couldn't explain. She had never been shot at or threatened with a gun; never seen anyone hurt with one; never even touched one. Yet the first time she'd been confronted with a real handgun, her grandfather's target pistol at the age of six, she had reacted with shrieking terror, as if it were a snake coiled to strike at her. Ever since, she couldn't bear anything to do with them. She even shied away from watching make-believe shootouts in films.
She'd urged Dix to get rid of the gun he'd bought; his refusal had led to a brief and futile argument. She could see his point: They had to have some sort of protection. But what if he'd lied to her, or at best evaded her, when he'd said he would not have committed cold-blooded murder last night? What if the opportunity arose again and he
The sound of a car laboring in low gear penetrated her awareness. She glanced into the rearview mirror, saw Elliot's dark-blue Lexus jouncing through the ruts toward the farmyard. She waited until he drew up behind the wagon before she stepped out.
“Sorry I'm late, Francesca,” he said. “Meeting took a little longer than I expected.” His smile, boyishly lopsided, went at odds with his professional outfit of a tan corduroy suit and a black pullover sweater. Appropriate. As far as she could tell, that was exactly the way he was—a clashing mixture of the intelligent adult college professor and the irrepressibly horny kid. He and Chet would have got along famously, she thought, at least on the subject of women.
“No problem,” she said.
“Been waiting long?”
“Ten minutes or so.”
“You look tired. Rough night?”
“I didn't sleep very well.”
“Sleeping alone does have its drawbacks.”
He said that offhandedly, through his crooked smile, but his eyes were steady on hers; he wanted a reaction. She didn't give him one. She said, “Where would you like to start? The house?”
“Fine by me.”
He followed her onto the porch and she keyed them in. Cobwebs and dust. Musty smells of old wood, old wallpaper. All of the Andersens' furnishings had been taken away except for oddments here and there that the widow and her daughters hadn't wanted: a couple of chairs, a catchall table, some knickknack shelves, a carpet runner in the front hall. For Cecca, at least, there was a sadness in the leavings, in the dark squares and ovals on the walls where pictures had once hung. Elliot didn't seem affected. He took notice only of what interested him.
In the living room he said, “Look at that fireplace. I'll bet you don't see decorative tile inlays very often anymore.”
“No, you don't.”
In the parlor he said, “I could use this as my study. Plenty of light, view of the hills, no direct sun to fade book jacket spines. What do you think, Francesca?”
“I think it would make a fine study.”
And in the largest of the rooms at the rear he said, “This ought to be big enough for my bed. It's a California king.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Water bed. I wouldn't own anything else.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You have a water bed, Francesca?”
“No.”
“Ever slept in one?”
“A couple of times. I don't care for them.”
“Some aren't very good. Mine's the best they make.”
“I'm sure you wouldn't have settled for less.”
“You ever make love in a water bed?” he asked.
Grinning, looking for a reaction again. This time she gave him one. “That's none of your business, Elliot.”
“No, probably not,” he said cheerfully. “
She turned toward the doorway without answering.
“There's nothing like it,” he said behind her. “It's more comfortable, for one thing. And the motion of the water heightens the pleasure. No kidding, it really does.”
He had succeeded in doing what she hadn't been able to all day: chip through the shell of her apathy. She was angry now; she bit back a sharp rebuke. I do not need this crap, she thought. Today of all days, I do not need to be sexually harassed.
She walked into the kitchen. Half-dinette table, one rickety chair, and on the windowsill over the sink, a Mason jar filled with the dessicated remains of flowers so long dead they were unidentifiable. Elliot was close behind her, like a dog at heel. She turned at the sink to face him.
“The kitchen,” she said flatly. “Is there anything else you'd care to see?”
The boyish leer. “Yes. But not in here.”
“Then we'll go outside—”
He leaned past her to look briefly out the window. When he straightened again he was close to her, too close. She tried to slide away; he caught hold of her arms, turning her so that her hips were against the drainboard.
“Dammit, Elliot, what do you think you're—”
He kissed her. Not roughly or violently, not for long and not using his tongue, but the kiss was far from being gentle. For an instant she was shocked. Then her anger flared into outrage. She would have slapped him except that he still gripped her arms, still had her body pinned.
“Let me go,” she said between clenched teeth.
He was grinning again. “Come on, Francesca, it wasn't that bad, was it? Suppose we try it again.”
“No! Let me go or you'll regret it.”
