“You don't mean that. Let's not play any more games.”
“If you think I'm playing a game—”
“We've both been playing games,” he said. “That's over now. It's time to stop playing. Time for it to happen, Francesca.”
Time for it to happen …
The thought was like an eruption in her mind. She recoiled from it, immediately sought to drive it away. It couldn't be Elliot, how could it? He wasn't one of their friends … but he knew Katy, he could have been Katy's lover … but he didn't know Eileen … but he knew Ted, she'd run into him once in Ted's office … but he'd never been inside her house, no one had broken in, how could he have stolen her bra and Amy's panties … key, key, the spare key she'd given Katy long ago, he could have got the key from Katy.…
She looked into his eyes, his leering face—and felt a surge of sick, raw terror.
Dix had just two Friday classes, both in the morning. He thought he could get through them, as tired as he was; Cecca had said she was going to work today, so why shouldn't he? It proved to be the right decision. The campus activity and the routine of teaching distracted him, kept him from brooding.
When he returned to his office after his eleven o'clock, there was a message waiting from St. John. Would he call or stop by sometime today? That was all, so it was nothing urgent. Questions about the fire, probably. He'd reported it before leaving home that morning, not to St. John directly—he hadn't been in—but to the sergeant who'd taken the call.
Face-to-face, St. John had a way of getting under his skin and making him lose his composure. Dix called him instead. The first thing St. John said when he came on the line was that he'd just returned from investigating “the alleged arson attempt last night at your home.”
“Alleged arson attempt. That means you don't find any evidence that the fire was deliberately set.”
“None. But I don't doubt your version of the incident.”
“Uh-huh. If only I'd gotten a look at him or his car, right?”
St. John let that pass. “Have there been any other harassments?”
Dix saw no point in telling him about the tormentor's call yesterday morning. His relationship with Cecca was none of St. John's business. He said, “No.”
“Well, I do have a little positive news for you. Just so you know I'm doing my job. I spoke to Janet Rice again this morning. Louise Kanvitz's artist friend in Bodega Bay. More than a friend, actually; turns out they were lovers. She admitted lying about buying those last two paintings of your wife's. Ms. Kanvintz asked her to say she had.”
“Did Kanvitz tell her why? Or who did buy the paintings?”
“She says no on both counts. Claims Ms. Kanvitz was secretive about her motives. That lends credence to your blackmail theory.”
Credence, Dix thought. “I don't suppose there was anything at the gallery or among her effects that points to the man?”
“No.”
“And of course there's nothing new on her murder.”
“We still don't know that it was murder.”
“All right, her death.”
“Her nose was broken and there was a bruise on her jaw,” St. John said. “She could have been knocked out first and then thrown down the stairs. Then again, she might have gotten those injuries in an accidental fall. We did find a fingerprint that isn't hers on the newel post. Might be significant; we're running computer checks on it.”
Dix admitted, “That's encouraging.” But not very. “None of the neighbors saw or heard anything?”
“Apparently not. If she was murdered, her killer may have parked his car on the other side of the hill and walked to her house through the trees up there. There's a path kids use from the school over on Highland. It leads right past her backyard.”
Same damn method the bastard had used last night. Crazy but cunning.
“Did her missing handgun turn up?”
“Not yet.”
“So the upshot of all this is, you're still reserving judgment. You're inclined to believe Francesca Bellini and her daughter and I are in danger, but there's nothing much you can do about it.”
“You may see it that way, Mr. Mallory, but the fact is we're doing everything that can be done and we are making progress.”
“Right,” Dix said.
Status fucking quo, he thought.
Fear pushed Cecca toward the edge of panic. She couldn't get free of his clutching hands, his body pinning hers. He was half aroused; she could feel his burgeoning erection hot against her thigh.
He murmured, “Francesca,” and tried to kiss her again.
She managed to tear her right arm loose. In the next second she spat in his face, brought her knee up, and swept the Mason jar off the windowsill and slammed it against the side of his head.
Her knee missed his groin, but the jar connected solidly, part of the glass fragmenting on impact, a shard of it cutting her palm. He grunted in pain, released her and stumbled away to one side. She had a brief impression of glazed eyes, blood streaming down from his temple. Then her back was to him and she was running.
She ran through the parlor, across the hall, dragged the front door open. Get inside the car, lock the doors! She plunged through, hitting the screen door with her shoulder; took two steps and then was violently yanked back and half around, a sharp wrenching in her left shoulder. She thought in that first confused moment that he'd caught her. But it was her purse, the strap of her purse had caught on the screen-door handle. In her panic she heaved backward, trying to free it—and the strap broke and she backpedaled off balance into the porch railing, the purse flying past her head. She twisted around as it hit the front walk and burst open, spilling its contents in a wide fan.
The car keys!
She stumbled down the steps. Didn't see the keys, bent to scoop up the purse, pulled it wide open so she could look inside, and the keys weren't there either—
Thudding footfalls. Her head jerked up; he appeared in the doorway. Holding his head with one hand, the left side of his beard glistening with blood. Saying dazedly, “Francesca, for Christ's sake,” saying something else she didn't hear.
She took flight again.
Out through the gate, past the station wagon, across the empty yard. The barn was straight ahead, its sagging doors drawn shut but not locked, a gap like a skinny mouth yawning between them. She raced toward the doors, looking back over her shoulder.
He was behind her, chasing her in a lurching run, still clutching his head, still calling her name.
Just as she reached the doors, her foot slid on dry, loose earth and she went down hard on her left hip. The jarring pain was one of several; she barely noticed it. She lunged upward, grasped the latch on one door, dragged herself upright, and then scraped the door back and squeezed her body inside.
A half-darkness enveloped her, broken and thinned by fingers of dusty sunlight poking in through gaps in the walls and roof. The air was close, thick with the smells of hay and manure and harness leather; it clogged her nostrils, her throat, wouldn't let her catch her breath. She looked around wildly, trying to penetrate the gloom. Empty floor, empty stalls, loft above with remnants of moldy hay and nothing else—
Pitchfork.
It was propped against one of the vertical support beams for the loft. She hobbled over and caught it up. Rusted and crooked tines, a cracked handle that immediately became slick and sticky with blood from her cut palm. She whirled around with it, facing the door as it creaked open wide.
Elliot stood silhouetted there, backlit by the daylight outside. Looking for her, seeing her. Coming inside.
