With an Extreme Burning

eyes like mine used to be—real bright blue. Handsome. Handsome as the devil.”

Jerry.

Jerry Whittington was Gordon Cotter.

And Gordon Cotter was the tormentor.

TWENTY-FOUR

By the time they passed through Point Arena, late in the afternoon, Amy was no longer afraid of him. She'd gotten her head totally together. She felt the way she'd always imagined she would when she was a working reporter and found herself in a dangerous situation: cool, crafty, determined. You didn't get your ass out of trouble by panicking or wimping out. You used your head, waited for the right opportunity, and then did what you had to do. Whatever you had to do.

Meanwhile, she'd pretended to be scared out of her skull. Meek and obedient, too. Let him think he could do anything he wanted to her and she wouldn't fight back. Let him think she was going to be an easy victim.

She studied him out of the corner of her eye. Sitting over there all smug, his hands dirtying the wheel of her car, probably thinking he could put his hands on her if he felt like it and she'd just turn to jelly. Once he could have; once she would have. She couldn't stand to think how willing, how stupid, she'd been just a short while ago. Well, she'd learned her lesson. Hatred was all she felt for him now. The attraction was totally gone, as if it had never existed. He wasn't handsome or sexy, he was repulsive. He was Freddy Krueger with a hunk's mask on.

His eyes were steady on the road; they didn't seem to blink much anymore. He looked relaxed, not even a little tired or cramped from all the driving. Super cool or bat-shit crazy? She couldn't tell. He didn't show much of what was going on inside him—and it was probably just as well he didn't. Amy shifted position again. Her buns were sore from sitting in one place for almost three hours. They hadn't stopped once, not even for gas because she'd filled the tank that morning. Down around Fort Ross she'd tried to get him to stop at a gas station so she could use the bathroom—a trick that might give her a chance to slip away from him or at least to write a message on the mirror with her lipstick. But he hadn't fallen for it. “I really have to pee,” she'd lied, and he'd said, “You'll just have to hold it. Either that, or go ahead and wet yourself.”

That was about all he'd said to her since way back at Bodega Bay. Talk, talk, talk nonstop for half an hour— and then nothing, as if a faucet inside him, turned on for a while, had suddenly been turned off. It was all right with her. The silence was a lot easier to take.

The long ride was almost over. They were passing the turnoff for the Point Arena Light Station; that meant the one for Manchester State Beach and the Dunes was only a couple of miles farther on. He knew it, too—must have read a map or something, because he began to slow down even before she spotted the half-hidden sign for Stoneboro Road. He didn't come close to missing the turn either, something even she'd done once.

Stoneboro Road wound in for more than a mile, through open fields and cattle graze, before you could see the sand dunes and the abandoned development. At that point you could also see miles and miles of the curving beach, and inland across a long valley dotted with dairy ranches to the mountains of the Coast Range. It was lonesome and windswept and beautiful. Even today, with him beside her, she was aware of its beauty.

The weather was pretty good, windy and mostly sunny, and there were a half dozen cars parked at the entrance to the beach. None of the people was in sight though. He turned off on the road that ran through what was left of the development. Narrow, carpeted in blown sand, it paralleled the outer sweep of the dunes and took them past signs and paved streets that led nowhere: Barnegat Drive, Duxbury Road, Coventry Lane. No cars here, just sawgrass and gorse and cypress and scrub pine. And the high dunes covered with thick tufts of tule grass that had always made her think of a vast herd of hairy creatures watching the sea with hidden eyes.

Another mile … and when they came around a bend in the road, the Dunes appeared. Gray, salt-weathered, set seventy or eighty yards off the road on high ground, built on pilings so that blowing sand could drift underneath. The unpaved lane that led up to it was half gravel and half weeds, so it was barely visible until you were right on top of it, but he seemed to know where it was. He turned, and they jounced along and finally stopped on the flat- topped rise, behind the cottage. He shut off the engine, but he didn't move to get out right away. He rolled down the window a little and sniffed the air with a little smile on his mouth.

“Nice here,” he said. “I love the coast, the ocean.”

Amy didn't say anything.

“It reminds me of where I used to live.”

Pelican Bay, I'll bet, she thought. She almost said it, caught herself in time. If she made a slip like that and he had lived in Pelican Bay, he'd know they were on to him, that that was where Mom and Dix must have gone. There was no telling what he might do then.

“You've been a good girl,” he said. “Keep on being good and everything will be fine.”

“I will,” she said.

“I'm going to get out now. You sit there until I come around and open your door. When you get out, don't try to run away. If you do, I'll shoot you. I won't like doing it, but I will.”

“I won't try to run.”

When he opened the door, she took her time unkinking her body. He stood back a few paces, his hand on the gun in his belt. No, she wouldn't try to run. Even if he didn't shoot her, he could probably chase her down; he wasn't that old and he was in such good shape. Stay cool, she told herself. There'll be a time when he forgets to be careful.

He made her climb the outside stairs ahead of him, one hand on her arm. His touch was no longer silky or electric; it made her skin crawl. The wind was chilly on her face, sharp with the salt tang of the ocean. It would be cold later, when the sun—already falling and starting to turn red around the edges—dropped below the horizon. How long would he keep her here? All night? She'd have to try to find out about that right away.

On the narrow landing at the top she said, “How are we going to get in?”

“With the key your father gave you.” He jangled her key ring, then held it out to her. “One of these. Find the right one and use it.”

As soon as she had the door open, he took the key ring back and put it into his pants pocket. The right-hand pocket. When they were both inside, he turned the deadbolt lock, put the chain on. The only other ways out were off the balcony or through one of the windows. He knows that, too, Amy thought. He knows everything about the Dunes.

The big front room smelled of sea-damp and old smoke from the cigarettes Megan sucked on constantly and the joints she and Dad smoked when they were alone. It was a mess, too. Papers and crap on the floor, tables littered with dirty glasses and ashtrays, even a plate with sandwich crumbs on it. If she hadn't known better, she'd think kids or homeless people had gotten in despite regular patrols by the county sheriff and the park rangers. But it was just that Dad was sloppy and Megan and that dickhead son of hers were total slobs.

He didn't seem to notice. He'd pulled the drapes open over the sliding door to the balcony, letting sunlight pour in, and he was peering out with that little smile on his mouth again. Admiring the view. “You can see for miles from up here,” he said. “All the way from the lighthouse to Irish Beach. Come take a look, Amy.”

“I've seen it before. I still have to go to the bathroom.” It wasn't a lie this time. She really did have to pee now.

“All right. Go ahead.”

For a couple of seconds she thought he was going to make the mistake of letting her go by herself. But no, he followed her down the hall. And when she went into the tiny bathroom he stood leaning against the wall right outside.

“Leave the door open,” he said. “And come right out again when you're done.”

“Are you going to watch me?”

“I wouldn't do that. I'll look away.”

Useless to argue with him. She moved to the toilet, made sure he wasn't looking before she hiked up her skirt and slid her panties down. But she had trouble going with him out there, even if he wasn't watching. The embarrassment of it made her hate him even more.

She didn't come right out afterward. She stepped over to the sink, and when he didn't object, she washed her