“No. My God, I'm not a murderer.”
“Do what, then?”
“Force him to admit the truth, get it down on tape. It won't be admissible in court, but it'll damned well get St. John's attention. Then search his house for evidence and make a citizen's arrest. There'll be legal repercussions, but I don't care about that now. All I care about is saving our lives.”
“If you're right about his mental state, he won't let you search his house or arrest him. He'll make you use the gun, he'll make you kill him.”
“I won't let that happen.”
“You may not have a choice.” She was thinking about yesterday afternoon, Elliot Messner, the pitchfork. How close she'd come to an act of deadly violence herself—a sudden step, a menacing gesture, was all it would have taken. And how she'd felt afterward.
“Cecca? You know there's no other way.”
“If you use that gun,” she said, “no matter what the reason, you and I will suffer for it—and I don't just mean legally. We'll suffer and Gordon Cotter will have his revenge on both of us, too. He'll have won.”
“How can you say that? We'll be alive, won't we? Safe?”
“He'll have won,” she said.
“
“Well? You want to fuck me, don't you.”
He winced. “No. Not like this.”
“But you said we should get to know each other better …”
“I didn't mean that way.”
“I don't … what did you mean?”
“For us to talk. About you, things that matter to you.”
“You never wanted to have sex with me?”
“Yes, I did. Very much. But that was before, when it was part of the equation. It would have been right then. It isn't right now. It's too late. It wouldn't have any meaning.”
“I don't understand …”
“I know you don't. It's all right. Button up your blouse and we'll talk. Go on, button your blouse.”
She buttoned it. She was confused, relieved, frustrated, all at the same time. Confused because she didn't know where he was coming from, he was so crazy and weird; relieved because he didn't want her body after all; frustrated because as much as she would have hated having him inside her, she could have hurt him—oh, could she have hurt him!—and then gotten away.
“Let's go out on the balcony,” he said.
“Why?”
“I like to look at the ocean, smell the sea air. Don't you?”
“I guess.”
“It should be warm enough. There's still plenty of sun.”
It wasn't warm out there; it was almost cold. He didn't seem to notice. He made her sit on one of the canvas deck chairs and then leaned on the railing and took several deep breaths. At first he was smiling that little smile, but it went away and all of a sudden, when he turned toward her again, he looked sad—sad and lonely and kind of lost.
“I miss it,” he said, but he wasn't really talking to her. Or even to himself. It was as if there were somebody else on the balcony with them. “I miss home. I miss you.”
“Who?”
He didn't hear her or just ignored her. Gulls, a whole flock of them, came swooping in over the dunes, screeching and scolding each other; he turned his head to watch them. After a couple of minutes they scattered and quit making so much racket, and he sighed and sat down on one of the other chairs.
“Fascinating birds,” he said. “I used to watch them for hours. Grebes and ternes and pelicans, too.”
She said, “I hate them.”
“Do you? Why, Amy?”
“Scavengers. Always screaming and fighting and pecking at dead things. Not like the swans.”
“Swans?”
“They come in the winter sometimes, drifts of them. Whistling swans. They nest or something down at the mouth of the Garcia River.”
“I didn't know that,” he said. Now he looked sad again. “I'd like to see them sometime. But I never will.”
“Why not?”
“There isn't enough time. I won't be here next winter.”
“Where will you be?”
“With my family.”
“I didn't know you had a family.”
“I don't anymore,” he said.
For a few seconds it looked like he was going to cry. Then his face smoothed and the mouth smile came back. Creepy … God, had he always been this creepy and she somehow hadn't noticed? No. Underneath, probably, but not out where you could see it. He just wasn't bothering to hide it anymore.
“Tell me some more about yourself, Amy.”
“… Like what?”
“Things that I don't know about you.”
“Personal things?”
“Personal, private, special.”
“Like whether or not I'm still a virgin?”
“Well. Are you?”
She thought about lying but she didn't. “No.”
“I didn't think you were. But that's good.”
“Why is it good?”
“Sex is healthy. There's nothing wrong with sex between consenting people. Consenting, Amy. That's the key.”
“It was consenting with me. You want to know his name and how many times and what we did?”
“No. Don't be nasty. You're not a nasty person at heart.”
The wind kicked up and blew fine particles of sand from the dunes below. One of them got into her eye and made it sting and water. She sat there, chilled, rubbing her eye until she got the grit out. He didn't seem to notice how cold and uncomfortable she was. It was as if he saw her only when he wanted to, when there was something he wanted to know or she did or said something that made him aware of her. The rest of the time, she might have been invisible.
She said, “Why do you care that I'm not still a virgin if you don't want to have sex with me anymore? Why do you want to know so much about me?”
“I just do. It's important to me.”
“Why? Will it be easier to kill me if you know me better?”
“Oh, Amy …”
“Well? That's what you're going to do, isn't it?”
“You don't understand.”
“You keep saying that. I understand you want me dead.”
“It's not a question of wanting.”
“No? Then why?”
“You're part of her, that's why.”
“Who? My mother?”
“Yes.”
“What did my mother ever do to you?”
