With an Extreme Burning

“She helped destroy me.”

“You said that before, too. It's a lie, she never hurt you or anybody else—”

“The hell she didn't!” He was suddenly angry. His face got red; veins bulged on his forehead. “She killed them! Three beautiful lives! Her and those other bitches. An eye for an eye. One bad burn deserves another.”

Jesus, she thought.

He was quiet again for a while, staring out toward where the white finger of the lighthouse stuck up from the southern headland. The sun was edging down toward the horizon; the clouds around it looked like spilled red wine. The beach was deserted now. Just her and him and the gulls for miles and miles …

When he spoke to her again, his voice was soft and sad and his face was the same—as if he'd never been angry at all. “Do I look alive to you, Amy?” he asked.

“… What?”

“Alive. I look alive to you, don't I?”

“You are alive.”

“No, you're wrong. I'm not. Do you know what a zombie is?”

“I saw Night of the Living Dead.”

“Well, that's what I am. A zombie. I walk, I talk, I eat, I work, I go through all the motions, but I'm not alive. Inside I'm dead. Oh, there are sparks now and then. Sparks. When I do what I have to for them, Cheryl and Angie and Donnie, I remember what it was like to be alive. But that's all, just sparks. I'll never be alive again. The important pieces are gone. The three important pieces are gone. Three parts to the whole, and only one part is left, and that part can't survive alone. It can function until it finishes what has to be done, but it's already dead. It simply hasn't gone to its grave yet. But it will soon. Zombies can't walk for long. I won't be walking when the whistling swans come next winter.”

He smiled at her, almost a tender smile. “Tell me more, Amy. Help me to know you. What else do you like besides the swans?”

TWENTY-FIVE

It was after nine when they reached Los Alegres. Dix drove straight up to the Ridge. The first order of business was to arm himself with the Beretta—it was still in the drawer of the nightstand next to the bed—and his tape recorder. Then … Jerry Gordon Whittington Cotter.

Beside him, Cecca sat huddled and silent. She'd hardly moved or spoken since they'd picked up the car at the airport parking lot. Still brooding over what he intended to do, even though she knew—had to know—it was the only course of action that made any real sense. Hated guns, hated the idea of him using one. Did she think he liked it? The mere thought of having to shoot a man, any man, roped his stomach into knots. She'd refused to go with him to Jerry's house, which was just as well; he could handle it better alone, without her to worry about, too. An hour and a half. That was as much time as she'd been willing to give him. If he didn't contact her within that time limit, she would notify the police. Reasonable enough. If he couldn't accomplish his mission and make a telephone call within ninety minutes, he would need police assistance. Or a doctor. Or a priest.

He turned off Rosemont into his driveway, turned again at the top of the hill. The house looked all right from the outside; he hadn't expected any different. Jerry would not have made another arson attempt. His actions were erratic, but they didn't seem to run in repeat patterns.

Dix parked alongside Cecca's station wagon, hurried into the house. He put on lights; everything looked all right inside as well. Upstairs for the Beretta, which went into his jacket pocket. His voice-actuated cassette recorder was in the study downstairs; he made sure the battery was functioning before he pocketed it, too. He didn't bother to lock the front door again on the way out. Locked doors meant nothing now, one way or another.

Cecca had taken her overnight bag out of the Buick and was putting it into the wagon. He joined her. She faced him, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. Her cheeks had a talcum-powder whiteness in the light from the rising moon.

“You're sure you don't want to wait here?”

“I'm sure,” she said.

He read the luminous digits on his watch. “It's nine thirty-five. I'll call you or come to your place no later than eleven-fifteen.”

She didn't respond.

“It'll be all right,” he said.

“Will it?”

“He won't kill me and I won't kill him. I promise you that—”

“Don't. I don't want to hear any promises.”

He kissed her. Her mouth was cold and unresponsive, her body rigid. Neither of them had any more words; he left her and got into the Buick and backed it up and turned down the hill. A few seconds later the station wagon's headlights appeared in his rearview mirror. They stayed close behind him until he reached the bottom of Rosemont, then they veered off and he was alone.

His body felt cramped, achy, as he drove across town. Stress. But his mind was free of it, his thoughts clear and sharp. He was almost anticipating the confrontation with Jerry. Citizen's arrest, no violence. I don't want to hear any promises. Okay. Okay, then I won't make any.

Walnut Street. Dark, quiet. Jerry's house. And that was lightless and quiet, too. No sign of his car in the driveway or on the street. He wasn't home.

Dix parked across the street, doused his lights. His first reaction was disappointment. Where the hell was he? Saturday night, and Jerry Gordon Whittington Cotter was a popular guy, lots of dates, lots of social activities. Either that, or he was in his psycho mode, off somewhere making more torment. Better not be that, God damn him.

Then he thought: No, maybe it's better this way. Now there's time to search the house. Evidence … more leverage to force a confession out of him.

He left the car, crossed the street. Lights showed in both neighboring houses, people home, people alert … but he might not have to break in. One thing about their bogus friendship: It had been close enough for him to know where Jerry kept his spare key. Jerry'd used it once when they were together after a golf date, when he had forgotten his regular set of keys.

On the front porch Dix lifted the decorative iron frog that crouched among half a dozen fern planters. The spare key was still there underneath. He let himself in. Heavy silence, broken only by the ticking of a mantel clock. He found the light switch, flipped it. He couldn't search in the dark, and if he'd brought the flashlight from the car, he would only have been inviting attention from the neighbors or a passing police patrol. If Jerry came home while he was hunting, let him come.

There wouldn't be anything in the common rooms, the ones Jerry let visitors into. His bedroom, then. And the spare bedroom that he'd mentioned having turned into a home office. The third possibility was the garage. Dix crossed to the center hall, switched off the living room light, and put on the hall light. The door to Jerry's bedroom was open. He went in, fumbled around until he located the wall switch.

The room was almost monastic. Standard double bed, nightstand, dresser; no photographs, no pictures or wall coverings of any kind. All neat, dusted and vacuumed, the bed made and the coverlet smoothed out to a military tautness: Jerry was as fastidious about his surroundings as he was about his personal appearance. Dix opened the nightstand and dresser drawers, found nothing to hold his attention, and moved to the closet. It was deep and wide, not quite a walk-in closet. Clothing carefully arranged on hangers, half a dozen pairs of shoes on a shoe tree, a few small storage boxes. And on one of the shelves, in a back corner—

A trophy.

Thin-lipped, Dix dragged it off the shelf. Tennis trophy, figure of a player—a woman player—mounted on top. Heavy wood and brass, not pot metal like most trophies of the type. The brass plate on the front bore an etched inscription: Cheryl Adams. Singles Champion. Oregon Coast Invitational Tournament. Pelican Bay, 1979.

Dix stood holding the trophy. Jerry had kept it because it had probably belonged to his wife: Cheryl Adams, her maiden name, won before their marriage. A memento tucked away in his closet, where nobody was likely to see