With an Extreme Burning

But what, exactly?

That had been right after sunset. He'd been quiet for a while, watching the sky darken and the lighthouse beacon begin to revolve down on the headland; then he'd said he was hungry and finally let her come inside out of the freezing wind; and then he'd turned on the table lamp and sat down next to it and took a notebook out of his pocket and started reading whatever was written in it. It was one of those times he seemed to forget she was there, because when he started talking, it wasn't to her. He'd talked the whole time he was reading, more than five minutes, in that turned-on-faucet way he had in the car. She hadn't heard all of it—part of the time he mumbled— but what she had heard was still pretty clear in her mind.

“Point Arena or Manchester, Point Arena or Manchester. Longer walk to Point Arena, two point three miles compared to one point one … motel there … bus service but not on Sunday. Lose a full day if I stay over anyway.” Mumble. “Margaret? Only fast way to get back. Then it might as well be Manchester, phone at the general store. She'll come, no problem there, but what about the risk?” Mumble. “So little time. Does it really matter?” Mumble. “All right, Manchester. Good, settled. And Dix and Cecca tomorrow, if they're back by then.” Mumble. “Move the timetable up, no choice now. Both at once. But how? Equation for her won't work for him, too. Equation for him maybe. Think about it, adapt it. Doesn't matter if it's foolproof, just as long as they both die.” Mumble. “Mathematics, same as always. Numbers, numbers.” Mumble, mumble.

She understood what some of it meant. The stuff about Mom and Dix all too well. And Margaret had to be Margaret Allen, the woman who worked in his office. She had a thing for him; it seemed like half the poor females in Los Alegres had a thing for him. He was going to call Margaret and have her drive up and get him tonight, after he … afterward. Amy bit her lip, trying to work out the rest of it. Was he going to leave the Honda here or somewhere nearby with her in it, dead? But why not just leave her and drive the car back to Los Alegres and abandon it there? That would be less of a risk than calling Margaret, wouldn't it?

Walking to Point Arena or Manchester … that didn't make sense either. It was farther than 2.3 miles from here to Point Arena; it was almost five miles. And less than 1.1 miles to Manchester. What was 2.3 miles south and 1.1 miles north of here? Nothing that she could remember. Nothing but empty coastline—

And cliffs. High, steep dropoffs from the road to the ocean below.

Oh God—cliffs like the one near Pelican Bay!

Dix said, “We can't waste any more time.” They were at the cars, hers parked behind his Buick across the dark street from Jerry's house. “You have to decide one way or the other. Right now.”

“I still can't think straight—”

“I'm going to the Dunes; that's my decision. But Amy's not my daughter. You do what you think is best for her. If it's the police, all I ask is that you don't tell them where I am or what I'm doing.”

Common sense, all her conditioned reflexes, said the police—of course the police. Dix didn't know Jerry had taken Amy to the Dunes, the map didn't have to mean that. Guesswork, desperate hoping. Long way to the Mendocino coast, nearly three hours of driving, and what if they weren't there or hadn't been there? Another three hours to drive back, a total of six or seven hours until the authorities were finally notified.

But he'd had Amy six or seven hours already, enough time to do any number of unspeakable things to her. If she was still alive, why not at the Dunes? Where else was there to look for her? And the police were so skeptical and disapproving, so maddeningly slow to act … it might take three hours to convince them to do anything at all. St. John would be furious that she and Dix had withheld information, broken the law—he might not even believe her. She had no proof Amy had been abducted, couldn't even file a missing-person report after only a few hours. No proof that Jerry was a murderer; without a search warrant St. John couldn't, wouldn't, go into his house. And she was so tired, so strung out … she wasn't sure she could endure the endless questions, the awful passive waiting—

“I'm leaving,” Dix said heavily. He had the Buick's door open, was sliding in under the wheel. “Come with me or go to the police. Which is it going to be?”

She didn't reply with words. Her answer was to run around between the cars and thrust her body onto the seat beside him.

TWENTY-SIX

“Amy. Wake up, Amy.”

Voice in her ear, hand shaking her shoulder. She came up jerkily out of a thin, cold sleep, groggy for a second, then amazed at herself for having fallen asleep, then frightened and pulling away from his touch as her eyes slitted open and she saw him leaning over her. There was light in the room—he'd turned the table lamp on again. His blond hair was all mussed from the wind, his eyes as shiny as blue glass. The skin over his cheekbones and around his mouth looked like wax in the lampglow.

He straightened. “It's time,” he said.

“Time for what?”

“Time to go.”

“What time is it?”

“Time to go, Amy.”

She shook her head; it was like Alice and the White Rabbit talking nonsense. I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date. Instinctively she tried to burrow back under the blanket. He didn't like that. He yanked it off her, wadded it, and threw it on the floor behind him.

“I said it's time. Stand up, young lady.”

The cliffs …

Her body didn't want to move. And her right leg, caught under her left, was partly numb. “All right,” he said. He clamped onto her arm, lifted her out of the chair with hardly any effort.

As soon as she put weight on the numb leg, it buckled. She said, “Ow,” and wrenched loose and sat down again.

“What's the matter?”

“My leg … it's asleep.”

“It won't do you any good to lie to me.”

“I swear to God. It's asleep.”

“Rub it, then. Keep rubbing until the feeling comes back.”

She leaned over and rubbed with both hands, thinking about the cliffs waiting in the darkness. I don't want to die. The leg started to tingle, to burn a little the way legs and arms did when the blood was flowing again. She'd be able to stand now. But she didn't get up. She kept rubbing, rubbing.

“Hurry up, Amy.”

“It's still numb. I don't think I can walk.”

“I'll help you. Give me your hand.”

She extended her left hand; his fingers closed hot and sticky around hers. Once more, standing at the front side of the recliner, his body slanted toward her, he lifted her strongly to her feet. And this time, turned as he was, turning as she did, she was right up in his face.

She stepped down hard on his instep, shifted her weight, and drove her right knee into his crotch.

Ballbuster! He jackknifed at the waist, yelled, let go of her hand, and staggered backward, moaning deep in his throat. A wild elation flooded her. But he didn't fall and the direction he went put him between her and the front door. There was no way to get past him quickly and no time to unbolt and unchain the door. The elation died as quickly as it had been born. No time to run to the kitchen for a knife either; he was already starting to unbend, one hand clutching himself and the other fumbling at his belt for the gun, his face all pulled out of shape, his eyes popped so wide it was as if they were coming right out of their sockets.

“Damn … little … bitch!”

She ran for the balcony door.

He hadn't flipped the lock; she got it open wide enough to squeeze through, slid it partway shut behind her. The wind, strong and chill, almost took her breath away. She fled across the balcony to the outer railing, peered over and down. It looked like a long way to the shadowy sand and grass below. Ten feet, maybe more. She threw a