With an Extreme Burning

“Come in, sit down. I'll get you a drink.”

The drink was gin and tonic, not too strong. Dix drank half of it in one swallow. “Oh, I needed this.”

“I don't doubt it.”

They settled in what had once been the living room and was now Elliot's study. Books and papers covered most of the furniture, were scattered in little piles on the floor: Neatness was not one of his virtues. The only uncluttered surface was a prominent wall shelf on which Elliot's own books were displayed. He took the university system's publish-or-perish edict seriously; he had published a dozen volumes in the past twenty years, most with university and regional presses, two with small New York publishers. The centerpiece of the display was the book he considered to be his magnum opus, an eight-hundred-page combination biography of the crusading San Francisco newspaperman Fremont Older and history of California journalism. Not a modest man, Elliot Messner.

Dix moved a stack of pamphlets to make room for himself on the couch. Elliot occupied his huge cracked leather armchair. It needed to be huge because he was a big man, three or four inches over six feet, weight about two-twenty. Shaggy hair and a thick beard, both flame-red, coupled with his size and rough I'll-say-what-I-please manner gave him the aspect of one of the rugged-individualist pioneers of the last century. The image may have been calculated to reflect his academic specialty, California and Pacific Coast history, but Dix didn't think so; Elliot had his faults, but role-playing wasn't one of them. He was two years older than Dix, divorced, and if you believed campus rumors, not averse to laying women teachers, TAs, and regular students whenever the opportunity arose. If this was true, at least he was discreet about it. He didn't flaunt his conquests the way some men did.

Dix said, “I didn't know you were selling your house.”

“Trying to. Not much interest so far.”

“How long have you had it on the market?”

“Six weeks. If the Democrats don't turn the economy around, I may never sell the damn place. It's not a financial decision, in case you're wondering. I'm just tired of living in a frigging tract. I never did like it here, you know. It was Grace's idea to buy in Brookside Park. Hell, I should have realized then that the marriage was doomed.”

“Where will you go when it does sell?”

Elliot shrugged. “Out in the country someplace. Not too far away; I hate commuting. A farm, if I can find one that's affordable. I always did want to own a farm. Grow my own fruit and vegetables.” He laughed his seal-bark laugh. “Chop the heads off my own chickens for recreation.”

Dix finished his drink. Elliot did the same and got immediately to his feet. “We can both use another one,” he said, and took the glasses away before Dix could protest.

When he came back with the refills, he asked, “Feel like talking about it?”

“About what?”

“What it is that's got you all worked up.”

“I'm not … it's just the heat, that's all.”

“Bullshit,” Elliot said. “It's more than that. More than what happened to Katy. Looks to me like you've had a shock of some kind.”

“No … all right, yes.”

“I'm a good listener,” Elliot said.

“I know you are.”

“But? Tell me it's none of my business and I'll drop it.”

Dix hesitated. He didn't want to talk about it. Talking about it seemed disloyal, to give the doubts weight, the accusations merit. And yet the need to unburden himself was strong. He said at length, without making a conscious decision, “I've been getting … phone calls.”

“Oh?”

“The anonymous kind. Half a dozen since just after the funeral. Heavy breathing, crank stuff—somebody who read about the accident in the newspaper. They didn't bother me much until today.”

“What happened today?”

Dix told him about the call earlier. But not the details, and he didn't voice his doubts. “‘Lies,” he said, “evil lies.”

Elliot was shaking his head. “Any idea who he is?”

“No.”

“Well, it's likely he's someone you know.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The altered voice, for one thing. Why bother to disguise his voice unless he's afraid you might recognize it.”

“Christ,” Dix said. He hadn't thought of that before.

“Another thing. If he's a stranger, he'd have to be one hell of a diligent researcher. And that's not the pattern in these crank-call cases.”

“So many private details, you mean.”

“More than he could've gotten out of the paper.”

“It's hard to imagine anyone I know personally doing a thing like this.”

“Doesn't have to be a friend or acquaintance. Man who works in a store you trade in, for instance—knows who you are, knows people who know you and can provide the details.”

“That's possible. But why me?”

“Random selection. Or he was triggered by news of the accident. He might even be a former student of yours.”

Dix hadn't thought of that, either. He nodded slowly.

Elliot said, “Failing course grade, low grade on a term paper or thesis, some other slight real or imagined … things like that prey on young minds. Hell, you've been a teacher as long as I have. You know how much hostility some of the little shits can generate.”

“All too well.”

“Even with the voice filter, could you tell his age?”

“No.”

“But you're sure he's a man?”

“Positive. Women don't play sick games like that.”

“Not usually. But it has been known to happen.”

Dix finished his second gin and tonic. Even though Elliot had made the drinks light, he could feel the effects of the alcohol. When Elliot asked him if he wanted a third, he said, “No, I'd better not. The last thing I need is a DUI arrest on the way home.”

Elliot rummaged on the table beside his chair, came up with a package of Pall Malls. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked perfunctorily, and when Dix shook his head, he said, “I've got to quit one of these days,” and lighted up. He didn't mean it about quitting; he said the same thing every other time he had a cigarette, had been saying it as long as Dix had known him. He had cut back to a pack a day in the past year, but the faculty betting was that he would never go all the way.

“I wish I could offer you some sage advice on handling this guy,” he said, “but I can't. I don't know what I'd do if I were in your shoes. Change my telephone number, I suppose, and hope for the best.”

“That's what I intend to do,” Dix said.

“In any case, he'll go away eventually. They always do. Meanwhile … it's his shit and you don't have to wallow in it. Right?”

“Right.”

“So. On to a more pleasant topic. I spoke to Lawrence Hampton after you called this morning. Under the circumstances, he's willing to let you take his four-five-three for this semester.”

“He is? That's good of him.”

History 453 was the Age of Jackson, 1815–1850. Expansion and sectional change, economic sectionalism and national politics, the rise of Jacksonian democracy, and social and political reform in the U.S. from the Peace of Ghent to the Compromise of 1850. It was supposed to be a department course, with rotating instructors, but Hampton's specialty was pre—Civil War U.S. history and he'd taught 453 for the past several years by tacit agreement.