Bill Pronzini - With an Extreme Burning

They stayed outside after they finished eating and the remains were cleared away. They had more drinks, they talked, they watched the sun sink lower in the west and turn the sky a streaky gold, then a darkening pink. And a slow change came over Dix. The feelings of detachment and fragmentation went away; he grew sharply aware of what was being said and done around him, of what was in his own mind. Tension seemed to seep out of him, leaving a kind of shaky peace—the kind that follows a crisis point reached and overcome. Mr. Mediocrity was no longer looking for a way out.

The breeze had picked up, turned the coming night as chilly as he had anticipated earlier; they all put on sweaters and jackets. The last of the sunset colors disappeared into smoky gray, and when dusk became dark, the wind sharpened again. Somebody said, “Brr, it's cold out here.” Jerry suggested they go inside, have some coffee, maybe a little dessert. Owen, still nursing his bruised feelings, said he'd pass, he had some film to develop and he'd better get on home. It was like a door being suddenly opened to reveal an escape route: The others made their own excuses as they trooped inside. Within ten minutes, despite Jerry's mild protests, the party was over—hours earlier than it would have been in the old days.

Dix's car was parked just ahead of Cecca's, so it was natural enough for him to walk her to the door of her station wagon. They were alone there, out of the earshot of any of the others. As she groped in her purse for her keys, he whispered, “You were right. We're not going to sit around and wait for something else to happen. We're going to put an end to it.”

She looked up at him, her face silver and shadow in the early moonlight.

“Tomorrow morning we'll go see Louise Kanvitz and find out what she knows. One way or another.”

THIRTEEN

It was going to be another beautiful night.

Eileen went out for her evening walk earlier than usual, right after they got back from Lakeport, leaving Ted and the boys to play Monopoly. This was their last night at the cabin—the end of another vacation, home tomorrow afternoon, school and dental office and hospital and the rest of the familiar grind on Tuesday—and she wanted to savor the sunset, the lake view, the coolness, the solitude.

She walked along the road toward the Milbank cabin several hundred yards to the east. It was the same route she'd followed every night the past week, had followed nearly every night up here since they'd bought the cabin twelve years ago: past the Milbanks', through the woods and along the water's edge, then up onto the promontory, where she would sit and watch the sky and the water until dusk began to settle. It was a ritual and a tradition. Her life was governed by rituals and traditions, not that she minded; it was comforting to do the same things over and over, year after year, things you enjoyed. Every summer, on their last night at the cabin, they drove into Lake-port and ate raviolis stuffed with cheese and Italian sausage, Oliveri's specialty of the house. Oh, lordy, those raviolis! They were to die for. She'd not only eaten her platter but half of Kevin's. He'd always been a light eater, Kevin, the only one in the family who was. Regressive gene, probably. Well, she and Ted and Bobby made up for him. Did they ever.

Nobody was home at the Milbanks'. Gone out for Sunday dinner, a later one; not everybody liked to stuff their faces as early as the Harrell clan. Eileen walked on past, entered the thick growth of pines on the footpath that branched off the road. It was cool and darkish in there, with the branches thick-woven overhead. If this were Los Alegres, it would have made her uneasy to be in there alone at this hour; even fat women in their forties had to worry about rape these days. But not here in the country. Very little crime in the Blue Lake area, except for an occasional winter break-in like the one at the Scotts', their neighbors to the west, a couple of years ago. You were safe enough wandering around alone, although she wouldn't have tempted fate by going out walking after dark. Animals prowled at night, even if people didn't.

She wondered, as she made her way along the path, if Ted would want to make love tonight. She hoped so. That was another ritual: lovemaking on their last night, as long as they were both healthy and not fighting about something. And truth to tell, she was horny again. Must be the mountain air. Thursday night, the last time they'd had sex, had been very very good. A giggle rose up in her as she remembered its aftermath. In the moments following her orgasm she'd clutched at Ted and whispered, “You're a tiger, you are,” and without missing a beat he'd panted, “What, you think I have a striped pecker?” The image that conjured up had struck her as hysterically funny. In her convulsions she'd almost rolled him off the bed onto the floor. He'd finally had to grab her and muffle her laughter against his chest to keep it from waking Bobby and Kevin. “You want the boys to think their mother's high on laughing gas?” he'd whispered, which only prolonged the spasms.

The pines thinned near the water and the ground, thick with ferns, rose in a long sweep to the promontory. There was dry grass up there now, but in the spring wildflowers bloomed in a riot of color: purple lupines, golden poppies, dark-red Indian paintbrush. A rocky projection, complete with a worn-smooth section that was just the right size for her broad heinie, provided a natural bench. She sank down on it, sighing, relieved to take the weight off her feet.

Now that the sun had ridden low in the west, the lake was silver-sheened. Half a dozen skiffs and powerboats moved over the surface, one of the inboards towing a pair of teenage water skiers trying to perform a crossover maneuver. The kids weren't very adept at it: One of them got his tow rope tangled in the other's and both of them went ass-over-teakettle into the boat's wake. Eileen smiled. Kevin and Bobby were much better water skiers. The Milbanks had a Chris-Craft and the boys had been out with them three or four times again this summer. I wish Ted weren't so stubbornly attached to that old outboard of his, she thought. A powerboat would be nice for the boys. Just a small one, with a sun awning in case she decided to go along for the ride. She'd have to talk to Ted about it again before next summer.

She watched the lower rim of the sun edge closer to the horizon. The sky was already taking on color—mostly different shades of red. That was one of the pleasurable things about sitting out there night after night: Each sunset was different, if only just a little. When she and Ted both retired and could spend the entire summer at the cabin, she'd have to see how many nights it took before there was a sunset rerun. Scores, she'd bet, if not hundreds.

She thought about Cecca and Dix and Katy. It was creepy to think that someone they all knew had not only been Katy's lover but a sleaze who made scary phone calls. Brrr. Cecca still hadn't had any idea who it was when they'd talked on Thursday evening, but at least there hadn't been any more calls or other surprises … so far. She'd racked her brain and finally remembered, just that morning, the thing that had been bugging her since Monday. It was something Katy had said to her just a few days before she died, something odd about Pelican Bay and a trophy she'd seen. Eileen had tried to get her to elaborate, but she'd closed up like a clam. “I'll let you know if it means what I think it means”—that was the last thing Katy had said about it. In light of what had happened since … well, there just might be a connection. As soon as she remembered, she'd tried to call Cecca and got her machine. And Cecca hadn't called back, or if she had, it was while the Harrell crew was inhaling raviolis in Lakeport. Probably better if they discussed it face-to-face anyway. Tomorrow night, if Cecca was available when they got back to Los Alegres.