Bill Pronzini - With an Extreme Burning

“The accident happened as you were leaving the parking lot?”

“That's right.”

“And Katy was driving.”

“Yes. I was in the front seat with her and Eileen was in back. It was raining, one of those thick, misty rains, and just dark. Visibility was practically zero. You could see bright lights—headlights—at a distance but not much else. There were headlights approaching in both lanes, far enough away for Katy to safely make the turn across into the southbound lane. It just didn't look like there was a closer car in that lane. A car was behind us, people leaving the restaurant like we were, and the driver said he thought the lane was clear, too, that he'd have pulled out just as Katy did if he'd been ahead of us.”

“But it wasn't clear,” Dix said.

“No. Just a few seconds after she made the turn—she was still accelerating—she cried out, something like ‘Oh my God!’ and swung over hard to the right. We were just beyond a turnout on the ocean side; we almost went off the road. The other car, the van came roaring up … only its fog lights on and they were dim. He must have been doing at least sixty.”

“Almost hit you, Katy said.”

“Almost. If the northbound lane had been clear, he might have been able to veer around us without going out of control. But by then the lights we'd seen coming that way—two cars—were too close. The only things he could do were to plow into us at full speed or veer into the turnout.”

“Not much of a choice.”

“No choice at all. We talked about it afterward. Each of us would've done just what he did.”

The cut on her palm had started to burn and itch; she rubbed it through the bandage. Dix hadn't asked about the bandage. Even if he had, she wouldn't have told him about the incident with Elliot. Someday she would, but not now. It was no longer important.

She said, “The turnout was fairly wide, fifty or sixty yards. It overlooked a place called Pelican Point. Steep cliffs, a rocky beach. But he was going too fast. And the highway was too slick and the surface … gravel, but there was mud under it, and deep rain puddles. He couldn't stop, couldn't even slow down. The van kept sliding, fishtailing. The rear end hit the guardrail first and then it … sailed through and dropped out of sight. The crash was awful. We could hear it above the storm, even closed up inside the car.”

“Did it explode, burn?”

“It burned, yes; I remember the fireglow. I don't remember an explosion … it was all so confused …”

“There must have been one,” Dix said grimly. “Gasoline igniting—that would have been what caused the fire.”

“I guess so.”

“What did the three of you do?”

“Just sat there in the car,” Cecca said. “We were all petrified, in a state of shock. It happened so fast. Eileen … she said, ‘I think I wet myself.’ She wasn't kidding. She really did wet herself.”

“Then what happened?”

“Two or three other cars stopped. The driver of the one that had been behind us in the parking lot got out and ran over there, too. There wasn't anything they could do. Somebody at the restaurant called the highway patrol. The three of us stayed where we were, waiting, until the officers got there.”

“There were four people in the van?”

“An entire family. Two young children.”

“But they weren't all killed outright.”

“Three were. The fourth—the driver, I think—was thrown clear. He hadn't been wearing his seat belt. They found him in some rocks partway down the cliff.”

“Alive?”

“Yes. Badly injured.”

“How badly?”

“I don't know. We never found out. They were still trying to get down to him when the officers let us go back to our motel. We couldn't bear to stay there any longer than we had to.”

“You said ‘him.’ The father?”

“Yes.”

“Katy told me she called the hospital the next morning, before the three of you left Pelican Bay. He was still alive then?”

“In serious condition. That was all they'd tell her.” Cecca licked dry lips. “One of us should have checked back again later, to find out how he was. But we didn't.”

“You can't blame yourself for that. You didn't know him and the accident was his fault.”

“Still, we were responsible. If we hadn't been there, if Katy hadn't pulled out when she did …”

Dix said slowly, “It could be somebody else thought the same thing. Blamed you, the three of you, for the accident.”

“Revenge after all this time?”

“It's possible. There could be a valid reason for the four-year time lapse … an incapacitating injury that took that long to heal, for instance.”

“… The father?”

“If he lived. Or someone connected to the family. Do you remember their name?”

“No, it's gone. Completely gone.”

“Well, we've got to find out. The family name, if the father survived, and what happened to him if he did. There's only one way I can see to do that quickly, and it doesn't involve St. John. We'd have to convince him it was worthwhile and then he'd insist on going through official channels. That could take days.”

“You mean go to Oregon ourselves.”

“That's right,” Dix said. “Fly to Portland, rent a car, drive over to the coast. And don't tell anybody we're going. It's a gamble, sure, but it's better than waiting around for the tormentor to make his next move. What do we have to lose except a day and a few hundred dollars?”

“When? Tonight?”

“The sooner the better. It's early enough; we ought to be able to drive to SFO in time to catch one of the last flights out. Stay at a motel near the Portland airport, get an early start in the morning. Are you up to it?”

“I'll call United while you pack a bag.”

TWENTY-THREE

It was raining on the Oregon coast.

There had been overcast and scattered showers in the Portland area, more of the same on the drive west on Highway 6 in the rented Datsun. The heavy rain started near Tillamook and hammered them in gusty streamers as they headed south on Highway 101. The storm had a wintry feel; its chill penetrated the car, even with the heater on, and numbed Cecca's feet. Neither she nor Dix had thought to check the Oregon weather before leaving Los Alegres, and they were both dressed according to California conditions. The suede jacket and thin sweater and slacks she wore weren't nearly adequate.

They hadn't said much since leaving the airport motel shortly before nine. There was nothing left to say; they'd picked and probed at it last night on the drive to SFO and throughout the flight, until they had reduced it to raw, bleeding tissue like a wound with the scab torn off.

The digital dashboard clock read ten-forty when they passed through Neskowin, the little village north of Pelican Bay. The sea was close on their right here, partially obscured by low-hanging clouds and mist: slate-gray, heavy-swelled, the waves throwing up dirty white spume when they battered against the rocky shore. Visibility was poor; most of the daylight had been consumed by the storm, and what light there was had a dusky, nebulous quality. Dix had long ago turned on the headlights, but the beams seemed to deflect off the wall of wetness ahead rather than penetrate it.

Cecca said, “This is the way it was that night.”

“Raining like this?”

“Yes. Clouds down low over the road.”

“Miserable driving conditions, especially after dark.”

She nodded. “Even if he'd had his headlights on …”

“Katy might not have seen them. But the accident would still have been his fault for driving too fast. How much farther to Pelican Point?”

“It can't be more than a few miles now.”

It was about four miles. The Crabpot restaurant's big blue and white neon sign, unlit at this early hour, swam up out of the mist ahead; Cecca sat forward as soon as she saw it. “There,” she said, but Dix had seen it, too, and was already tapping the brakes.