Bill Pronzini: With an Extreme Burning

Chet's cottage on the Mendocino coast?

Now that it was dark, the cottage was drafty and cold. He'd let her have a blanket and she sat wrapped up in it in Dad's old recliner, her feet pulled under her, but she still couldn't get warm. She'd practically begged him to let her put on the space heater, at least, but he wouldn't. They really didn't need it, he said, which had made her think they weren't going to stay much longer. But that had been hours ago and they were still there.

The cold didn't seem to bother him. Or if it did, he didn't let on about it. He hadn't even taken a blanket for himself. He was sitting over by the balcony doors, nothing on but his suit coat and slacks. She could see him in the pale moonlight that came in through the glass, a black, lumpy shape like a huge bird with its wings folded. For a long time now he hadn't said anything to her, not one word. He wasn't asleep though. She knew that if she tried to get out of the chair, he'd be on her in about two seconds flat.

What was he thinking about over there? What was he planning to do to her?

She was afraid again. A little, anyway, because of the way he kept sitting in the dark without moving. How much longer before he told her what he was going to do? Or went ahead and tried to do it? The worst part was the waiting. Not knowing was bad enough, but the waiting …

Her stomach hurt, too. That cold chicken soup … it was like a big greasy puddle sloshing around under her breastbone. He'd eaten some and told her to eat the rest and wouldn't take no for an answer, so what else could she do? Last supper, she thought. She pulled the blanket tighter under her chin.

At first, when he'd said he was hungry, she'd thought he might let her fix something to eat. The drawer with the kitchen knives in it—that had flashed into her mind right away. But no, he wouldn't let her near any of the cupboards or drawers. He'd found the soup and opened it and made her eat her share with a dinky little teaspoon. He was so smart, so smart. But he wasn't perfect. He'd make some kind of mistake, and then she—

His chair scraped. Amy sat up convulsively. Getting up? No … he'd just shifted position for the first time in a long time. Now he was motionless again.

How much longer ?

She settled back and went over again in her mind all the things he'd said when they were out on the balcony. All the personal questions, all the crazy crap about one bad burn deserving another and sparks and being a zombie. And all the stuff later, after he'd run out of questions to ask her, that must have to do with what he was planning. 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.