Bill Pronzini - With an Extreme Burning

“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 look over her shoulder at the sliding door.

It was opening—he was coming through.

She caught the railing, swung her legs and hips over it, and let go.

Mile after mile of dark, twisting roads, yellow-white headlights, red taillights, wind moaning at the windows, tires humming, the hiss and rumble of passing cars. After a while it began to have a hypnotic effect on Cecca, creating a feeling of detachment and suspension in time. The same feeling induced by the muscle relaxers Dr. Peavey had prescribed to help her sleep after the breakup with Chet.

But it was an illusory calm, a surface detachment as thin as an ice glaze over roiling water. It could be shattered easily, in an instant. She was no different from Eileen in that respect. The black currents and whirlpools were the same, and it was possible that she, too, could be sucked down into them. Once already she'd imagined she could hear the currents, like voices whispering to her: If Amy dies, it's your fault. You shouldn't have left her alone. You should have sent her away, hidden her someplace safe. It'll be your fault …

For the countless time she looked at the dashboard clock: 12:58. And while her eyes were still on it: 12:59. On the road for more than two hours now. They ought to be nearing Gualala, must be close to Sea Ranch, but thick forest crowded in on both sides of the car here and the road was so sharp-winding it was almost switch-backed. The ocean seemed far away.

At least the long, treacherous section of highway that hugged the cliffs between Jenner and Fort Ross was behind them. She'd never liked that section—what her father called “white-knuckle territory.” Tonight it had seemed even more frightening. Bright moonlight made the sheer rock walls and the foaming ocean far below stand out in sharp relief. It had been too easy to imagine Amy at the bottom of one of the cliffs, broken, lifeless—or worse, a smoldering charcoal ruin. Shutting her eyes had only sharpened the images. She'd endured the stretch of road with her eyes open.

The dashboard clock now read 1:03.

She shifted her gaze to Dix. He sat bow-backed over the wheel, pinching grit out of his eyes with thumb and forefinger. As tired as she was, but alert. He didn't seem to need conversation to help him maintain his concentration. And she didn't want it to intrude on the thin surface of her calm.

The woods thinned out and the road straightened into a long line of white-striped black. There were no lights on it except theirs, but she could see house lights off on both sides ahead. And the ocean again, too, wind-whitened in the distance. Sea Ranch, the wealthy retirement enclave just south of Gualala.

Dix said, “It won't be much longer. Another half hour.”

“Yes.”

“You holding up all right?”

“Yes.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.” As if it were the only word left in her vocabulary.

We'll find Amy. We'll find her alive .

Yes. Yes .

But he didn't say his lines. And she didn't say hers.

The drifted sand cushioned Amy's fall. But she landed flat-footed, with not enough bend in her knees, and the force of impact drove pain up both legs, pitched her forward onto her face. Grimacing, she gathered herself onto her knees. She didn't turn her head to look upward; she could hear him at the railing, his voice rising furiously above the wind.

“Don't run, Amy! You can't get away!”

She was already on her feet, already running.

“I'll shoot you, I'll blow your head off, I won't let you do this to me …”

She hunched her shoulders, but she didn't stop or slow her hobbled pace. One of her shoes had come off in the fall; the other had filled with sand after only a few steps and she'd kicked it off. Fragments of shell and wood dug into the soles of her bare feet as she dodged into the shadows behind one of the scrub pines. That and the hurt in her legs and the clinging sand made it seem as if she were hardly moving.

Any second he would fire the gun … but he didn't. She dodged again, so she could look back to the cottage past the branches of the pine. He wasn't on the balcony anymore. He wasn't anywhere that she could see.

Coming after her.

The Honda was off to her right, a thick, boxy shape at the edge of her vision. Why hadn't she listened to Mom and put a spare key in a magnetic holder under the bumper! She ran, and the grit underfoot deepened, grew less firm … it was like being in heavy syrup up to your ankles, having it tangle up every step. The muscles in her legs were already burning from the strain. But she was nearing the dunes, almost to where the loose sand gave way to a mat of sawgrass and weeds that would make running a little easier.

The dunes bulked high and round against the sky, their coarse grass coats swaying and rustling in the wind. The dips between them were deep-shadowed, like the craters in pictures of the moon landing. She plowed ahead, gaining speed as the footing improved, and finally reached the first of the cratered areas. But then her left foot came down on something hard and sharp; the sudden stinging threw her off stride, almost toppled her. She said, “Shit!” under her breath and looked back again. She could still see the upper part of the cottage, the lamp burning behind the door glass, but the sand hills and scrub cut off her view of the car and the road and the flats.