Bill Pronzini - With an Extreme Burning

And all at once the loneliness struck him, a sudden stabbing sensation so sharp that his flesh seemed to curl inward around it, as if it were a blade.

Katy, he thought. I'm so sorry, Katy.

Sorry she was gone, sorry for doubting her fidelity, sorry for thinking she might have taken her own life. Sorry for himself, his loss, his pain. Sorry that he had to keep on trying to find out if the accusations were true.

Sorry that he was the kind of man who always had to know.

FOUR

Six o'clock. And Amy still wasn't home yet.

Cecca was in the kitchen with Owen Gregory, making a fruit salad for supper, trying not to worry. It wasn't that late, still broad daylight—but her eyes kept straying to the wall clock. Do you know where Amy is, Francesca? Do you have any idea what's happening to that little bitch of yours this very minute? Subtle torture, without any foundation whatsoever. That was what these telephone freaks counted on, wasn't it? The victim torturing herself?

Amy said she'd be home around four. Why isn't she here yet?

Owen's presence should have helped keep her calm, but it was having the opposite effect. He'd stopped by at five-thirty, unannounced, to bring her the photos of the Andersen farm in Hamlin Valley, her newest listing. He did most of the brochure photography for Better Lands, and he'd done his usual expert job of making a property look better than it really was, focusing on the Andersen place's hilly backdrop and that impressive line of old eucalyptus that flanked the access drive. The color shots were crystal-clear, yet you couldn't tell that the house and barn were in poor repair. But he could have dropped the prints off at the office or waited to give them to her on Monday. They were an excuse, of course. To see her. To sit and make small talk and gaze at her with his big, sad, worshipful eyes.

Those eyes were what had led her to sleep with him that night last summer. It was flattering to be the object of someone's passion, even if it wasn't reciprocated; and she'd been tight and Amy had been staying at a friend's house, and it had been so long since she'd had sex, and when she looked into those worshipful eyes … bad judgment, a foolish mistake. It had given Owen false hope that it could happen again, that there could be something serious between them. The morning after, she'd told him the truth in the gentlest possible terms: She cared for him but she didn't love him, they could go on being friends but nothing more. He'd said he understood, but it didn't keep him from pursuing her in his low-key way. She liked him, she really did. He was kind, gentle, attractive. But she felt more sorry for him than anything else. And he got on her nerves sometimes, like right now—

“Cecca.”

She turned her head. He was sitting at the table, his long legs stretched out, rolling the bottle of Coors she'd given him between his hands. His dark hair was its usual mop, damp and lank now from the heat, a long wisp plastered over one eyebrow. The tail of his shirt was untucked. There was a grass stain on the knee of his cords. Thirty-seven going on twelve, she thought. It was a wonder he'd never married. God knew, he'd had opportunities; maternal women loved him to pieces. But he didn't want a mother figure. He wanted the ex-wife of Chet Bracco, and had even when she was married. Poor Owen, because the ex-wife of Chet Bracco wanted a man, not a little boy.

“What's the matter?” he asked her. “You keep looking at the clock.”

“Just wondering where Amy is. She should be home by now.”

“Where'd she go after work?”

“I'm not sure. Some errands, she said.”

“Kids. I wouldn't want to be a teenager these days.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Oh, you know, all the problems and pressures.”

“What does that have to do with her being late?”

“Nothing. I was making an observation—”

“My daughter's a good girl, Owen.”

“I know that. Lord, Cecca, I didn't mean to imply—”

“Damn!” The potato peeler she'd been using to core strawberries had slipped and nicked her finger. She sucked at the drop of blood that appeared.

Owen was on his feet, petting her arm. “Hurt yourself?”

“It's nothing,” she said. “I'm sorry I snapped at you. I'm feeling a little prickly today.”

“It's the heat.”

“Yes. The heat. Owen … I'd ask you stay for supper, but—”

“No, that's all right. Date tonight?”

“No. I just don't feel up to company.”

“I understand.”

No, you don't, she thought. “All I want to do is eat and take a long, cool bath and zone out in front of the TV.”

“Sounds good. I'll probably do the same.”

She finished the strawberries, started to cut up a peach. Owen stood watching her, making no move to leave. Like an adoring puppy. Can't you take a hint, Owen? Go home!

Lights slid across the kitchen window as a car swung into the driveway. Amy's Honda—that little engine had a whiny rumble that was unmistakable.

“There she is,” Owen said.

Cecca felt a greater relief than the situation called for. That damned telephone freak … if he knew how deep under her skin he'd gotten, he'd be thrilled. He'd probably come all over himself.

The back door banged and Amy slouched in carrying three bulging shopping bags. She looked wilted but pleased with herself. “Whew,” she said, “what a day. Oh, hi, Owen.”

“Hi yourself,” Owen said, smiling.

Amy dumped the bags on the kitchen table, dragged open the refrigerator. “Iced tea, good.” She took the pitcher out.

Cecca said, “Where have you been?” The words came out sharper than she'd intended.

“Oh God,” Amy said, “you're pissed.”

“I'm not. I expected you hours ago, that's all.”

“Well, it was crowded at the malls.”

“Is that where you've been?”

“Shopping. Me and Kimberley.”

“Kimberley and I,” Cecca said automatically.

“I know that.” Impish grin. “I'm a journalism major, remember?”

“Just the two of you? Shopping?”

“Isn't that what I just said?”

“Amy …”

“School's about to start. Foxy new outfits this fall.”

Cecca tried to lighten her voice as she said, “Looks like you bought every one in stock,” but the words sounded forced even to her.

“Dad gave me a hundred dollars to match the hundred you said I could spend. I paid for the rest with my own money, don't worry.”

“When did your dad give you a hundred dollars?”

“When I saw him last week.”

“You didn't ask him for it?”

“No, I didn't ask him. He gave it to me.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I didn't think it was exactly cosmic news,” Amy said. “Why're you making such a big deal out of nothing?”

“I'm not making …” Cecca let the rest of the sentence die. She was making a big deal out of nothing. And Owen, standing there with his big ears flapping, was not helping matters. She said, “Owen, if you don't mind?”

“Sure,” he said, “I'm out of here.” He came over and kissed her cheek. Then he said to Amy, “See you later, foxy.”

She wrinkled her nose at him.

The silence following Owen's departure had a strained quality. Amy poured a glass of iced tea, drank half of it. “Fruit salad,” she said then. “Is that all we're having?”

“Too hot to cook.”

“I guess. I'm going up and take a shower, if that's okay with you.”

“Amy, don't be angry. It's been a long day.…”

“For me too. What time are we eating?”

“I don't know, seven or seven-thirty.”

“I'm picking Kim up at seven-thirty.”

“Going out again tonight?”

“It's Saturday night, Mom. Just because you don't go out doesn't mean I have to stay home, too.”