He came up next to her. Not too close, but still close. She could smell his cologne, the musky heat of his body.
“I finished the Talese book,” he said.
“… What?”
“Thy Neighbor's Wife. That's why I stopped by—to tell you I finished it last night.”
“Oh.”
“Remember when I bought it? Our plans to find someplace quiet where we can talk?”
“I remember.”
“You haven't changed your mind?”
“Well …”
“It's all right if you have. I'll understand.”
Such a terrific smile, so sweet and sexy. How could there be evil behind it? “No, I haven't changed my mind,” she said without quite meeting his eyes. “It's just … you know, everything that's happened. It isn't a good time.”
His smile vanished; he nodded solemnly. “The Harrells.”
“Yeah. Bobby and his dad … I knew them all my life.”
“I know you did.”
“So I think I'd like to wait a while, okay?”
“Of course, Amy. It really was a terrible accident. It's going to take me a while to come to terms with it, too.”
“I guess everybody feels that way.”
“Those propane heaters are so dangerous,” he said. “Your dad doesn't use that kind at his cottage, does he?”
“My dad?”
“He does still have the beach cottage?”
“Oh … sure. He wanted me to spend last weekend with him and his lady up there.”
“Why didn't you?”
“I don't like her. Besides, I had to work.”
“Does he use propane appliances?”
“I don't know.”
“Well, you might want to ask him. I'm sure he's careful, even if he does; contractors don't usually make those kinds of mistakes. Still, it's always a good idea to be safety conscious.”
“Next time we talk,” Amy said. “I'll ask him then.”
“Is he still at the cottage?”
“No, they came back Monday night.”
“Going up again this coming weekend?”
“I don't think so. He never goes two weekends in a row. Megan doesn't really like it there, and she gets bitchy when he goes without her.”
“It must be a nice place,” he said. “Right near a big beach, isn't it?”
“Manchester State Beach.”
“I love the ocean, walking on the beach.”
“Me, too.”
“I had a feeling that was another thing we shared.”
She didn't say anything.
“Maybe you could show it to me sometime, Amy.”
Oh God, she thought. She still couldn't look into his eyes. A day, a night, maybe even a whole weekend together at the Dunes, just the two of them. Walk on the beach, find out all about each other, make love in front of the fire … it put an ache in her chest just thinking about it. She wanted so much to say yes, I'll show you this weekend, I'll tell Mom I'm staying at Kimberley's and then we'll drive up and I'll show you everything. Everything.
Be very careful, Amy.
Dry-mouthed, she said, “Maybe. Sometime.”
“Whenever you say. But not too long?”
“Not too long.”
“And it'll be our secret until then.”
She nodded, thinking: Please don't let him be the one.
He smiled at her again, that incredible sexy smile. But he didn't touch her, and that was good because she might have weakened if he had, she might have done something not very smart. He said, “Be good, Amy,” and left her alone.
She trudged back to the storeroom. She'd always been so sure of herself, of what she wanted in her life; confident that the decisions she was making about college, career, love, and sex were the right ones for her. Mature beyond her years. A woman at seventeen. But now … now all of a sudden she was confused and uncertain. Everything had been turned upside down; her choices were no longer simple or clearly defined. And worst of all, she had begun to feel like the dorky little kid she'd once been, the kid who'd been afraid to sleep alone in the dark. She hated that. She hated being small and helpless and frightened. She hated not being an adult.
The gun, which Dix had accepted wrapped and bound and therefore sight unseen from Czernecki in exchange for one hundred dollars cash, turned out to be a small, flat .25-caliber Beretta five-shot automatic. It was no larger than Dix's hand; if his fingers had been any thicker, he would not have been able to slide his index finger through the trigger guard.
A woman's weapon. The kind a woman could carry comfortably in her purse, shoot with not much recoil and reasonable accuracy at close range.
Czernecki's little joke.
Dix waited until he got home to unwrap the package, and by then it was too late. Too late, probably, even if he'd insisted on examining the gun in Czernecki's office. The little bastard might have let him have his money back, but he wouldn't sell him another, larger caliber weapon. A one-shot deal—almost literally. If Czernecki was into lousy puns as well as slick irony, he was laughing his head off right this minute.
Dix should have been angry, but he wasn't. His only emotion was a kind of dark, weary determination. Make do with what he had, do what had to be done. There was nothing to be gained in wasting his rage on anyone but the tormentor.
The Beretta's clip was fully loaded. Czernecki had provided one spare clip, also maximum full. Dix checked the action, then field-stripped the piece. The barrel was clean and all the parts were oiled and seemed to work smoothly. Well, why shouldn't they? One thing you could say about gun nuts: They took pride in their firearms, kept them in perfect condition, and wouldn't dream of turning one over to somebody else unless it functioned properly.
He'd hung his gabardine sport jacket in the closet; he put the reassembled Beretta into the right side pocket. It was so small and lightweight that it made no discernible bulge, didn't even alter the hang of the jacket. Then he took the package wrappings into the kitchen, wadded them into the garbage bag. It was just four-thirty when he was done. Louise Kanvitz, according to her ad in the Los Alegres telephone book, closed Bright Winds Gallery at five o'clock. She lived out on Buckram Street, beyond the cemetery—less than a fifteen-minute drive from the Mill, even in traffic. If he left here at five-fifteen he'd be at her house by five-thirty. That ought to be just about right.
He considered calling Cecca, telling her what he intended to do. No, better not. She'd want to go along, and if there was trouble over this—and there probably would be—he deserved to bear the full brunt of it. She had enough grief as it was. Just Kanvitz and him … and the Beretta. And God help her if she refused to tell him what she knew.
He made himself a light Scotch and water. Not for Dutch courage; just to help pass the time. He didn't need any chemical assistance for this task. He was on his way to the living room with the drink when the doorbell sounded.
Damn poor timing, whoever it was. He went and opened the door. Owen Gregory. Wearing a rumpled expression to go with his rumpled suit: a man with things on his mind.
Dix's first thought was that he should have kept his jacket on, so the Beretta would be close at hand if he needed it. Then he thought: For Christ's sake! He said, “Well, Owen. What brings you here?”
“Have you got a few minutes? I'd like to talk to you.”
“I have to go out pretty soon. An appointment.”
“This won't take long.”
“All right. Come on in.”
Owen declined the offer of a drink, went to perch on the edge of a chair in the living room—stiff-backed, his big hands gripping his knees. Dix occupied the sofa across from him.