Dix ran on a long slant down to the fence. The yard lights and the kitchen lights were on, he realized then. And Cecca was out in the yard, wearing one of his old robes, dragging the garden hose toward the garage. She'd already turned the water on; as soon as she reached the building she lifted the spray nozzle, squeezed out a jet that made a thin hissing noise when it struck the burning debris. He climbed back over the fence, remembered the gun, and pocketed it before he reached her side.
“Don't aim at the fire,” he told her. “The grass above the retaining wall—soak that first. There's another hose out front for me.”
She nodded and he rushed away from her, around the garage to the far front corner. The second hose lay coiled near the stairs to the vegetable garden. He turned the bib on, took the hose atop the retaining wall. Cecca, he saw, was soaking the grass as he'd instructed her. He directed his stream of water onto the prunings and lumber and bags of leaves, most of which had been deliberately clumped together to form a pyre. The fire was still contained there; it hadn't had enough time or fuel to burn hot. Between them, working with the two hoses, they kept it contained and had it out in less than three minutes.
He was amazed to find, then, that none of the neighbors had been aroused. The Bradfords' house was still dark and nobody had come up from below. It had been a frantic few minutes, but his own heightened senses to the contrary, it had all happened without sufficient noise to raise an alarm. The fire had burned in a place where it couldn't be seen except by someone close by and uphill. And the Bradfords' bedroom faced another direction.
He listened for sirens. No sirens. Then he threw the hose down, went back to shut off the bib, scuffed around among the sodden debris to make sure there were no hot spots, and finally joined Cecca.
“Damn lucky the bastard's not an accomplished arsonist,” he said. “Did you call the fire department?”
“I thought about it, but it seemed more urgent to try to keep the fire from spreading.”
“Glad you didn't. I'm not sure my nerves could stand any more upheaval tonight.”
“Shouldn't we report it? To St. John, at least?”
“In the morning.”
“You didn't get a look at him up there, did you?”
“No, dammit. Not even a glimpse. He had his car parked on High Street, on the back side of the hill.”
She hugged herself. “It's freezing out here. Let's go inside.”
He left his wet and blackened slippers on the mat, padded into the hall to turn on the heat. Upstairs, he donned a pair of slipper socks and a warmer robe. When he came back down, Cecca was making coffee in the kitchen.
“Dix … where did you get the gun?”
The question caught him off guard. “Gun?”
“I saw it in your hand when you climbed over the fence. Where did you get it?”
“I bought it.”
“Why?”
“Why? Why do you think?”
“I hate firearms,” she said. “You know how much I hate firearms.”
“I'm not crazy about them either. But this is different. Like it or or not, we have to have some way to protect ourselves.”
“Is that the only reason you bought the gun, for protection?”
“Of course. What kind of question is that?”
“If you'd caught him on the hill, what would you have done? Would you have shot him?”
“Not unless he attacked me. I'd have brought him back here and held him for St. John.”
“Are you sure you wouldn't have just shot him down in cold blood, after all he's done to us? Absolutely sure?”
“Absolutely sure,” he said.
But he wasn't. He wasn't sure at all.
TWENTY-ONE
The buildings that made up the Andersen farm—sixty-year-old one-story house, barn, chicken coop, pumphouse—looked fine from a distance. And from certain angles closer in, too, as in Owen's photographs. The setting was attractive: wooded hill behind the house and barn, eucalyptus-flanked access drive, fields of alfalfa and corn, a ten-tree apple orchard. It was only when you got up close to the buildings that you realized how much repair work needed to be done. The farmhouse wanted paint, a new roof, a new front porch; the barn had gapped and missing boards in two walls and its doors hung crooked from a sagging lintel. The wire on the coop was badly rusted and would have to be replaced, and the coop itself needed shoring up. The fences around the yard and those that bounded the fields and orchard were tumbledown. The fields hadn't been plowed or cultivated in four years, since old Frank Andersen had been diagnosed with cancer. Weeds and grass grew thigh-high under the apple trees.
From a real estate agent's point of view, it had seemed like a white elephant. Tom Birnam had taken on the listing as a favor to Andersen's widow and two daughters, and he'd asked Cecca to handle it as a favor to him. The first time she'd viewed it, ten days ago, she'd thought it was the kind of property that might well take up a lot of her time and effort and never make her a dime's worth of commission—one that would be looked at but not bought by dozens of straightforward clients and bargain hunters, all the while deteriorating more and more from lack of upkeep. One day in the far future, somebody would finally decide to take it on spec at a rock-bottom price, but it might not be her listing anymore—or Better Lands'—when that happened.
So then here came Elliot Messner, the very first prospect she'd shown it to, and it was beginning to look like a quick sale after all. As with the Hagopians, she'd sensed his positive reaction on the first showing; obviously he saw something in the place—a reclamation challenge, maybe—that she didn't and any number of others wouldn't. The fact that he'd asked for this second look was even more encouraging. He was hooked; she was fairly sure of it. If he didn't see anything today to change his mind, she thought he would make an offer as soon as the escrow closed on his Brookside Park property.
She wished she cared.
She didn't seem to care about much of anything today, including the fact that the Hagopians had come in first thing to accept Elliot's counteroffer and sign a purchase agreement. There was an apathy in her that she couldn't seem to shake. On the one hand, it had allowed her to function at the office and to keep her appointment with Elliot that afternoon. On the other hand, she knew how dangerous that sort of feeling could be if she allowed it to continue. Prelude to a breakdown, the inability to function at all. Underneath the layer of indifference, her nerves were like sparking wires: Fray them any more and they would short-circuit.
The dusty yard was deserted when she drove in. She was on time; Elliot was late. She parked near the picket fence fronting the farmhouse, sat there for a minute or two, and then decided to get out. Although she could see the buildings of a neighboring farm less than half a mile away, the place had a desolate, lonely feel. A family's home once, teeming with vitality—now dormant, waiting for somebody to breathe new life into it or else to die. Freda Andersen had moved out as soon as her husband passed away, into the home of one of her daughters in town; the other married daughter lived in Texas. Two goats and the chickens had been sold off. There was nothing left but ghosts.
The wind was strong out of a partly overcast sky; Cecca buttoned her beige linen blazer. Clouds running overhead made irregular shadow patterns on the fields and nearby hills. The only audible sound was the ratchety turning of the blades in a rusted windmill behind the pumphouse. To her, its rhythm was like the beating of a weak heart.
She glanced at her watch, then out toward Hamlin Valley Road. Still no sign of Elliot. This was the reason she preferred to pick up clients and bring them to a property. But Elliot had had some sort of meeting in San Francisco and insisted on coming here directly from that. Not that it mattered, really, if he was late. She had nothing else she needed or wanted to be doing.