There was one message on the answering machine, for Amy. Cecca put the groceries away, drank a glass of ice water, and went upstairs to change into shorts and a thin blouse, no panties or bra. One good thing about having small breasts: When you turned forty, you didn't have to worry about sagging, flopping, rounded shoulders, or the need for sweaty uplift on hot days. Downstairs again, heading for the porch—and the telephone rang.
Her first thought was that it might be the Agbergs; she'd given them her home as well as her office number. She did a quick about-face, hurried into the kitchen to pick up.
“Hello? This is Francesca.”
Silence. A steady, rhythmic breathing.
Him again.
How many times now? Five, six? Never said anything, just breathed. Something to be grateful for, that, since twice it had been Amy who answered. But Cecca was not going to tolerate any more of it. The man at the telephone company had told her to buy a big whistle and to put it up close to the mouthpiece and blow on it as hard as she could; sometimes that hurt their eardrums enough to make them think twice about calling again. She opened the drawer under the counter, found the whistle she'd picked up at K-mart, lifted it out.
“Don't hang up.”
Male voice, but weirdly distorted, unreal.
Oh, God, she thought, now it starts. The filth, the profanities. She put the whistle in her mouth, thinking: No, you don't, I won't listen to that, not in my own kitchen.
But she didn't blow it because when he spoke again it wasn't sexual obscenities she heard. It was something worse—something much more chilling.
“Do you know where Amy is, Francesca?” he said. “Do you have any idea what's happening to that little bitch of yours this very minute?”
THREE
He didn't believe it about Katy.
Not for a minute.
A vile lie, part of the tormentor's sleazy bag of tricks. Vicious goddamn sociopath. Out there somewhere, enjoying himself, laughing behind his anonymity.
No, he didn't believe it, none of it.
Then why couldn't he stop thinking about it?
He walked; he couldn't seem to stop walking, either. The restlessness had driven him out of the house, into the Buick, up here to the university. Familiar surroundings, and a place where he could have people near him and still be alone. Not too many people; he couldn't have stood crowds. A few conscientious summer-school students, a smattering of teachers, custodial people, campus security … just enough to give him a feeling of human connection without intrusion.
She was having an affair. A very torrid affair. For a little more than three months before she died.
I'd have known, he thought. Wouldn't I have known, after seventeen years of marriage?
It started on May second, at two o'clock in the afternoon, at La Quinta Inn in Brookside Park.
Specific place. Clever touch; it gave the lie weight and substance. But it could be checked, proven false.
After that, usually twice a week. Monday and Friday afternoons, when you thought she was studying with Louise Kanvitz. That is what she told you, isn't it?
Even easier to check. The tormentor didn't care, that was the point. He wants me to check, because checking means doubt, and doubt means he's got me hooked.
Once in a field off Lone Mountain Road.
Another clever touch. Lone Mountain Road was the scene of the accident. Got that out of the paper. But what was she doing up there, alone, at nine o'clock on a Friday evening? Nothing off Lone Mountain Road except a few scattered dairy ranches. Hilly area, mostly cattle graze with patches of woods, hairpin turns in the road like the one she'd missed, deep ravines like the one her Dodge had crashed into. Isolated … known as a lover's lane. But there was nothing in that; the possibility had never even occurred to him. The highway patroclass="underline" Why was she up there, Mr. Mallory? Do you have friends on Lone Mountain Road? No, no friends. She said she was going for a drive; she liked to drive when she was nervous or out of sorts or blue, it relaxed her. Was she nervous or out of sorts or blue tonight, Mr. Mallory? Twitchy—that was the word she used. She was feeling twitchy and thought she'd go for a drive. What time did she leave? About six. Mmm, two and a half hours before the accident—did she usually stay out for such a long time? Not usually, no …
And more than once in her car, in the backseat, dog-fashion.
Bullshit. But she'd been fond of that position. “Do me from behind, sweetie, you know I love it that way.” Dammit, no. A devilishly lucky guess, that was all it was.
I was her partner.
No.
I'm the man who was fucking your wife.…
He walked. Balboa was one of the newer state schools, built in the mid-sixties for a limited enrollment; now the student roster was upward of seven thousand, with another three thousand in the extension and graduate programs. A dozen new buildings had been added, from a huge library to prefab overflow classrooms and offices, and until the massive state education cutbacks, a new gymnasium had been planned for the following year. Commuter school, limited student housing, but the campus already covered more than fifty acres. Gray concrete buildings for the most part, institutional modern, purely functional—ugly. But the unlovely architecture was offset by parklike landscaping that included hundreds of shade trees. Good place to walk even on hot days. Relaxing.
But not today.
Down past the library, over by the Foundation Center and the Student Health Center, detour past the Hall of Sciences, veer left toward Guiterrez Hall, where he taught most of his classes and where his office was. Hurting inside. And disliking himself for that small nagging worm of doubt that seemed to have burrowed deep into his mind.
Three months. A long time. There would have been little indicators to arouse his suspicions, but there hadn't been. Had there? Very little physical contact between them in those three months. Not tonight, dear, I'm really not in the mood. Once that he could remember; maybe twice. Part of the vague dissatisfaction they both felt: cooling passions. That was what he'd thought, when he thought about it at all.
Another thing: She'd been withdrawn. Spent more time away from home than usual, and when she did stay in she'd preferred to be alone in the back bedroom she'd converted into a studio, working on one of her paintings.
Katy, he thought, I was faithful to you the whole time we were married. Seventeen years. Mind-sin now and then, sure, I'm no better than Jimmy Carter or anybody else, but I never did anything about it. Never even came close. Wouldn't have hurt you that way, didn't think you'd hurt me that way either. Trust.
I'm the man who was fucking your wife.
It never happened. Not even once, let alone twice a week for more than three months. Couldn't have with somebody like that. Out of all the men in Los Alegres, not a vicious sociopath. But Katy might have had no idea of what he was because he'd kept it hidden, seemed outwardly normal. And if he was good-looking? And sympathetic, patient, reasonably intelligent, accomplished at seduction? And if the circumstances and the timing were just right?