With an Extreme Burning Read Free

the refrigerator when the telephone bell went off.
    He'd forgotten again to put on the machine. Two rings, four rings, six rings … and his feet carried him across to the counter and the phone.
    “Hello?”
    Breathing.
    The tormentor again. Twice in one day—escalating it.
    You weren't supposed to provoke people like this; you were supposed to be calm, rational, so they wouldn't think they were getting to you. But he'd had enough. Too much. “Listen, damn you, don't you understand that I lost my wife recently? Don't you have an inkling of what that's like? Don't you have any decent human feelings? If you don't stop bothering me, you'll regret it. I mean that. Stop bothering me!”
    He would have hung up then, banged the receiver down. Almost did. He was just starting to take it away from his ear when the voice jumped out at him.
    “Don't hang up.”
    The words were sharp, commanding, but the voice had an unnatural quality, as if it were being electronically altered or filtered. It made Dix's scalp crawl.
    “So you can talk after all,” he said. “All right. You want to say something to me finally? Go ahead, say it.”
    “I want to tell you about your wife.”
    “… What?”
    “Your wife. I want to tell you about her.”
    “You don't know anything about my wife.”
    “I know something you don't know.”
    “The hell you do.”
    “Oh yes,” the voice said. “She was having an affair. A very torrid affair. For a little more than three months before she died.”
    “That's a goddamn lie!”
    “It started on May second, at two o'clock in the afternoon, at La Quinta Inn in Brookside Park. 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?”
    Dix's larynx seemed to have undergone a temporary paralysis. He made an inarticulate sound.
    “The usual meeting place was a motel. Not always the La Quinta; different ones in different locations. Once in a field off Lone Mountain Road. And more than once in her car, in the backseat, dog-fashion.”
    You son of a bitch! he thought. But he couldn't say the words; he was like a mute trying desperately to speak.
    “Shall I tell you some of the other ways she liked to do it? No, I'm sure you already know most of them. I will tell you who her partner was. You'd like to know that, wouldn't you?”
    Lies, lies!
    “I was her partner,” the tormentor said. “I'm the man who was fucking your wife.”
    The verbal paralysis left him all at once. Words came spewing out like vomit. “You sick lying bastard how can you do this to me what kind of man are you—!”
    He was shouting into a dead phone.

TWO
     
    Cecca said, “ Condoms . And not just one—a whole package.”
    “What kind?” Eileen asked curiously. “Not french ticklers?”
    “Eileen, for God's sake. Not so loud.”
    “Oh, nobody's paying any attention to us. It's too noisy in here anyway.”
    Which was true enough. Romeo's at noon on a summer Saturday was always noisy. Poor acoustics and babbling tourists. Still, Eileen's voice carried. And usually at the wrong times, when she was making one of her more uninhibited comments. I should have waited to talk about this, Cecca thought. Someplace private. But it was too late now.
    Eileen said, “It could have been worse, you know. It could've been drugs you found.”
    “I know that. Amy's always been dead set against drugs; I count both of us lucky on that score. But condoms … I didn't think I had that to worry about either.”
    “Mothers always want to believe their daughters are virgins.”
    “Naive, huh?”
    “The protective instinct. Was the package opened?”
    “No. Why do you ask that?”
    “Maybe Amy's carrying it just in case. Maybe she hasn't had occasion to use one of the things yet.”
    “That's possible,” Cecca admitted. “She hasn't had a steady boyfriend in months.”
    “Planning ahead. Very mature, if you ask me.”
    “Yes, but my God.