With an Extreme Burning (22 page)

But she was so
tired
. So tired. Couldn't seem to think clearly about anything either. Every time she tried to think about something other than the room, something she wanted to remember … no, didn't want to but had to … it was as if she were being yanked away from it. Funny. She felt drifty and lost, not like herself at all. Almost a stoned feeling, like the time in college, such a long time ago, when she and Ted … Ted … they had eaten half a trayful of hash brownies. Oh, Lord, had she been stoned that night! But it had been a happy, giggly kind of stoned, and this was different. This wasn't happy, this was sad. This was
really
lost. This was sad and lost and—

The door opened and somebody came into the room.

Somebody said, “Eileen? Honey, are you awake?”

Familiar voice, as familiar as the white room. Her eyes had closed and the lids felt as heavy as if they had weights attached to them; she had to work very hard to get them open. Cecca. Oh, it was Cecca. Wearing a sculptured blue blouse and a pale blue skirt. Pretty combination. Pretty shades of blue. Blue was definitely her color. It went so well with her dark skin tones. And it looked so cheerful in the midst of all this damn white.

Cecca came to the bed, leaned over, and kissed her cheek. Sat down and took one of her hands. Cecca's fingers were like ice.

“Cold,” Eileen said.

“What?”

“Cold fingers.”

“Oh, honey, I'm sorry, I didn't realize—”

Cecca started to take her hand away. Eileen clung to it. It was good to hold on to Cecca's hand, even if it was as cold as ice. She seemed to need to hold on to something, but she wasn't sure why.

“Pretty blouse,” she said.

Cecca didn't seem to understand her. Tongue wasn't working any better than her brain. Such an effort to get words out, as if she were having to push them up through some sort of blockage in her trachea. She really did feel stoned, sad stoned, bad stoned. Whoo. Shit. All right, who spiked the brownies
this
time?

“Your blouse,” she said. “New?”

“Oh. No. You've seen it before.”

“Pretty color,” Eileen said sleepily.

“How do you feel, honey?”

“Tired. Stoned. Sad and lost.”

“Poor Eileen.”

“Spiked the brownies, Teddy boy?”

“It's Cecca. You do know it's me?”

Well, of course I do, Eileen thought. Nobody else looks that good in blue. Cecca. Cecca, Cecca … something she had to tell Cecca, wasn't there? Yes, but what was it? Something … trophy, that was it. Trophy and the accident.

“Accident,” she said.

“Shh, don't think about that now.”

“Tell you something.”

“Not now. You'd better rest. I'll go away and let you rest, okay?”

Now why was Cecca crying? Tears on her cheeks, tears in her voice, definitely crying. Don't cry for me, Argentina. She felt a giggle forming, but it didn't seem right to giggle somehow. What, you think I have a striped pecker?
Ted
. No.
Kevin
. No. Get up off this bed, Harrell, what's the matter with you, lying down on the job? Lie in the sack, they'll give you the sack. Right? Right. Get up, make your rounds, you're a nurse, not a patient.

“Eileen?”

“Mmm?”

“I'm going now. Do you want the nurse to come in?”

“I'm a nurse.”

“Yes, honey, I know, but I thought—”

“Crying for, Cecca?”

“I'm not crying.” Wiped her eyes, smiled all bright and sunny. Not a Cecca smile, though—a Cheshire cat smile, big and bright, teeth in the dark with nothing behind them. “I'll come back later and we'll talk some more. Maybe you won't be so tired then.”

“So
damn
tired …”

“I know. You rest now. Sleep.”

“Accident,” she said. “Cecca, the accident.”

Cecca took her hand away—oh, Cecca, don't—and stood up and then kissed her again. Chanel No. 5, by golly. Wonder why she put on her best? Dix, maybe. Cecca and Dix. Cute couple, so much cuter than … Katy. Katy. The trophy, the accident …

She tried to say the words, but now they wouldn't come out at all. Mouthful of mush. What's the matter, cat got your tongue?

“Sleep,” Cecca said, and went away crying behind her Cheshire cat smile.

But Eileen didn't sleep. She lay there feeling bad-stoned and trying to think. Why couldn't she think? Why couldn't she remember what it was she had to remember? It hurt not to think and not to remember. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt …

Now she was crying, too.

It hurt and she was crying and she didn't even know why.

Charles Czernecki taught general biology and molecular biology at Balboa State. He'd been on the faculty six years longer than Dix, held a master's degree, and would probably have been appointed Biology Department chair long ago if he'd been willing to keep his personal opinions to himself and to play academic politics. He was in his late fifties, a nondescript little man who favored bow ties and affected an air of bored disdain, as if he considered himself not only intellectually superior to his students and fellow professors but to most of mankind. If you'd just met him, you might think from his appearance and manner that he was apolitical, read scientific journals and books on vascular plant morphology and vertebrate embryology for pleasure, and collected butterflies or specimens of obscure marine life as a hobby. You'd have been wrong on all counts.

Czernecki was an outspoken, radical right-wing gun nut. Belonged to the NRA, wrote articles for
Gun Digest
and
Soldier of Fortune
, ardently believed the country was headed for a class and/or racial civil war, and was rumored to own a large collection of handguns, rifles, and illegal semiautomatic weapons.

Dix couldn't stand him, an antipathy that was certainly reciprocated. He'd had an angry verbal run-in with Czernecki at a faculty party years ago, and they'd barely spoken to each other since. He hated the idea of going begging to the man, but he didn't see any other reasonable alternative. At nine forty-five Wednesday morning he entered the Hall of Sciences, where he found Czernecki alone in his office, preparing for his ten o'clock class. Dix shut the door, gritted his teeth, and asked his question—straight out, without preamble or explanation.

The little bugger's surprise was well contained. His only visible reaction was a cold, sardonic smile. That was all right; the one response Dix couldn't have stomached was derisive laughter. He stood stiffly, poker-faced, meeting Czernecki's Daedalian eyes without blinking.

“And what makes you think I'd sell you a handgun, Mallory?”

“I've heard you have a large collection. I thought you might be willing to part with one at the right price.”

“I'm not licensed to sell firearms.”

Dix was silent, waiting.

Czernecki said, “You can buy a handgun at any gunsmith's shop or sporting goods store. Even you must know that.”

“I know it. But there's a waiting period before I could take possession.”

“So there is. Two weeks for a valid permit.”

“And the permit would be for premises only. I wouldn't qualify for a carry permit.”

“No, I expect you wouldn't.”

“So,” Dix said.

Czernecki said, “Guns are dangerous. And too easy to obtain as it is; only qualified law enforcement personnel should be allowed to own a handgun, much less carry one on his person. Seems to me I recall you making those statements once, in no uncertain terms.”

Again, Dix was silent.

“They're particularly dangerous in the hands of someone who doesn't know how to use them. We both agree on that.”

“I know how to use a handgun. I was in the army.”

“Yes, during the Vietnam War. You rode a desk on one of the East Coast training bases, if I remember correctly. Never got off U.S. soil.”

“You say that as if I manipulated it that way. I was drafted, I served my two years, I went where and did what I was told. I didn't run to Canada.”

“But I'm sure you thought about running. Gave it careful and serious consideration.”

The hell with this, Dix thought. He said, “I didn't come here to argue politics with you, Czernecki. I told you what I want. If you won't sell me a handgun, say so and I'll go somewhere else.”

“If you had anywhere else to go, you wouldn't have come to me. Frankly, I find this request of yours fascinating. A liberal peacenik and strong advocate of gun control suddenly wants the privilege of carrying a concealed weapon. Is it that you've had a philosophical change of mind on the gun control issue?”

“No. I still believe there need to be controls.”

“In theory, but not where you're concerned.”

“If you want to put it that way.”

“Tell me, then: Why do you want a handgun?”

“For protection.”

“Really? Protection from what?”

“That's my business.”

“It's mine, too, if I'm to be your supplier.”

Dix hesitated. Then he said, “I have reason to believe that my life is in danger, that I'm being stalked. That's as much as I'm willing to tell you.”

“Why would anyone stalk a man like you?”

“I don't know.”

“You do know the stalker's identity?”

“No, I don't.”

“Invisible enemy, Mallory?”

“Yes.”

“That sounds paranoid to me. In fact, it sounds suspiciously like the paranoia you liberals are always ascribing to men who hold my beliefs. Gun nuts, the so-called lunatic fringe.”

Dix said carefully, “I'm sure you're enjoying the hell out of this, Czernecki. But spare me the irony. I wouldn't be here, compromising my beliefs, begging favors, if I weren't hurting and desperate. You must realize that.”

“Of course.”

“Will you help me, then?”

“I haven't decided. I want to think about it for a while.”

“How long?”

“I live near the campus,” Czernecki said, “and I generally go home for lunch. I'm going today at one. If I do decide to help you, I'll have a package for you when I return at two o'clock.”

“All right, fair enough. How much?”

“We'll discuss that if and when. Any preference as to type and caliber?”

“Something small and not too heavy.”

“Small-caliber weapons don't have much stopping power.”

“I wouldn't feel comfortable with anything larger than a thirty-eight.”

“Of course you wouldn't.”

The air in the cramped space was stagnant, too-warm, tainted with the sweet smell of Czernecki's cologne. Dix felt a little sick to his stomach. He said, “Two o'clock, then,” and made motions to leave.

“No, don't go yet,” Czernecki said. “I have a few more questions for you.”

“I'd rather not answer any more questions—”

“I'd rather you did.”

“All right. Ask them.”

“This stalking business. Is it related to your wife's death?”

Damn you! Dix thought. “No,” he lied.

“And her death
was
an accident?”

“Yes.”

“My condolences, by the way.”

“Thanks so much.”

“Under the circumstances, after such a tragic loss, I don't blame you for taking an aggressive position with this new trouble. I would do the same if I were in your shoes.”

Dix said nothing.

“The police, I suppose, haven't been much help?”

“There isn't much they can do in a case like this.”

“No. And self-protection is a constitutional as well as a God-given right. You agree with that, in theory at least?”

“I agree with it.”

“But to what length? To the death?”

“I'm not sure what—”

“If I sell you a handgun, and you have occasion to use it against an enemy, would you shoot to kill? Could you take a human life?”

“If I had no other choice.”

“Cold-bloodedly, if that was the only choice?”

“Yes.”

“You're certain of that? Absolutely certain?”

“I'm certain.”

“Then welcome to the real world, Mallory,” Czernecki said. “Guns don't kill people—people kill people. And sometimes fighting violence with violence is the only solution. Now maybe you see the distinctions.”

Dix saw them, all right. He saw them all too well. But what Czernecki didn't understand was that there had been no fundamental adjustment in his way of thinking. He believed as passionately as ever that if Charles Czernecki and his ilk had their way, they would help turn the real world into a nightmare place of ruptured freedom, atavistic violence as an accepted societal norm. The decision he'd made applied to him alone. He was scared, trapped by circumstances beyond his comprehension and control, driven to do what he felt he had to to survive, and these things made him weak, made him sell out on a personal level. But, by God, it didn't put him in Czernecki's camp. It didn't make what he was doing
right
.