An Arm and a Leg (20 page)

Then he pulled a paper from a green plastic folder and handed it through the window. He instructed Frankie to fill out the interview form and then write on the back her memory of events up to and including the time she received the call.

“We’re nearly done here,” he said. “Once everything has cooled down, we’ll determine the cause of the fire. We’ll most likely need to speak to you again. Do you have anywhere to go tonight, someplace to stay?”

Frankie’s mind went blank. “I…I hadn’t even thought about it.”

“Any family close by? Someone we could call for you?”

“No…no one.”
You don’t even have any close friends.
“I’ll stay in a motel for a while.”

The investigator nodded, and returned to the scene of the fire.

Several neighbors assembled in their yards. They stood watching the conflagration, their concern for the safety of their own homes nearly palpable in the flickering light. As if on swivels, their heads turned back and forth between her and the fire, their attention captivated by the destruction of someone else’s life. A few cars drove slowly by, the drivers craning their necks toward the scene. Some slowed to a stop, but moved on as the police motioned them on.

The crowd of onlookers grew from a few to several. Some of the younger ones held cell phones above their heads, their tiny cameras turned toward the scene. No doubt they’d soon be frantically posting their videos on their chosen networking site in hopes of becoming the next internet star.

“So glad I could be a source of entertainment for you and your friends,” Frankie murmured under her breath toward the human-shaped shadows jockeying for a position with an unobstructed view.

People can’t resist scenes of destruction
, Uncle Mike’s voice whispered.
It’s just human nature
.

“Yeah?” Frankie shot back. “Well, it’s a different thing when it’s your own life being destroyed.”

It’s just stuff, Frances. Stuff can be replaced.

Frankie stared at the mob milling around just outside the police barricade. Two faces caught her attention. One was a baby faced young man who stared into the flames, a look of pure delight on his face. The other young man, someone she’d seen but couldn’t figure out where, stared intently and directly at her. When certain he’d caught her eye, he smiled and raised his hand in a mock salute.

Two young men. One with a baby face.

Frankie shoved open her car door and stumbled out. “Hey!”

A dozen faces turned toward her. Not caring how she must have looked to her neighbors, she hugged the fireman’s blanket against her body and ran toward the two men. But one flip flop flew off her foot, and her bare flesh landed on the icy asphalt. A shock wave shot up her leg, forcing her to stop long enough to re-shoe.

A series of loud popping sounds erupted from the fire, and she instinctively jerked her gaze toward the blaze. When she turned back again, both men were gone.

A feeling moved up her spine as if an ice cube were being run along its bony ridge. Because she was certain the baby faced man was the one she’d seen peering at her from inside the Chevy Camaro. And the look he’d shot at her just before disappearing from the crowd was exactly the same as the one he’d worn while trying to run her down.

Frankie’s neighbor, Lola, moved toward her from among the crowd. Murmuring words of comfort, she gripped Frankie’s hand in her own bony fingers. “You’re shaking like a leaf in a gale. You’ll catch your death of cold. You should get back inside your car.”

As if in a trance, Frankie tore her eyes from the fire to look at the only neighbor she really knew. “I don’t…I don’t seem to feel much of anything.”

Lola nodded her head as if she understood. “In that case, you stay here. I’ll be right back.” She walked to her house and returned with a tan wool jacket and fluffy plaid scarf. “These belonged to my Cathy. I think you’re about her size.”

“Bless you, Lola.” Frankie slid the blanket off her shoulders and put on the proffered coat. She wound the scarf around her neck, grateful for its immediate warmth.

The old widow waved her hand dismissively. “Now listen, you’re going to need a place to stay until things get sorted out, and I have an extra room. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need.” The old woman pressed a house key into Frankie’s palm and folded her fingers over it. “This is to the back door. There’s a stairwell just inside the entry and to the left that’ll take you to an apartment over the garage. There’s a bedroom, bath and kitchenette. I had it remodeled for my Cathy.” The old woman turned to go, stopped and turned back. “And you can bring the cat,” she said. “My Tommy got sick, and I had him put down. But I kept his food and water dishes, and a few toys.”

To ensure every hotspot had been thoroughly doused, the firemen continued to drench the ruins of Frankie’s home long after the flames had disappeared. The morning sun was rising by the time the soot-begrimed, tired men packed up their gear and left.

Neighbors retreated in gratitude to their homes. A couple of them threw glances back over their shoulders, as if reluctant to leave the scene of such devastation.

Frankie approached the burned-out shell of her home. Due to the rapidity with which the fire department responded, a couple of the outer adobe walls remained standing. But much of the sun-hardened mud now lay on the tile floor - her retreat from the world reduced in a few hours to a puddle of hot, steaming mud.

Her shoulders sagged and her fluffy, green flip flop-shod feet barely cleared the asphalt as she carried the pet carrier containing Collette toward Lola’s house. The smells of smoke and burning plastic hung in the air, and the morning sun lit up the green and yellow paisley print of her satin pajamas like the neon of an all-night diner.

As Lola had instructed, she unlocked her neighbor’s back door, walked up the stairs, and entered a small apartment. An electric space heater stood in one corner. Its red glowing filaments warmed the room and added an amber light to that cast by the bedside lamp. The lilac floral wallpaper, probably from the eighties, matched the filmy, lavender-colored curtains that framed the only window. Closed Venetian blinds partially blocked the rising sun’s rays, dimming the room and casting shards of light onto the barely worn purple shag carpet.

The pungent smell of mothballs radiated from a free standing armoire located against one wall. Frankie pulled open the hinged door and moved her eyes over the clothes hanging there. Skinny jeans, carefully torn at the knees and frayed at the bottoms, a couple of tee shirts screen printed with the names of heavy metal bands, a well-worn jean jacket adorned with safety pins holding tiny swatches of fabric, and a pair of black spandex trousers proclaimed Lola’s daughter to have had punk rocker leanings. A pair of leather, high-top Doc Martens rested on the armoire’s floor next to a pair of sneakers.

From the way Lola spoke, Frankie had got the impression Cathy left home fairly recently. But based on the outdated, yet still new looking carpet and clothing, it must have been years earlier. Without a speck of dust or a single cobweb in its corners, the room felt like a memorial. More proof that sooner or later, people always lost the ones they loved.

She stepped over to a short bureau next to the armoire and pulled open the top drawer. Rows of neatly folded bras and matching panties lay side by side. The woodsy fragrance of cedar squares used as a deterrent to insects wafted into the room.

The pitiful sight of Cathy’s intimate apparel, so carefully left in place, tugged at Frankie’s heart. That and the thought of feisty little old Lola, hanging on to the hope that one day her middle-aged daughter would come home.

A litter box lay on a plastic placemat in the corner of the room. Two white ceramic dishes, one filled with kibble and the other with fresh water, lay on another. Briefly wondering about the expiration date of the kibble, she approached the bed.

The dark wood double bed appeared to be an antique. Covered with a thick, purple, down comforter, it stood high off the floor. Two or three changes of neatly folded clothes lay on top of the duvet, and a pair of tan leather slip-ons lay on the floor beside the bed.

When Frankie opened the door to the pet carrier, Collette shot into the room as if fired from a circus cannon. She made several circuits around the small space, jumped up onto the bed, shot a look at Frankie that could only be translated as a warning not to try to interfere with her plans, and chose a resting place on one of the pillows.

Frankie visited the tiny bathroom and then headed for bed. Careful not to disturb the snoozing Collette, she piled the clothes on a chair, and then slid under the covers. The pillow top mattress conformed to her body and muscle tension in her shoulders, neck, and back loosened.

But her mind swam with chaotic thoughts. Unable to lie still, the torque of her tossing body wrapped her in the sheets like a lavender colored mummy.

The caller had saved her life. But how had he known about the fire in the first place? How had he got hold of her unlisted number? And how had the two young men come to be in the neighborhood at exactly the time her home was burning?

It seemed she could almost feel the sulfurous wind of evil swirling around her, filling the air, enveloping her in its thickness. And just as with a hundred twenty mile-per-hour category three hurricane, the question was not whether the wind was blowing—the question was what the wind was blowing.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Larry sat in a chair in front of Bellamy’s desk while Mel assumed his usual slumped position in the chair to his right. The two remained immobile as the doctor dialed a number on a burner phone. Bellamy drummed his fingers on the desk, and then stopped drumming, sat up straight and spoke into the phone.

“We heard about your unsuccessful attempt to torch our little Miss O’Neil,” Bellamy said. “We appreciate your efforts, but cannot help wondering how well you covered your tracks.”

Bellamy paused while the other person responded.

“If you didn’t, who did?” Larry’s boss leveled a look at him and Mel. He made a
tsk tsk
sound through his teeth, and turned his attention back to the caller. “That’s too bad. We thought you might be showing a bit of initiative, regardless of how ill-advised.”

The caller’s voice grew louder, but the words remained unintelligible.

“Make no mistake,” Bellamy’s voice rested on the s like a hissing snake, “you will do exactly as you’re told, and that includes carrying out any of what you refer to as our dirty work.” He turned his office chair so that he squarely faced his two employees. “Name calling is a tool of the lower classes. Mel and Larry would be incensed if they knew you’d referred to them as mindless toadies.”

“If you think I’m going to kill someone for you, you’re out of your mind.” This time the caller’s words were loud enough to be understood in the otherwise silent room.

“That’s possible, but beside the point. We’ll be in touch with further instructions.” Bellamy broke the connection and turned his head toward Larry and Mel. His eyes narrowed.

“Do either of you know anything about the fire that destroyed Miss O’Neil’s house last night?”

Larry and Mel simultaneously shook their heads.

Bellamy snorted. “Bobble-heads.” He stood and walked to the picture window. “We’ll only say this once, so listen carefully. Nothing untoward will happen to Miss O’Neil until we say. No more acting on your own. We will decide what, when, and where anything will be done about her. Is that absolutely clear?”

“Yessir,” Larry said.

Mel nodded his head once.

“Good. Lest there be even a hint of misunderstanding, hear this: if we learn that one or both of you have drawn attention to us by doing something other than what you are told to do, it will take the police weeks to fish the pieces of you out of the Rio Grande. That is, any pieces the catfish haven’t eaten.
Capisce
?”

“Yes sir,” Larry said.

Mel nodded. But as Bellamy turned away, Mel smiled his rare, crooked smile. It lasted only an instant, but that death’s head smile told Larry all he needed to know.

He’d have to make his move quickly, before Mel could carry out whatever plan his messed-up brain was working on.

****

Frankie awoke to the fragrance of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon. Normally the smells would have made her mouth water. Instead, her stomach tossed bile up into her throat at the thought of the acid and grease soaked fare.

Her eyes felt rusty as old hinges. She could almost hear them squeaking as she moved them around the momentarily unfamiliar room. The taste in her mouth reminded her of the time-to-change-me-now fragrance of Collette’s litter box, and her head throbbed. The smell of her burning home coated the insides of her nostrils and clung to her flesh.

“Frankie?” Lola’s stage whisper through the bedroom door sounded conspiratorial. “Frankie dear, there’s someone here about the fire.”

“Okay. Give me a minute.” Frankie threw back the covers and stepped out of bed. She stumbled into the bathroom. A small, clear plastic travel bag filled with bottles of creams, ointments, shampoo, deodorant and other necessities lay on the counter next to a faux tortoise shell comb and brush. Fresh towels and washcloths hung from the towel rack.

After splashing water on her face, she hurriedly brushed her hair, pulled on a pair of blue jeans and a pink cotton knit sweater from the clothes Lola had left on the bed. She slid her feet into the flip flops, and headed downstairs.

A heavyset man somewhere in his mid-fifties sat in one of Lola’s straight backed cane-bottomed, wooden chairs. His khaki trousers looked two sizes too small, and his light blue dress shirt looked like he’d just pulled it out of a laundry hamper. With a cleanly shaven head, no discernible eyebrows, and a body shaped like a beach ball, the man looked like an alien being out of a science fiction movie. His ponderous thighs drooped over the sides of the chair, and he kept shifting his position. An unwelcome image blazed across Frankie’s mind of the effect the waffle pattern on the chair’s seat must have been having on the man’s backside. He seemed relieved to have an excuse to stand up as she entered the room.