Lady in Flames (4 page)

“Where’s Willard?” the rotund man asks no one in particular, scanning the room. After a few seconds without a reply, he turns and marches toward the door. Barging through it as if he meant to rip it from its hinges, he begins to yell. “Willard! Willard! Are you over there?”

The man continues to the lot next door where Willard’s Auto Body resides.

I follow behind in his soggy footsteps, silent.

The bearded, angry fellow stomps to the service door of the now-closed shop. He sees a light in back and proceeds to pound on the door. “Willard! Open up! Open up right now!”

Thirty seconds of pounding and a man I assume to be Willard opens the door. “What’s going on out here?” He leans against the door frame, lanky and slack jawed.

“Someone set my Amy’s house on fire. Let’s go on in back. I need to talk to you.” The rotund man hustles Willard back inside.

Again I follow, intent to learn what will be said. We walk past the lifts in the garage to the back room where there sits a workbench covered in greasy car parts. A kerosene heater burns near a door, cracked for ventilation.

I’m not the only one listening. What both men are ignorant of is the retired police cruiser parked in the alley behind the shop, and the pudgy form that has crept near the door, nosy about the commotion.

I maneuver to the back wall and blend half into it, my spectral form filling its fissures. This way I can watch the men in the room as well as the one in the alleyway.

“What is this all about, Buck?” Willard picks up an oily rag to wipe his hands.

“Somebody set Amy’s house on fire tonight. It’s gotta be that Johnny Arson. I’m trying to round up my boys but a few of them are soused. I need another set of limbs to go down to his apartment with us and get some answers.”

“I ain’t getting involved,” Willard says, waving his hands as if he’s freeing himself of the situation. “None of my business…”

“Damn it, Willard! Are you gonna deny me when you’re in my debt already? You still owe me money from the races.” Buck’s face ripples with an accusing glare, pig eyes bulging.

Willard sits down behind his bench. “I told you I’d have your money next month.”

Buck steps to the bench and slaps his meaty palms onto the edge. “You’ll have my money tomorrow if I say so!”

“You’ve got nothin’ over my head,” Willard hisses, puny mouth clamped tight. “I fixed your van for you. You came crawling to me that night, drunk as a skunk, nowhere else to go. Said you’d done something awful. I helped cover that up!”

“Shut your mouth, you sonuvabitch. Don’t you utter anything more. You agreed you’d never speak a word of it.”

“Yeah, well I ain’t cleaning up your messes no more.” Willard shakes a finger. “You killed a man, Buck. Think about that. Don’t go sticking your nose where it don’t belong. You’ve been lucky. Keep me out of your business and maybe you’ll stay that way.”

Buck burns red. “I can’t believe you’d stoop that low. To bring up the past like that and hold me to it! It was an accident, damn it! Doppler should’ve never been out on that road. Hell, nobody misses that old bag anyway.”

Outside, the man in the alleyway hides behind a trash barrel. His eyes rip wide at hearing this and he suppresses a giddy murmur. He shifts his weight in near uncontrollable anticipation.

I turn back to the seething men at the work bench. This is what I needed first-hand, the crime painted in its most raw, enduring form, straight from the offender’s mouth. Now I understand the type of man this Buck is; I see him for what he’s worth.

Willard reclaims his rag and begins to wipe his hands again, rubbing them in slow, methodic strokes as if the grime won’t rub away.

Buck remains fixated on him, never flinching, palms still planted on the edge of the bench. When he’s sure Willard is not going to comply, he says, “Don’t you ever come lookin’ for a loan from me—ever.”

Willard doesn’t look up; he only continues to rub his hands with the spotted rag.

Buck rumples his chin in disgust, creating an extra fold in his fleshy jowl. He spins around and heads for the front of the shop, raking his arm out across a shelving unit to send solvents and supplies crashing to the floor.

Resolute, Willard doesn’t budge as Buck curses his way to the service door.

I depart soon after Buck. In ghostly strides, I make my way back out into the square. I halt outside the shop to consider what Buck intends to do—to what he and his crass posse will lend their vicious wills.

Down the walkway, Buck reenters Lady Luck, hollering for attention. Moments later he exits with three men in tow, all of them bent on their drunken, good-old-boy justice. They pile into Buck’s van and tear off into the bitter black.

The urge to follow burns bright before fizzling out into a reluctant, disciplined ember. I shouldn’t go after them—I can’t. Not even to watch. It’s necessary, what they’ll do. I have to be selective and weigh-in only when it counts. And it’s not yet time.

I don’t even hear my own steps as I tread back to the Camaro, but I swear I’m real. I have to keep reminding myself of that. Spend too much time in the physical world and you’ll question the validity of your own thoughts.

Once wrapped in the familiar grip of the driver’s seat, I feel more grounded. With this comes self-derision for wasting so much time in Halgraeve when I should be searching for Grimley.

Whipping the car around, I wrench the wheel in a determined grip. The motor howls as I rocket down the road where I’ll dissolve into the Territory and resume chase.

Kindling

February 26
th
, 2002, 9:02 PM

Johnny Rollins inside his mother’s apartment

I’ve loved fire for as long as I can remember. I swiped my first book of matches at six—stole ’em from my mom. She always kept them around for her cigarettes whenever her lighter went out.

At first, I just liked the way they sounded when they took flame. There’s that small scraping noise before the spark and crackle. The flame never lasted long enough, so I’d light another. And another. I wanted to watch those golden licks forever.

It didn’t take long to figure out that if I set something else on fire, I could watch the flames longer. I started with little things—piles of leaves, brush. They smoked more than anything. I wanted to see something
burn
.

I suppose that’s what brought me trouble. I’ve been caught a couple times. Other times I haven’t. Fire is fire, and there’s lots of ways for it to catch. It don’t always take matches and gasoline, so people don’t always expect it was set on purpose.

My mom yells from the other room to turn down the T.V. “It’s too damn loud!” she says.

Ignoring her is easy. I turned it up in the first place so I didn’t have to hear her bitchin’ about this and that. I get enough of it at school. Teachers single me out for no reason other than they think I’m screwing off. Usually I’m just waiting for the bell to ring.

What a dead-end town. And full of dead-end people, too. Like I’m supposed to be excited about graduating and getting a job with the street department? Or maybe I’ll get lucky and get in at Union Chemical. Maybe I can get a hole blown into my head while I’m at it.

I drop the lighter I’ve been playing with onto a stack of my mom’s celebrity mags and trade it for the remote. There’s nothing but infomercials and stupid news programs as I flip through the few stations.

I wish I could hang out at Doppler’s place. I used to go over there after school sometimes. He’d let me smoke and stuff like that. Sometimes he would give me money when he had a few extra bucks.

I met him when I started at the hardware. He’d come in and heckle some of the old-timers who loitered near the paint counter. For whatever reason, he took a liking to me. Maybe I was like the son he never had, I don’t know.

He’s been dead a few years now. Got run down one night while walking home. They never caught the son of a bitch who hit him. Just mowed him down and left him to die.

I cried that night when I heard. It’s not something I like to admit, but Doppler was about the only person in this town who gave a crap about me. I saw more of him than I saw my own dad.

“I said turn it down!” Mom yells again.

I don’t know what her problem is tonight. She’s nagging more than usual. Maybe it’s because her boyfriend Rob didn’t stop by, or maybe it’s because we’re out of gin. I don’t really care what her reason is; I just want her to leave me alone.

Next year I’ll be eighteen, so she’ll probably want to kick me out then. She’ll have some excuse about me needing to be responsible for myself. It won’t be a bad thing. I’ve been stuck in this apartment with her for too long.

The brownish carpet has always been stained and probably always will be. Spots on the walls in the T.V. room are patched but unpainted. Behind me, the cramped kitchen is yellowed with grease stains and cigarette smoke.

Down the hall, my bedroom shares a wall with Mom’s. She’s got the bigger one. We share my bathroom because the shower in hers doesn’t work. My shower doesn’t drain real well, though.

Getting out from under my mom’s thumb isn’t the biggest concern I’ve got. It’s ducking the Army. She’ll sign me up for that the first chance she gets. Send me off to boot camp or whatever. No way in hell I’m doing that.

Mom walks into the T.V. room, zipping up her puffy coat. “I’ve got to run to the store,” she says, flinging her stringy hair out from under her collar. That means she’s going down to the gas mart to get booze.

I don’t bother to turn my head but I mumble a response.

She slams the door in return.

Finally, some quiet. If I could have this place to myself more often, I’d be that much saner. From my left pocket, I fish out the pack of cigarettes I’ve been smoking this week. Usually I sneak one outside, but it’s too cold for that so I have to wait until Mom is out.

Lighting up, I ease back in the cushion and take a few drags. I’m ready to ash when I see there’s no ashtray nearby. I twist around the recliner to see that mom moved it to the kitchen table.

I curse in my head and drag myself from my seat. The red tray overflows with butts. No sooner than I’m by the table tapping off my spent tobacco, someone is pounding on the door. It’s a heavy, solid thud like someone fat or drunk.

The peephole is clouded over so I have to open the door to see who it is. It’s probably mom’s boyfriend, plastered again. Dumbass.

I yank the door with one hand, half a cigarette in the other.

“C’mere you little bastard!” A burly hand reaches in and grabs the collar of my shirt, jerking me into the hall.

I stumble, dropping my smoke, as another set of hands manhandles my shoulders and forces me into an upright position against the wall. It smells like alcohol in the dim, dingy space between the apartment doors.

There are four men. The first is Buck Armstrong. I know him from town. The sleeves of his blue jacket are rolled up, and his gut hangs over his belt. Teeth clench under his reddish beard.

Next to him is a skinny, twitchy man in an overcoat, unshaven and pale. He rocks back and forth and grins while looking from me to Buck.

A step or two behind them stands a stocky, pile driver of a guy in a trucker cap. I think he works at Lady Luck; I’ve seen him come into the hardware for cleaning supplies.

The last man is balding with a wad of chew in his lower lip. He hulks under his filthy brown Carhartt jacket.

“Did you set my Amy’s house on fire?” Buck yells at me.

“What?” My throat tightens.

“Don’t play dumb with me!” Buck smacks me across the face.

I hold my stinging cheek. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Tell me the truth or I’ll beat it out of you!” Buck slams a fist into my gut.

I almost fold in half, trying to suck in air that won’t come. A dry, burning cough tries to escape but it can’t. I try to scramble and get back inside when the man in the overcoat catches my wrist.

“No you don’t,” he says while wrapping his arms under mine, locking them behind me as if it will make me a better target for Buck.

“She coulda died!” Buck wails on me again, twice in the stomach, and once in the nose. “Did you do it? Huh? Did you?”

I taste warm, metallic blood dripping onto my lip. My eyes water too much to see straight. I shake my head. “I didn’t set no fire…”

The man behind me lets go and I drop to my knees.

Buck lands another heavy fist into the side of my head.

My ear burns and my head aches. A foot plants itself into my back and I’m on all fours.

The rest of the men join in, kicking and stomping.

“Alright, alright,” Buck says and then the beating stops.

I hear him lean down near me, breathing heavy, stale breath filling my nostrils.

“You better be telling the truth, boy. ’Cause if you’re not and I find out, you can expect another visit from me.” He places his hand on the back of my head and gives it a violent shove before he and the others make their way back down the hall toward the steps.

I lay there, looking at my cigarette mashed into the carpet, ground out in the shuffle. The T.V. continues to blare in the empty apartment. Dizzy, I use the door frame to get to my feet. I slam the door behind me and stumble toward the bathroom where I throw up in the sink.

Are We Strong Enough?

February 26
th
, 9:02 PM

Vern Salters’ kitchen

What’s more frightening? Hearing the door lock from the outside, or hearing it lock from within? Melissa’s lined brow, eyes wide with hesitance, suggest she’s rolling that question over in her head.

She’s worn the frightened animal look since I turned the deadbolt. Maybe she’s still unsettled from our encounter with Willis Freed. It probably doesn’t help that I hurried her inside, looking over my shoulder for danger, real or imagined.

“I can put some coffee on, if you want,” I say.

Melissa jumps at the intrusion of my voice. On the opposite side of the chipped laminate table, she considers me with a reserved glance, head bowed an inch or two as though she’s afraid to give me a direct look. “Sure, I’d like that.”