The Night Marchers and Other Strange Tales

by Daniel Braum

  “Good morning, Mr. Raycivik,” my assistant says. He places a Fed Ex (from Refron I hope) and my coffee on my desk.

  I tear into the box. It’s full of keys and pass codes to Refron’s refining facility in Jersey. My number-one-facilities-manager-man, Ken Lauman, came through for me. Good thing a little greasing of the palms still goes somewhere nowadays.

  Someone knocks on the door.

  “Not now, busy,” I chime with a healthy tinge of stay-the-hell-out-of-here. If it was Jonas, he’d order me into his office from the intercom instead of getting off his fat ass.

  The door opens and Michelle slides in, all done up in that red business suit I love.

  The intercom buzzes. “Sorry, she got past me,” my assistant says fearfully.

  “I needed to phone her before my nine-thirty anyway,” I say in my best “no problem” tone, then slam the receiver.

  “What, are you crazy?” I say to Michelle. But I’m thrilled and she knows it.

  “Thought you’d get a little rise out of seeing me here,” she says, locking the door. “I didn’t get enough last night. You stole away so fast.”

  “Michelle, this is nuts. Everyone here knows Nadja.”

  She grabs my hand and licks my fingers. “A little sugar with that coffee?”

  “I can’t. Not here.”

  She grabs my tie and musses my hair.

  “Tonight,” I say. “I promise.”

  She stands on the desk, removes a stainless steel Zippo from her jacket pocket, and holds it under the sprinkler.

  “How about a little alarm to empty out the building, then you and I get lost for a while in the shuffle,” she giggles.

  “Go ahead,” I say as seriously as I can. I’m dying for her to spark it. I can almost hear the hiss of her whisper. I straighten my tie and pat down my hair, but I hope she does it.

  She sits down on the desk. “You really are a party pooper.” She flicks the lighter absently. Glittering, ephemeral, sparks fly off the flint. A beautiful, thin flame bursts into being. For an instant, I glimpse those ruby eyes I yearn for.

  “I’m waiting,” Fire Girl whispers. “You can do better than an abandoned farm house.”

  I’m on Michelle like a blaze that can’t resist dry wood. I know I should stop, but I’m hiking down her skirt, whipping off my belt, grabbing her shoulders. I push her down on the desk. She slides a leg up and around me, then exhales a familiar sigh of pleasure. I know our kindling moves well. The rest is different every time. Like a good flame.

  I close my eyes and see an inferno jetting into the sky.

  Pressing against her, my eyes meet the framed photos on my desk. I’ll create the biggest blaze ever. I just have to work it so no one gets hurt.

  ****

  Trying to leave the office early, I tell Jonas I have to jet off to another dinner meeting to butter up the Refron boys. Just my luck—in the lobby I bump into some suit from accounting whose name I can never remember.

  “Hey Revivick,” he says. “I read they fried that bastard. I just want to say sorry, again, about your daughter,” he says. “You must feel some relief now.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “How’s your wife?”

  I’m not going to tell this bozo that Nadja doesn’t touch me anymore. Does he really want to hear how all our heat is gone? That she acts as if any closeness will lead to passion, which will lead to the act of creation, which the world has proven always ends in bright flames that will burn out into ash and be gone, like Allie, leaving only emptiness and pain. What the hell is he going to say to that?

  “Nadja’s fine. Listen, ah, Fred, right? I got a dinner in fifteen, so I gotta run.”

  I immediately head upstate, though I’m supposed to meet Michelle, Ms. Insatiable, at six at the Riviera and then be back home for dinner with Nadja at seven-thirty. No way any of it is going to happen. Not tonight. I have to see her. Just a small one to tide me over before the big burn.

  The highway gives way to the back roads, and I pull into a little shit of a gas station, the kind without a security camera. I pay the kid a twenty and fill the three gas cans in my trunk.

  After a half hour the car lights thin out and I turn onto State Road Seventy-Eight. Gravel flies as I zip around the turns.

  Finally, I reach the abandoned milk facility. I discovered it while antiquing with Nadja on one of our futile attempts to take our minds off Allie. And I’ve been saving it for an emergency like this.

  The sun is low in the sky, but I can’t wait till dark. I skid around to the back of the factory and run the car into the old loading dock. I pop the trunk and haul the gas cans inside. Pouring gas all over, I stumble and gasp for breath. I’m too excited—moving too fast. I slow myself and look at my watch. One breath per second.

  “Anybody here?” I ask.

  Two-one-thousand.

  Three-one-thousand.

  “Good.”

  I fumble for the matches and drop two before the blessed sulfur smoke wafts to my nose.

  “This won’t do,” Fire Girl whispers from the tiny flame. “Give me heat that will melt glass. You know where…”

  “Last chance. Anyone?” I call.

  Outside, a familiar engine whines and turns over.

  Shit.

  I snuff the match and glimpse Michelle’s little red Mazda pulling a U-turn out of the lot.

  What the hell is she doing here?

  I stand with the withered match in my hand, the sweet reek of gas everywhere. I’m so close. I can almost see her. But I’ve been sloppy and didn’t realize Michelle had followed me. I should have called and made up some excuse.

  I rush outside calling her name. Her tires spin on the gravel and she peels out onto the road.

  I bolt to my car, gun it in reverse, then slam on the brakes. I jump out and try to erase my tire tracks with my hands. Michelle drives like the wind. I have to come back for this mess if I’m gonna catch her. I hit the road leaving my tracks and un-sparked flame behind.

  I push the car close to a hundred miles per hour, yet I can barely keep her taillights in my sights.

  I need to hear her voice. Even for just a second.

  I push the cigarette lighter in and fumble for some gas receipts. I touch the flimsy paper to the glowing hot coil.

  “Who is she?” Fire Girl whispers. “I thought you want only me?”

  Her voice fades as the paper crumples into ash. I light another one.

  “Does she understand the need to burn?”

  “I guess she doesn’t,” I say.

  “Then you know what to do with her.”

  I fumble for more paper receipts, but all of them, and Michelle’s taillights, are gone.

  ****

  Nadja turns the gas on the stove down. The water boils over and drowns out Fire Girl’s whispers.

  “Damn it, Bill. Just stand there and stare, why don’t you?” Nadja says.

  Breakfast used to be a joyous madcap rush to get Allie to school, Nadja to the office, and me to my first appointment. One match from a sicko firebug changed all that forever. In his request for clemency, he said he thought he was just setting fire to the Red River bus yard and didn’t know that a child would be sleeping, overlooked, in the back of her school bus. Neither of us have sat at the table since.

  I pour the water into the sink and fish around for the boiled egg.

  “Screw it,” Nadja says. “I’ll grab something on the way.” She storms out of the kitchen. “And there’s still no goddamned milk around here.”

  I stare for a while at the empty place where Allie used to sit. Then I turn to the stove burner. I want to light a little one in the sink, but I have to find Michelle. How much did she see? Where did she go? Her car wasn’t at home last night when I drove by. I’m late for my first appointment, but I don’t give a damn.

  The doorbell rings. Nadja probably forgot her keys.

  I peer through the window to find a uniformed cop at the door. I feel the sweat drip under my sh
irt. Very bad timing. My trunk is full of charges and igniters for the big burn. How much does he know? Probably enough. He’s here.

  “Come in,” I say in my calmest no-pressure voice. I can sell this guy. He’s a good overworked civil servant buying peace of mind.

  “Mr. Raycivik,” he says, looking at a clipboard. “I was expecting the Missus. Sorry to hear about…”

  Everybody knew the Red River case. It changed everything. Day after they put the monster down, I woke up a new man.

  I watched the closed circuit screen showing them strap him into the chair. I hoped the bastard was thinking of me—that my pain was the last thing through his mind before he fried.

  The lights flickered and sparks flew from the connections on his temples and wrists. For a second, I just knew he was thinking of me, that he heard me damning him to hell. Besides, Fire Girl was there. She told me so. That night I went to the saw mill outside of town with some newspaper and a lighter and—

  “You okay? I hate to catch you at a busy moment,” the cop says.

  Probably just lulling me into making a mistake. I wipe the sweat from my forehead and wish my tie wasn’t so tight. I may have to take him down. Bring him out back. Get the gas can and…

  “It’s that time again. The annual Police Benevolent Association fund drive. Last year we counted you for…”

  I picture the withered match falling to the gasoline-soaked floor at the old milk house. Our tire tracks, my footprints, and god knows whatever else is still there. I have to hurry and light the big burn. But first I have to find Michelle.

  ****

  I drive by her house twice, check the Riviera and Le Gran Paradise. I even swing by her gym and favorite day spa. But at five to four, I hit gold and catch her right where she is supposed to be, walking out of the shiny green glass doors of her office building in White Plains, an hour before quitting time.

  “Bill. What are you doing here?”

  “Thought you’d get a rise out of seeing me,” I say.

  She walks faster, her heels clicking on the pavement.

  I move next to her, match her stride. I throw my arm around her waist.

  “My car. I’ll drive,” I say.

  “Uh, Bill, I gotta go. John’s waiting for me.”

  “Come on. It’s been two days. I owe you.”

  I open the door, holding her with the other. Her legs fold like matchsticks and she collapses into the front seat.

  I hurry around the car, slide behind the wheel, and start the engine.

  “What’d you see? Who’d you tell? The cops? My wife?”

  “Bill, I don’t know what you’re thinking. But I didn’t see anything. I didn’t talk to anyone.”

  She’s looking to buy a dose of things are okie-dokie, normal as can be, so I give it to her.

  “I just needed to see you,” I say.

  She relaxes a bit, but all the heat between us is gone. I speed up.

  “Where we going? The Riviera’s off Ninety-Five.”

  “Somewhere else.”

  I hit the Taconic so I can do ninety and avoid the traffic and speed traps.

  I turn off after a few exits and pull into a place called Jerry and Ginny’s Cabins and Campsites. I’d been there with Nadja and Allie once. Six cabins. All a nice walk and out of earshot from each other.

  “Bill, we gotta make this fast. John’s expecting me.”

  “Since when did you give a damn?”

  “Calm down. You don’t look so good.”

  I try to pull it together. I don’t want to hurt her, but I don’t see another way. I have to pull off the big burn and nothing can come in the way.

  I open the trunk, push around the wires and charges and grab a bag of coal, butane, and some two-by-fours. I toss them into the barbeque pit.

  “Bill, what the hell are you doing?” Michelle says.

  I ignore her, flip open the can of butane, and catch the sweet smell. I squeeze the can, coaxing all the fluid from it, and flick the match. The crisp wood takes with a satisfying hiss. The paper and leaves crackle and fold into themselves, disappearing into the hungry line of glowing orange.

  I look through the wafting black smoke for her.

  “Where are you? What do I do?” I ask.

  “You’re more messed up than I thought,” Michelle says. She kicks off her heels and bolts into the woods.

  The flames sputter and gain a hold on the wood. I can faintly make out her flickering face.

  I could catch up in seconds. Wrap my hands around her neck, then let the flames eat the evidence. But the big blaze has to be lit. Nothing can jeopardize it.

  “Let her go,” Fire Girl whispers.

  “But she’ll tell someone. The cops.”

  “Go. You are so close. Nothing matters now but the flames.”

  She’s right. I have the keys and pass cards. No one can stop me.

  I leave Michelle in the woods and head for the Refron plant in Jersey.

  ****

  I set the last charge onto the side of the giant fuel tank with a thunk and fix it in place with a ragged strip of duct tape. With tens of thousands of tons of compressed gas and all the raw sweet crude around here, things are going to get real hot. I’m going to see her clear as day. Hear her voice loud and strong. Maybe be able to touch her.

  I clomp down the steel stairs and hurry to the next massive storage tank.

  Wheels rumble on the metal flooring. A scruffy janitor pushing his cart waves to me. I hold up one of the pass cards and spit out an improvised line. “Inspection deadline.”

  He smiles feebly, his mouth full of broken and yellowed teeth. “At least I’m not the only one working late,” he says.

  “Anyone else here?” I ask.

  “You mean Burt? He covers zone two and the front, but he’s always late.”

  I picture the fireman pulling bodies from charred wreckage. Does it matter if a couple of janitors get fried? The thruway is only a hundred yards or so away, but the cars will be safe enough if this whole place blows. Won’t they?

  I should just go home. Take a cold shower. Think it over. Make sure. But I have to hear her. Will she wait?

  I dial Nadja. She’ll know what to do.

  “Bill?” she asks, then whispers. “It’s him. It’s him.”

  Voices murmur in the background.

  “Where are you?” she asks.

  “I’m okay, honey. I just don’t want anyone to get hurt. I’m not like that monster. I’m different. I’m so close now. I can almost hear her.”

  “Who? What? Never mind. Just come home, honey. Everything’s going to be fine. I can get you help.”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been home for dinner lately. For everything, really. I just have to do this, then everything’s going to be okay.”

  “Bill whatever you are thinking, don’t do it. Just come home, everything will be fine.”

  She’s right. Everything will be fine. Crisping a couple of shit sweepers doesn’t count.

  “Remember, I didn’t want to hurt anybody.”

  “Bill, I love—”

  I hang up the phone, hit the timer, and run.

  I don’t stop until I clear the maze of tanks. I stand in the fueling lot among the jumbo tanker trucks where I have a great view. Any second now.

  A plume of red shoots into the sky. A glorious burning pillar reaches for the heavens.

  Flames blossom everywhere. Tanks explode. A chain of deafening bangs and booms moves closer.

  Heat washes over me and I choke my last breath as the inferno robs the air of oxygen. A roaring wall of fire rushes to the fuel yard. Yellow. Orange. Then nothing but red.

  ****

  “Tell me. Tell me,” I beg. The pain is gone but I burn, just a thin finger of flame in the inferno.

  Fire Girl laughs. She isn’t slinky and slender anymore. She looks sort of like my little Allie.

  “What do you want to hear?” she asks. “Should I call you Daddy and say I want you to burn like I did?”r />
  I feel myself flickering out. Any second now there will be only black.

  I fight for focus. “You’re not my daughter, and I’m not like the Red River guy,” I say.

  “No. You’re as different as can be. Right before the current fried his brain and I asked him where the spark would jump, he thought of you, right away. No fighting at all.”

  I just want to burn. To merge into the red. To fold into the yellow and orange. “I’m a good guy,” I manage to say. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “You’re almost spent now. One more thing left for you to do before you go. Show me where the spark will jump next.”

  “You’re not Allie. Why don’t you dance, like before? Tell me why? Why did all of this happen?”

  She cups her breasts, flicks her tongue, and bursts into the slender silhouette of flame I knew.

  “She was such pretty fuel,” she says.

  I’ve been sloppy. Bought what Fire Girl was selling. There is no why. Fire simply burns because it can. Because it must. I picture Nadja buttoning up her white blouse for the family portrait. The day I beat Jonas at golf. Michelle when she was just an admiring colleague. I try to banish them from my mind, hoping the spark will end with me.

  Fire Girl smiles, her ruby eyes glittering and kinetic.

  “It never ends,” she says. “They’ll always be fuel to feed me.”

  I see Michelle running out of the woods. She’s at a gas station. The attendant is calling the cops. He rips open a pack of smokes for her from behind the counter. She lights a cigarette. Fire Girl is there in the flame.

  I feel myself slipping. Losing focus. Losing fuel. The black cinder at the end of it all is close now.

  THE GHOST DANCE

  A crow bobbed its head, fluttered its wings, and took flight from its perch on the roof of the nightclub. A patchwork of hand-made band posters covered the wide glass window. The crow squawked and flew over a circle of hundreds of dancers crowding the sidewalk and street.

  The briefing said there would be crows, Erin thought. The bird’s presence made this different, more real. Erin scanned the crowd: mostly teenagers, not just from the Rez. The last rays of the late summer setting sun cast a red glow on the closed stores of the strip mall and the circle of dancers crowding its streets. No sign of the suspect. No lucky break today.