Jake's Burn

by Randy Rawls

  “How long have you known Sheila?” Since I was stuck with him, I figured I’d learn all I could.

  “’Bout two years. Not long after she dumped that dipstick she was married to. Bubba introduced me to her. She was some woman. There ain’t many like her.”

  The look on his face bothered me, a look that might have been pride in ownership. I hoped I misread it. Surely, Sheila hadn’t slipped that far.

  “Mr. Edwards, I want you to know, I’m gonna help you all I can. You need somethin’, you just tell ol’ Joey-Boy. You wanna talk to somebody, you tell me, and I’ll deliver him, day or night. I might not look like much, but I plow a wide furrow out here.”

  “Thank you. I’ll remember. Start by telling me about Sheila.”

  He took off talking and I wasn’t sure I’d get out of there by midnight. When he finally slowed down, three things were clear. First, he didn’t know much, only gossip. Second, he had a serious crush on Sheila. He’d finished several Louisiana Bayou’s by then, so the third thing I learned was he couldn’t handle his beer.

  Then, as if she had floated in above the crowd, Terri was at my side. “Excuse me, Mr. Edwards. I’d better take Joey home. It looks like he reached his limit early this evening. You must have been paying.”

  “After you drop him off, will you be coming back this way?”

  “Well, usually I go home after Mom and I put Joey to bed. One part of me says it’d be nice to come back and have a beer with you, but my more conservative side says that wouldn’t be a smart thing to do. Think I’ll go with the second and get some sleep. School comes early tomorrow.” She smiled and turned to Joey.

  I was tongue-tied again, but Joey spoke up in a drunken slur. “See, jus’ play it cool. She’s hot af’er your bod.”

  I gave Terri an understanding look as she led Joey away. In return, she rewarded me with another smile. “See you again.”

  As I watched her leave with Joey, I felt twenty years younger than when I’d walked in. I turned to the bar and looked in the mirror. It took a moment before I recognized the grinning fool who stared at me.

  Bubba managed to ruin my mood by tapping me on the shoulder. “Hey, you’re on my dime. Let’s go. That’s as close to love as you’re gonna get tonight.”

  I looked at him, then in the direction Terri disappeared. Obligation won out over yearning. I sighed, set my bottle down with a thump and followed Bubba.

  As we walked out of the Down Home, an older man intercepted us at the door. “Bubba, can I talk to you a minute?”

  “Not now, I gotta roll,” Bubba said.

  I took a good look at the man who had tried to stop Bubba. He didn’t look like a local, didn’t look like he belonged in the Down Home. “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Some old guy says he gonna write a book about Cisco. His name’s Randy or Sandy or something like that.”

  I glanced back and saw he continued to watch us.

  “Look,” Bubba said, “I got somewhere I gotta be, but Sonny’s goin’ with you. Just follow his lead.” He walked away.

  SEVEN

  There are times when I wish I was six-six and filthy rich. Then, I’d do things my way. But, since I’m neither, I left the bar with Sonny. We drove to Lake Cisco in my car, and parked in a spot where I’d have preferred to be with a woman like Terri Hart. It was a beautiful evening with the moon reflecting off the lake, causing me to think more of Terri than the arson.

  “You know, Ace, you outa learn to relax. Here, have a beer.”

  I looked at Sonny as he reached into the back seat and grabbed a six-pack. I wondered how he slipped it in without my seeing it.

  He uncapped a long neck and handed it to me. I make it a rule not to insult a client, or his best friend, so I didn’t refuse. He took a long swig from his bottle, then looked around. “Lots of people come out here at night. Most of them are young lovers—teenagers—but sometimes older couples come. This was one of Sheila and Bubba’s favorite places. He said it was here he first made love to her. Said he was too big for the back seat so they went over there, under that oak tree.” He chuckled. “Ain’t that funny? Try picturing Bubba trying to make it in a back seat.”

  The picture of Bubba and Sheila getting it on in a back seat, under an oak tree, or any other place did nothing for me. “It’s a great story and a beautiful place,” I said, “but you can tell me that story anytime. I’d rather be here with a beautiful woman.”

  “Yeah, me too. Coupla more things you oughta know. Bubba loves Sheila, more than you’ll ever understand. She shit all over him, but he still loves her. He’d do anything for her, and I do mean, anything. If you’ve got him on your list, cross him off. He was with me the night the house burned, and even if he hadn’t been, I’d still know he didn’t do it. He flat loves her too much to ever hurt her.”

  “Okay, you alibied Bubba. Tell me about Terri Hart.”

  “I figgered you’d ask about her. You looked like a starving puppy eyeing a T-bone steak.” Sonny gave me a silly grin. “You don’t want to get mixed up with Terri Hart. You might be a smart city cop, but she’s too much for you, and her family’s mean as snakes.”

  “If you’re trying to tell me something, spell it out in plain English.”

  “There’s lots of rumors ’cause most of the time she acts so uppity. Won’t go out with us normal guys. Some say she swings both ways. Me, I don’t believe it.” Sonny slid down in the seat and took a sip from his beer. “Wanna hear more?”

  “Keep talking.”

  “One rumor has it she had a girlfriend ’til Joey run her out of town. Her name was Laura Johnson, and all I know is she and Terri were together all the time. Then Laura left—disappeared, sudden like. Some people said she took a teaching job in Oklahoma City, but nobody’s ever heard from her. Mighty curious.”

  Sonny leaned back and finished his beer. He placed his empty in the carton before taking another. “When you finish your bottle, don’t throw it out. All this trash ruins the envir’nment.”

  I mentally scored two points for him as a friend of the earth. “That’s nice, but I’d rather know about Terri.”

  Sonny stared hard at me. “Her last steady boyfriend here in Cisco was a guy named Joe Lewis. That wuz a few years ago. He was another teacher at the school, but they broke up when he left town. Some said she had the hots for Sheila. That’d explain why she does all she can to look like her.”

  None of his story fit what I wanted to believe. “Okay, you’ve given me the rumors. Now, give me facts.”

  “Facts? Like I said, I don’t know much about her. She’s a teacher here in Cisco, teaches junior high. Been doing it since she graduated from college. Everybody seems to like her, but nobody knows much about her private life.”

  “That’s better. How about boyfriends, significant others, husbands, ex-husbands?”

  Sonny grinned. “Nope, not married—never been married. As far as I know, she’s got nobody special right now. But she disappears a lot on weekends. Some say she’s got a rich boyfriend in Fort Worth or Abilene. If so, she ain’t ever brought him to the Down Home. I still say you oughta stay away from her.”

  “Thanks for the advice.” I decided to change gears. “Why the hell am I out here on lover’s lane with you?”

  Sonny looked at me, a questioning look on his face. “Didn’t Bubba tell you? No, guess he didn’t take the time. While you was making eyes at Terri, Bubba went to take a piss. When he finished, there was a note laying on the sink. Here it is.”

  He handed me a damp piece of paper. I gingerly took it, holding it between two fingertips, hoping it was damp from water only. Didn’t smell funny. I held it up to the light and read, You want to know who killed Sheila, be at her favorite place at Lake Cisco at midnight.

  I looked at my Timex, eleven thirty-five.

  “This was on the sink?”

  “Bad echo out here at night,” Sonny said, chuckling. “Bubba had to run so he asked me to bring you out to solve the case. He’s pissed ’ca
use he figgers you’ll wrap it up. He wanted to be in on the kill.”

  He shut up and I didn’t have anything more to ask. We watched the minutes tick by. Five minutes later, I was antsy. I’m not much for sitting in a car waiting for someone to show up. “I don’t like this. I’m going to wait over there.” I indicated the oak tree where Bubba and Sheila had, well, you know.

  I saw Sonny nod in the moonlight as I opened the door and crawled out. I walked into the shadows and peeked to be sure I could see the car. Then I leaned against the tree.

  At two minutes before midnight, all hell broke loose. The staccato sounds of an automatic weapon ripped the night. I hit the ground, grabbing for my Beretta. Not there—in my jacket in the car. All I could do was hug the tree, wanting to crawl under it. I forgot what Sheila and Bubba might have done where I was burying my face. I don’t know how many shots there were but it was either a big magazine or two of them. The shooting stopped, its echoes reverberating around the lake. I stayed in place.

  I heard screaming. Looking from my hiding place, I saw lights. Car doors opened as male voices called to one another. Behind them, I heard the panicky cries of young women. I wanted to join the panic but instead, I rose and walked to my car.

  The driver’s door hung open, the hinges shot away. In the moonlight, I could see the car was a mess. Whoever had been on the business end of the weapon controlled it well. The driver’s side window was gone, and the door showed tight shot groups.

  “Sonny,” I whispered.

  No answer.

  “Sonny, are you okay?” I peeked through the window and saw the answer to my question. He slumped against the passenger door, blood everywhere. His head, or what was left of it, was a pulpy mess. Reddish gray matter was everywhere.

  I turned away and threw up. A couple of teenagers peeked into the car. They joined me in puking.

  EIGHT

  The next night I sat in my recliner mumbling to the boys. Striker curled in my lap, asleep. Sweeper lay on the arm of the chair watching me. I’d like to think he listened.

  “Humph, your brother doesn’t seem much interested in my welfare. After the shooting stopped, the cops showed up, and I do mean cops—plural. I spent the rest of the night with them. First, two of them talked to me in the back of their cruiser. They proved they passed the interrogation phase of their classes at the Police Academy.

  “‘What were you and Sonny doing at the lake?

  “‘Where were you when Sonny was killed?

  “‘What kind of weapon did you hear?

  “‘Who killed Sonny?

  “‘Was he shooting at you?

  “‘Who are your enemies?

  “‘Why’d you come to Eastland County?

  “‘Do you have a permit for this weapon?’

  “And so forth and so forth.”

  Sweeper yawned.

  “Then they hauled me to the Sheriff’s office. At first, I was glad to be there. I figured I’d meet some senior guys who’d be more on the ball. Guess what? Yep, same dumb questions.

  “‘What were you and Sonny doing at the lake?

  “‘Where were you when Sonny was killed?

  “‘What kind of weapon did you hear?

  “‘Who killed Sonny?’

  “Et cetera, et cetera.”

  Sweeper yawned again.

  This time I took offense. “Sorry, am I keeping you up past your bedtime?” I think the sarcasm was lost on him.

  He switched his tail a couple of times and curled it around his body, instantly asleep.

  “Well, guess that answers that. Remind me never to write my memoirs. But consider this, you ungrateful wretch. You’d get awful hungry without me.” I stared at Sweeper, then at Striker. Must be great to be able to sleep as soon as you close your eyes. I swear Striker snored.

  I leaned back in my recliner, letting my mind float, hoping right brain might kick in with answers. Nothing. I guess I slept because time passed. I know because Striker’s claws sinking into my thigh awakened me. It was almost midnight.

  “Ouch,” I said, sleep disappearing. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Then I heard a low growl coming from Striker’s throat. “What is it, boy? What do you hear?”

  At that moment, Sweeper came awake and stood on his tiptoes on the arm of the chair. Every hair on his body stood on end, and I heard his nails punch through the leather.

  As if on a signal, they leapt to the floor and raced to the window. I watched, straining to hear anything out of the ordinary. They reared onto their hind legs and peeked through the glass. One peek was enough. They wheeled and sprinted under the couch. I hit the floor thinking, did somebody follow me home?

  A thunk sounded against the front door, then silence. I lay there, expecting the worst, pictures of Sonny floating through my head. What was it? A pipe bomb? A crazed assassin trying to draw me out? A firebomb? Images of charred bodies flooded my mind.

  After a moment of indecision, I moved, grabbed my Beretta and rushed out the back door. I was glad the Eastland Deputies had given the weapon back to me. They kept my jacket. On second thought, they could have the jacket. Sonny’s brain tissue saturated it.

  I tore around the house vowing no one would take my cats or me without a fight. I moved as quietly as I could, but I was more intent on speed. At the front corner, I peeked around, willing my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I saw nothing, so I waited. I figured if there was an assassin out there, he’d have to move eventually. I froze. Five minutes, ten minutes—no movement. My muscles cramped. I vowed I’d hit the fitness center more often. I crept to the front of the house, surveying in all directions—like they taught me in the academy. Nothing, not a whisper. I pocketed my pistol and walked to the front door intending to return to my nap, or better yet, go to bed.

  When I reached for the doorknob, my toe bumped something. I knelt and found a brick. Picking it up, I felt paper secured by a rubber band. “Somebody’s been seeing too many B movies,” I mumbled.

  I unlocked the front door and went in where there was light for reading. The paper was a note, printed in block letters. Like Bubba’s note, only drier. Sorry, I missed you last night. Maybe we can do it again. I’ll try not to be so sloppy next time. Been to any good fires lately?

  I don’t mind telling you goose bumps crawled my body. I locked the door, feeling like it offered no more protection than my skin.

  Striker and Sweeper came from under the couch and paced back and forth, staring at me.

  “Meow,” Striker said.

  “Meow,” echoed Sweeper.

  Now, that was something I could handle. Their message was they were hungry. My first impulse was to give them hell for thinking of food at a time like this, but then I realized the danger must have passed or they wouldn’t be so blasé. I reckoned they didn’t want to waste any of their nine lives any more than I wanted to use up my one. We went to the kitchen, and I filled the food dishes.

  I got ready for bed and quickly fell asleep. I was bushed from the excitement of last night and the grueling day I’d had. I was awake thirty minutes later. The rest of the night, I slept badly with my Beretta, two cats, dreams of Sonny, Sheila’s house before the fire, and two burning questions—Who killed Sonny and who threw the note at my front door? Oh yeah, my dreams also asked why the hell I’d gotten involved?

  There were no more thumps at the door to interrupt my restlessness, but Jake came through with his usual sense of timing—his signature three a.m. phone call.

  “Hey, Arty, I hear you’ve got the killers on the run.”

  I mumbled, “Don’t call me Arty.”

  “Relax, will you? I’m calling to help. From what I hear, you lost your car, and you had to hitch a ride to Dallas. You should have called me. Wanted you to know there’ll be a new Chrysler convertible in your driveway tomorrow morning. Use it like it’s yours. I hatched a deal with the dealer in Ranger and—”

  “Jake, I’m tired. Two nights ago, somebody killed Sonny in my car. Last night, someo
ne left a warning note at my front door. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate your generosity but, right now, a new convertible is low in my priorities.”

  “Great, Arty. Does that mean I can count on you for more than two weeks? This is working out better than I’d hoped. I’m sure you’ll find the assholes who torched my house.”

  I stifled a yawn. “Right now, I’m more interested in staying alive than I am in Sheila’s house. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “No problem. I want you alive, too. Otherwise you can’t find the arsonist.”

  I gave up. “Okay, Jake. I’ll stay alive so I can handle your case. Now, let me get some sleep.” I hung up the phone, then unplugged it from the wall.

  While that was going on, Sweeper and Striker snored, curled together. My impulse was to shake the covers vigorously.

  The rest of the night I drifted in and out of sleep, dreaming while I was asleep and worrying while I was awake. Both had the same theme—someone wanted to hurt my body—bad.

  I woke in the morning, as tired as when I went to bed. You can guess what woke me. Yep, the sound of a car in my driveway. I got up and looked. It was there—a bright red Chrysler convertible. It looked like a big bull’s-eye.

  As I stood in the shower, alternating the water between hot and cold, I reached a conclusion. I’m not sure when, but it was there. It was simple. The only way I could stay alive was to find the guy or guys who killed Sheila and Sonny. I suspected Jake would be thrilled.

  Before I hit the road, I had homework to do. I cranked up my computer and went online. I took the list of names Jake gave me and ran them through the Division of Motor Vehicles and the state criminal files. I still had enough contacts in the Dallas Police Department to stay abreast of how to gain information electronically. I got lots of hits, if you call driving drunk, driving without a license, creating a public nuisance, and brawling, hits. Nothing that told me who the killer was, though.