Incinerator

by Timothy Hallinan

  When I reached the lower level, I stopped dead and took a long look around. I smelled oranges. What the architect evidently had in mind was a single, awkwardly long room with a glass wall looking out over the canyon, opening onto an outer deck from which one could enjoy the view. My house was in the center of the view.

  There were no tripwires stretched over the skeleton of the deck. Dry weeds, thick and coated with dust, pressed up against the sides of the house. I took a loose two-by-four, lay down on my stomach on the deck, parted the weeds, and looked at dirt. Not until I'd checked all three open sides of the deck did I climb down into the brush. The first thing I did when I got there was stamp my feet eight or ten times to let the snakes know I was around. That finished, I jumped up and down twice and waited. Nobody rattled at me.

  Getting no closer to the edge of the house than a foot or two, I worked my way around to the west-facing side and started up the hill, moving sideways. I'd gone six feet when I spotted a line of filament running down from the tripwire surrounding the pad, and used the two-by-four to part the brush in front of it. The line ran into a little square silver device, bolted to the wooden frame of the house. Emerging from the center of the little silver device was a long fuse. The fuse traveled three or four inches before it entered the business end of yet another Fourth of July fire cone. The fire cone was pointed out, away from the house. Into the brush.

  Something moved behind me.

  I froze, trying to will myself into silent invisibility. Whoever it was waited, too.

  All I could think of was to get under the house, get between the open timbers that led down into the foundation, get away from the brush. The brush would explode. I didn't want to burn, but I certainly didn't want to explode.

  I sank slowly to a squatting position. The person behind me moved closer, accompanied by the sound of breaking brush. I had so much sweat in my eyes that the foundation timbers blurred and wavered.

  Then he came fast, and I leaned forward and pushed off with all my strength, a human frog trying to get under the lily pad before the hawk hits. I landed on one shoulder and tumbled away, rolling uphill, toward the juncture of the concrete pad and the hillside.

  Rolling, in other words, into a corner.

  Transformed in seconds from a frog to a crab, I scuttled backward into my corner and watched the brush. I heard something rasping and realized it was my breath.

  Then I saw his feet.

  They were brown. They were covered with fur. He lowered his head, gazed lovingly at me, and drooled.

  “Bravo,” I said thickly. “God damn you, Bravo.” He started to back away. “Good dog,” I said very quickly. “Good Bravo. Stay, Bravo. Stay.” I was working my way toward him on my hands and knees. “Stay, boy. If you don't stay, you'll be Barbecue Corrigan. You wouldn't like that, would you?” I emerged from my lair and twisted my fingers through the kerchief tied around his neck. He made a sound low in his throat, not really a growl, more like a canine “What's up?” but he didn't resist. United by a bond of love and cheap cotton, man and dog completed their surveillance.

  I found three cones on that side of the house alone. When I got to the top, I brushed myself off, put Bravo into Alice and rolled up the windows for insurance, stepped over the tripwires again, and went downstairs. Anyone hitting one of those tripwires would have started a conflagration that could have burned half of Topanga Canyon. Wilton Hoxley was going in for mass immolation.

  The smell of oranges came from one of the corners of the lower room overlooking the canyon. In it I found a tidy litter of orange peels, melon rinds, peach pits, and seeds. The Incinerator, apparently, lived on fruit. When I finally turned to climb the stairs, something gleamed at me from the vertical portion of the fourth step from the top, the one with the fishing line over it. On a small square of brown paper, in gold ink, I read the words:

  Hi!

  How do you like it!

  “I'm going to tell Finch to put a man up there,” Schultz said.

  “The hell you are. Why? I cut the lines and yanked the fireworks. He's not coming back. He booby-trapped it and went away.” The phone was slick and wet in my hand.

  “He reads the papers,” Schultz said. “That thing doesn't go off, he's going to go up and check. He won't be able to keep himself from checking. Maybe you found it, maybe you disarmed it. There's nothing in the papers, he's going to be beside himself.”

  “Oh, for the love of God, Norbert. For this kind of thinking, they pay you eighty dollars an hour? He's not coming back. If it doesn't go off, then either it's intact or it's been discovered. If he thinks it's intact, he'll wait until someone trips over it and it makes the front page. If he thinks it's been discovered, he'll figure every cop in California is sitting in the sagebrush wearing asbestos and waiting for him.”

  “You're thinking sane” Schultz protested.

  “I'm thinking, period.”

  “You can't think sane with this guy. Trust me on this.”

  “I've been trusting you. Have we caught him so far?”

  “What's the note say? 'How do you like it?' Suppose you're keeping us from preventing his new mission?”

  “This isn't his new mission. This is a prank.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because he isn't around for the fun.”

  Schultz lit up and breathed smoke. “A lot of people could get killed if you're wrong,” he said. “I can't keep this from Finch.”

  “Then I stop talking to you.”

  “Wait, wait. How you going to feel if you're wrong?”

  “I'm not wrong.”

  “If you can say that right now, you're dumber than I thought you were. Let's say there's one chance in five thousand that you're wrong. Let's say that's the chance that comes up and he rerigs it and some kid sets it off and fifty people die in their houses. Remember how I felt when he burned the first woman?”

  I used the time I needed for reflection to transfer the receiver to my other ear.

  “You could be right about his mission,” Schultz conceded. “That sounds good to me. He's going to want to be there. But if you're wrong about this, this prank or whatever it is, you're going to carry it with you until the day you die. There are little kids living up there.”

  Five thousand to one didn't sound good enough. “Only two cops,” I said. “And they can't be uniforms.”

  “Fine,” Schultz said. “I'll tell Finch.”

  “They have to go in on foot, over the fire roads. They can get dropped off about two miles away, at the top of Old Topanga Canyon, and pick up the fire road directly across the road from Deer Creek Ranch. You can get a map from the fire department. They should dress like hikers. I don't care if they're packing atomic cannons, they keep them in their backpacks until they're in position and they know no one is peeking. And they take every foot of the way like they're in enemy territory.”

  “Green Beret time.”

  “Eight- to ten-hour shifts,” I said. “No endless line of oversized Boy Scouts trekking heartily back and forth to Happiness Hills Homes.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Schultz said impatiently.

  Since I had a lot to do, everybody called. I was threading the pipe gizmos into the faucets in the kitchen and bathroom when the phone rang the first time. It was my friend Annie Wilmington, the mother of my goddaughter, inviting me to an eighth birthday party for her son, Luke, on Sunday. I declined. I was screwing the garden hoses onto the pipe gizmos in the faucets when a lady from the Los Angeles Times called to suggest that what was missing from my life was a six-month trial subscription. I told her I wasn't sure I had six months to live. I was using the hoses to fill five of the six buckets with water when Stillman called to ask how the case was coming along. I told him it was coming along like a house afire and hung up on him. I was putting eighteen of the twenty-four towels into the buckets full of water when Annabelle Winston called.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Well,” I said, “I've lost
a little weight, but I've acquired a guard dog.”

  “I haven't wanted to bother you. I just wondered if you have anything to tell me. I want to go to Chicago for the weekend, but not if you think anything is likely to happen.”

  “I think that exactly anything is likely to happen.”

  “Should I stay?”

  “Look, Miss Winston, I appreciate how patient you've—”

  “I saw how stressed you were last time,” she said, pouring it on just a bit. “I wouldn't add to the strain for the world, it's just that I'm not sure whether to leave or not. When you say you think anything might happen—”

  “I mean that he might burn me, he might burn you, or he might burn half of southern California. I think he's on the move and that he's got something very big in mind. And I think it's going to happen soon.”

  “I'll stay,” she said.

  “Suit yourself,” I said. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to finish filling my moat.”

  I put each of the buckets, full of water and towels, dead center in a room. I fastened the garden nozzles onto the hoses and hauled them through the house to make sure there was no spot I couldn't hit. I filled the sixth bucket with water, dropped the remaining six towels into it, and toted it down to Alice. Bravo roused himself loyally and trotted down after me. When I got back to the top of the hill, I gave him a bowl of water and a full box of low-salt Triscuits, over which I poured bacon grease from some forgotten breakfast. He knocked it back as though it had been Chateaubriand.

  Having purchased his territorial loyalty for one more night, I sat at the plywood breakfast counter and used a pair of needlenose pliers to work the bells out of the wind chimes. I only pinched myself twice. The pliers doubled as wire cutters, so I took them outside as I strung the piano wire back and forth across the driveway and through the brush on the hillsides surrounding the house. Each wire or pair of wires ultimately passed through one of the many holes in the screen over my bedroom window, where I passed it under a bent nail driven into the wall and then tied it off through one of the metal rings that had held the bells in place in the wind chimes. The entire bouquet of bells dangled about twelve inches above where my nose would be when I was asleep. I was outside, tugging wires and listening to bells, when the phone rang again.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hello, Simeon,” Eleanor said.

  “Oh, Lord,” I said, feeling as though I'd broken into a blush. “Let me get a beer.”

  I grabbed a bottle of Singha from the refrigerator and plopped down on the floor. “So hi,” I said.

  “How are you?”

  “Everybody's asking. I'm not well done yet, and that's something.”

  “Have you got any protection?”

  “Bravo Corrigan's here. I've put in an alarm system.” I could hear a television in the background. “And you?”

  “Getting tired of hotels.”

  “Call room service.”

  “I do,” she said. “Continuously.”

  “How's good old Burt?”

  “In New York.”

  “He's a New York type of guy. He should really move to New York. I bet he'd be happy as hell in New York.”

  “Well,” Eleanor said. It was beginning to get dark.

  I didn't want her to hang up. “Have you seen Hammond?”

  “He's with me four hours a day. He's in terrible shape, Simeon. I think he's drunk all night long. He's got so much fluid under his eyes I'm surprised he can blink.”

  “Tough,” I said. “He's a big boy. Time for him to stop feeling sorry for himself.”

  “She's going to take everything. She's got proof that he committed adultery.”

  “Al?” I asked in mock disbelief.

  “Oh, stop it. He's your friend.”

  “I am now the One Musketeer,” I said.

  “Well,” she said again. “He misses you.”

  I drank again. “He does?”

  “I miss you, too.”

  “Eleanor,” I said. “I'm sorry.”

  “Me, too,” she said after a moment. “How did things get so complicated?”

  “Maybe I'm not the best guy in the world. But I could get better.” I felt like I was talking Tourist's English.

  The television on her end of the line went bang-bang. “It would be good for you if you did,” she said. “You can't run away from love forever.”

  “It's how I keep in shape,” I said. “Stupid. Sorry, that was stupid.”

  “Well, it was certainly Simeon. Do you want me to come over?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “We're in Wilton's time zone here.”

  “Do you want to come here, then?”

  There was nothing in the world I wanted more. “I'm afraid to leave.”

  “I'd think you'd be afraid to stay.”

  “That, too.”

  “And you think you can change,” she said. “Well. When it's over, then. Promise?”

  “I promise.” I searched my brain for words that would prove I meant it.

  “Please take care of yourself. For me, if not for you.”

  “I will.” I drank half the bottle in a series of long, heart-clutchingly cold swallows.

  “See you, then.”

  “See you.” She hung up, and I finished the bottle and thought about the conversation we hadn't had.

  When in doubt, Dreiser. Since I'd totaled An American Tragedy, I took a shovel to The Titan for an hour or two, then gave up once again and reread the first part of Trollope's richly venal The Way We Live Now. At about eleven I turned off the light and got into bed. Two minutes later, the phone rang. I pushed Bravo Corrigan off my feet, where he was already twitching his feet, chasing some dream cat, and went to answer it.

  “Hello?” I said, hoping it was Eleanor again.

  Silence.

  “Oh, fuck you, Wilton,” I said, slamming the phone down. I went back to bed. Ten minutes later, Bravo raised his head and growled. I picked up the flashlight I'd put on the table by the bed and pointed it out the bedroom window. I lay down again.

  All the bells went off.

  19

  Waiting for Wilton

  All told, the bells went off three times that night. The third time, I went all the way to the kitchen, clutching Billy's rabbi, and old Bravo barreled out the door, and two seconds later a bunch of coyotes exploded past me and down the hill in a mad scrabble of claws on granite. There was no way to know about the first two times, so I went to bed and spent a couple of hours watching a big reddish fire moon sink itself below the hills, waiting for peal number four.

  Another great night's sleep.

  At ten in the morning, blinking and sneezing against the sunlight, I stumbled down the driveway and found the three-number note and sent it off to Schultz via the mailbox, in accordance with his instructions on the phone. My arms and legs behaved as though they'd never been introduced. I triggered one of my own wires carrying it back down. A bell in my bedroom rang derisively.

  At eleven-thirty, Schultz called to tell me that the big Boy Scouts homesteading up in Happiness Hills had radioed in to say they hadn't seen anyone around my house all night. They'd been using infrared binoculars.

  “The nightlife in your neighborhood,” he said, “mostly has four legs.”

  “What about that piece of paper?” I said. My teeth felt as if I'd been eating sand all night.

  “It's paper,” he said. “We got it three minutes ago, okay?”

  I said okay and brushed my teeth for the third time.

  At noon precisely, the phone rang again.

  “You really should watch your language,” Wilton Hoxley said. Then he hung up. I sat on the floor and thought about shaving. I'd absolutely almost decided against it some fifteen minutes later, when the phone rang. It sounded as if it were getting a sore throat.

  “I forgot to ask if you got it,” Wilton Hoxley said.

  “I got it. What does it mean?”

  “Don't be silly. You're the detective. You got it, wel
l, goody. One down, two to go.” He hung up again, but this time I stayed on the line and heard a second disconnect, the coin-drop click a pay phone makes.

  Scratching my chin seemed as good a way as any to pass the time. I'd run out of action the day before. After I'd scratched my chin really thoroughly, using no half-measures, I went into the bedroom and tried on my special survival outfit. It looked pretty silly.

  Schultz phoned at one-fifteen to say that the bit of paper was eighty-pound coated Royal Roto stock, whatever that meant, and that it was clean of prints. The ink was carbon-based black, and the numbers were in a typeface called Bodoni, commonly used by IBM for its advertisements and manuals. Wilton was going high tech.

  I hung up. There was literally nothing to do except wait for Wilton. Wilton came through at two on the dot.

  “Do we have pencil in hand?” he asked.

  “Do you want me to have a pencil in my hand, Wilton?”

  “If you don't, you're going to miss something really, really important.”

  I picked up a pen; he'd never know. “Shoot,” I said.

  “C!” Wilton Hoxley shrieked into the phone.

  I blinked. “See what?”

  “See nothing, you appalling disappointment, C the letter itself. C as in castrato, as in castellated or crenellated, as in Alpha Centauri, as in Charlie Company or Able Baker Charlie Thomas or Checkpoint Charlie, all that disgustingly banal hypermasculine stainless-steel jockstrap military fireman jargon, as in Charlie Chaplin, or, for Christ's sake, as in clue. This is a clue, Simeon the detective. C-L-U-E. Have you got it?”

  “Sure,” I said. I wrote 127 on a pad and put C under it, feeling like a life-form that had been promoted beyond its capacity by some evolutionary Peter Principle.