by Gerry Boyle
I stood and turned, played the light across the back field. Two pairs of eyes glowed and I flinched, but then they disappeared, and I heard the sound of crunching and crashing as the deer leapt through the brush.
I left a message for Davida Reynolds on her cell phone. When she called back, I had crossed Route 17, was two miles north on 220, in the town of Washington. I turned around.
She met me at the Quik-Mart, the Suburban backed into the far corner of the lot, the motor idling. Reynolds was sitting in the truck, sipping a coffee. I parked next to her and she cleared stuff off the passenger seat. I got in, my feet propped up on a stack of folders and notebooks.
“When do you sleep, Mr. McMorrow?” Reynolds said.
“When you do,” I said.
“Hey, just another all-nighter. Like college. I think of it as Organic Chemistry. What do you think of it as?”
“Cash money,” I said.
She sipped. I smelled vanilla roast.
“Was he in there? Dr. Talbot?”
“This for the record?”
“Yes.”
“We found the remains of one person. We believe it to be Dr. Bertrand Talbot, the homeowner. Identification will come after examination of the remains by the state medical examiner.”
“Shit,” I said.
“You got that right,” Reynolds said.
“I suppose it was just a matter of time.”
“Every arson is a potential homicide,” she said. “Fire is a lethal agent.”
“Think they knew he was in there?”
“I tend to doubt it. Place is dark, has been empty. May have scouted it and thought it was clear.”
“Poor man.”
“Yes.”
“Where was he?”
“Front hallway. Downstairs. He almost made it.”
“Smoke?”
“Everyone asks that,” Reynolds said. “Nobody wants to think of someone being conscious as they’re burned alive.”
“So?”
“Smoke in the lungs and then burned.”
“Doesn’t answer the question.”
“Most likely unconscious before the fire got there,” Reynolds said.
“Glass half full?”
“He’s got family, Mr. McMorrow.”
I looked at her. Paused.
“I have something else for you,” I said.
She drank coffee, swallowed, said, “What’s that?”
I told her about Louis Longfellow lurking in the woods. After I recounted our conversation, she said, “Would have been nice to know this sooner.”
“Sorry. I got caught up with Lasha.”
“I sent Frank Derosby over to the artist’s place, by the way.”
I told her where Lasha was and why.
“Maybe Lasha should stay somewhere else until they catch him,” I said.
“Or her,” Reynolds said.
It took me a second.
“You mean Lasha herself?” I said.
A sip and shrug.
“She got your attention, didn’t she? Cuts her hand and gets you to play doctor.”
“Hey,” I said. “She’s not like that.”
“Maybe not. But bottom line, Mr. McMorrow, nobody’s ruled out until—”
“I know. You told me.”
“A little grumpy, Mr. McMorrow?”
“No, just tired.”
“Well, you’ve been busy. When do you have time to write?”
“Good question,” I said. “For the record now: You don’t think the person was scared away at Lasha’s place?”
“Could have been. Or could just enjoy messing with us.”
“What was your degree in from Bowdoin?”
“Psychology.”
“Good thing.”
“Very good. This is all about human behavior.”
“Speaking of which,” I said. “Very different kind of thrill, jerking people around. Lasha’s place. No flames, no fire trucks, no crowds. If he didn’t want to light it up, haven’t we just diverged into a very different sort of arsonist. More subtle? Clever?”
She looked at me.
“Interesting theory.”
“And another thing,” I said, and I told her about Harold and his arson conviction.
She said she knew about Harold’s record. “But fraud arson and thrill arson are—”
“I know. Again, completely different motivation. But you know they’re gonna go after Longfellow for this.”
“People are afraid,” Reynolds said. “Understandably. An arsonist is a killer who’s been lucky. And this one’s luck just ran out.”
“What if Louis has nothing to do with any of it?”
“Life’s unfair. An accomplished physician and good man was just burned to death in his own home. It’s my job to bring the score a little closer to even.”
She took a long pull on her coffee. A pickup pulled in, parked at the gas pumps.
“You want to see where I stepped in the gas?” I said.
“No, that’s okay.”
“Because you believe me?”
“Because I already looked. They spread that kitty-litter stuff on it.”
“Ours is a relationship built on trust,” I said.
Reynolds grinned. We sat. I held my notebook on my lap. The guy pumping gas into the pickup looked over at us curiously, like he’d made us as cops or lovers.
“Is it me, or does Sanctuary have an awful lot of undercurrents,” I said.
“Oh, all small towns do,” Reynolds said. “We just don’t look closely enough. Or we choose to ignore them.”
“Don’t let the facts get in the way of the idyllic myth.”
“You got it, Mr. McMorrow. Hey, one more thing and I’ll let you go.”
“What’s that?” I said.
“My colleague,” she said. “Derosby, he’s—”
“You don’t have to apologize,” I said.
“Oh, but I’m not, Mr. McMorrow,” Reynolds said. “Like I told you, solving an arson is—”
“Like musical chairs. And I’m still walking ’round and ’round?”
“You and some other people.”
“Torching buildings so I can write about it? Seems like a reach.”
“Cash money,” she said.
I didn’t answer.
“Hey, don’t get all huffy,” Reynolds said, turning to me. “He didn’t put you at the top of the list.”
“But not at the bottom, either?”
She didn’t answer.
20
I walked through the silent house, checked Sophie in her bed. She was asleep with her arms thrown up over her head, her head back and mouth open. I took a book from the bed and put it on the shelf, pulled the sheet up to her waist. She stirred and turned on her side, kicked the sheet back off. Warm-blooded.
I walked out of the room, down the hall, and into our room. Standing by the bed, I took off my jeans and T-shirt, slipped in beside Roxanne. She murmured, “I’m glad you’re home,” and then went back to sleep. I lay on my back. Looked at my watch in the dark, the green luminescent hands showing 2:40.
Then 2:55.
And 3:12.
At 3:20 I eased out of bed, picked up my clothes, and padded out of the room, down the stairs. In my jeans and T-shirt, I went to the kitchen, took a Ballantine from the refrigerator. I took the beer out on the deck and sat. The stars were glistening in the western sky, already fading to the east. A robin clucked in the woods, then was quiet, still too early to start in for the day. I sipped the beer and studied the stars, picking out the few constellations I knew. The Big Dipper. The Swan. The Archer. My father showed them to me and I had shown Sophie. She’d said, “Was your daddy an astronaut?”
I heard coyotes yipping on the ridge a half-mile back. The flutter of a bat passing close. The croak of frogs in the woods. The rustle of a mole or mouse in the garden along the steps. The hoot of a barn owl from beyond the house, across the road.
And a footstep.
It was 4:05. He was standing at the edge of the deck, fifteen feet away. I’d heard the mice but I hadn’t heard him coming. He moved closer.
“Just getting up?” I said.
“Been up a while. You?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Guilty conscience.”
“That would be me,” I said.
“No doubt,” Clair said.
I got up and we walked around the house to the road, so we wouldn’t wake Sophie and Roxanne. At the road we went right, talked as we walked. I told Clair about Dr. Talbot, and he shook his head, was quiet and somber. I went on to Louis and Lasha, Derosby and Davida Reynolds. Gas on my shoes. Louis some more.
“People react differently,” Clair said.
“To the violence?” I said.
“To war in general,” he said. “It’s not something you can understand until you’ve seen it.”
“This guy is definitely troubled.”
“Could have been troubled long before he enlisted,” Clair said.
“And then Iraq?” I said.
“Where was he?”
“I don’t know. Someone said they thought he was a machine gunner. You know, on top of the Humvee.”
“You’re out there when all hell breaks loose.”
“And your buddies are getting their legs blown off,” I said.
“And you’re taking fire from three directions,” Clair said. “Some complex ambushes in Iraq. IED detonates first, then they pin you down with small arms and rockets. RPG is a serious weapon.”
We turned, started back. Dawn was easing in from the east, the sky lightening. “Well, whatever it was, Louis is messed up.”
“Living all alone. Worst thing for a guy like that. You have to talk it out, purge the demons. Otherwise, they can eat you up from the inside, like cancer.”
We were in front of the house, the window of Sophie’s room glowing faintly. Her nightlight.
“Speaking of which,” Clair said.
“Which what?”
“Demons. Roxanne.”
“What about her?”
“This is really bothering her, Jack. This little boy.”
“I know,” I said.
“I came by. Midnight, a little after. She was out back, standing on the lawn. Crying. She said she didn’t want Sophie to hear.”
Midnight, a little after. I was holding another crying woman.
“The mother–”
“Beth.”
“She called her, drunk and hysterical. Said she had nothing to live for without the kid.”
“Could be true. What did Roxanne say?”
“I don’t know. Tried to calm her down, but all she kept saying was that the boy was her responsibility. Said, bottom line is, he died on her watch.”
I swallowed.
“I’ll talk to her,” I said.
“You just don’t want it to fester, Jack,” Clair said. “With her being with the little one all the time, she can’t let it out.”
“But I can’t do stories staying here. And we need to make money.”
“Hey,” Clair said. “Don’t you go guilt-tripping, too. Your job is to keep her together.”
“And write this story,” I said.
“And stay out of jail,” Clair said.
“Yes,” I said. “There’s always that.”
I fell asleep at 5:00, listening to the sound of Roxanne’s breathing, in and out, like gentle waves washing up on a shore. At 7:40 I woke to the sound of clattering pans and chattering Sophie.
They were downstairs and I could smell pancakes, coffee. Then I heard Sophie’s footsteps on the stairs, Roxanne saying, “Quiet, honey. Don’t wake Daddy.”
The refrigerator door closed. The microwave beeped. The door to the bedroom clicked. I looked over from the bed. Saw Sophie peering from behind the door like a nosy jailer.
“Daddy’s awake,” she called, and barged in, took four running steps and leapt onto the bed.
“We’re having pancakes,” she said. “Mom made extra for you.”
“Great, honey,” I said.
“Let’s eat,” she said, taking my hand and tugging. I threw the covers back, let her drag me out of the bed. I pulled my jeans on, a T-shirt, and picked her up and carried her downstairs.
“Daddy’s very hungry,” Sophie announced.
“Well,” Roxanne said. “Then Daddy came to the right restaurant, didn’t he?”
“Right,” Sophie said, and she slid down and climbed up into her chair. I walked to Roxanne, who was pouring orange juice, put my hand on her hip and kissed her cheek.
“Hands off the help,” she said.
I sat and Roxanne served the pancakes. Sophie and I helped ourselves to melon and grapes. Roxanne sat and we passed the syrup and then raised our juice glasses for a toast. “To the chef,” I said, and Sophie said, “That’s our mom,” and we clinked our glasses. Roxanne was smiling, her pretty brown eyes and her pretty mouth, and I wondered if Clair had just caught her at a low moment.
We ate, sipped coffee and tea. Sophie was saying that she wanted to get Pokey a wagon so he could pull the whole family in it and we could take it to the store. I said maybe we could, and then Clair was on the deck and Sophie was running for the door, dashing back in to get her cowgirl hat and back out the door, where Clair was waiting.
He waved to us. We waved back. He and Sophie went down the steps and headed for the path through the woods to the barn.
“So,” I said.
“So,” Roxanne said.
“Someone died in the fire in Sanctuary last night,” I said.
I told her who, and how. Roxanne closed her eyes and sighed, like more weight had been lowered down on her.
“You okay?” I said.
“Yeah. The poor man. I mean, it’s just all too much. It’s like the whole world is spinning out of control.”
“Just a small piece of it,” I said.
“With you and me right at the center,” Roxanne said.
I squeezed her shoulder. And then I told her the story of the rest of the night. When I was done, the coffee was gone.
“This woman’s got emotional problems,” Roxanne said. “And she’s infatuated with you.”
“She’s just lonely,” I said. “And sad.”
“Why would someone try to burn down her house?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know that they really did.”
“Is this Louis guy dangerous?”
“Probably not,” I said. “It’s the rest of the place I wonder about.”
“You don’t think this investigator really thinks you’re the arsonist?”
“No. I think she likes playing with people’s heads. Throw something out there, see how people react.”
“Nice,” Roxanne said.
“She’s very smart.”
“Good for her. Tell her to leave you out of it.”
“I think she likes me, actually.”
“Well, aren’t you Mr. Congeniality.”
Roxanne got up from the table, took her plate and glass and cup to the counter. I got up and did the same, then stood beside her. I put my hand on her hip again. She stood still, staring out the window at the yard, the trees, nothing at all.
“Clair told me you were upset.”
“Yeah, well, that’s the reality of it.”
“You know you didn’t hurt Ratchet,” I said.
“Didn’t help him,” Roxanne said.
“You want to talk to somebody?”
I felt her tense.
“I’m fine.”
“Great, if you really are. But if you’re just holding it in—”
“I’m really okay.”
“You sure?”
“As okay as I can be. I mean really, Jack. Sometimes I’m not sure you understand how this feels. It’s not just that some little boy died. It’s that I was the one—”
A noise at the shed door. More a thump than knock, like someone had delivered a bag of flour, tossed it onto the step. I
crossed the kitchen, listened. There was another thud, fainter than the first. Roxanne stood behind me as I lifted the latch and pulled.
And Beth toppled headfirst into the room.
21
“Oh, my God,” Roxanne was saying. “Beth. What happened? What happened to you?”
I turned her over. She looked up at us, woozy, her eyes unfocused. Both hands were bloody and there was more blood on her cheek, her chin. Roxanne rose, went to the sink, and ran water. I pulled Beth’s sweatshirt sleeves up, saw that the blood was thick, starting to dry. Roxanne came back with a bowl of water and towels and knelt and dabbed at Beth’s hands and wrists.
I felt a tidal wave of déjà vu.
“Call 911,” she said.
I peered at the cuts on Beth’s wrists, said, “Wait.”
Roxanne rinsed the towel and the water in the bowl turned pale pink. She dabbed some more and said, “Beth, what the hell did you do this for? What were you thinking?”
“I wanted to die,” Beth said weakly, with sour alcohol breath. “I just wanted to die.”
Beth cried softly. Roxanne dabbed and rinsed. I looked at the hand that was less bloody, saw the cut on the upper wrist toward the hand. It was a quarter-inch long and ran parallel to the tendon, well above the veins. If Beth had intended to kill herself, she hadn’t come close.
“So what are you doing?” I said to her. “Trying to spread the guilt around?”
“Jack, no,” Roxanne said.
I looked at her. “She didn’t want to kill herself. She wanted to make you suffer.”
“Jack, please.”
Beth looked at me, then at Roxanne, and the crying turned to sobs. Then coughing, and sobbing again, back to crying. When the crying subsided, Beth said, “You don’t know what I’m going through. You can’t know how I feel.”
I reached over and took the towel and bowl from Roxanne and started on the right wrist. “No, I can’t,” I said. “And I don’t intend to ever find out.”
Over coffee at the kitchen table, Beth’s bandaged wrist raising and lowering with the cup, the truth slowly leaked out.
