Once Burned

by Gerry Boyle

  “I don’t know about the charm part,” I said.

  “I do. And you’ve got her. Hook, line, and sinker.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “I do. I could tell by her voice this morning.”

  “Honey, she’s just a source,” I said.

  “She doesn’t know that, Jack. I promise you.”

  Sophie calling something, Roxanne covering the phone, saying, “Great, honey.”

  Then she was back.

  “I’ll be glad when this is over,” Roxanne said. “This woman and Beth.”

  “What’s with Beth?”

  “She’s been texting.”

  “Saying what?”

  Then Clair in the background, saying, “Easy there. Say whoa, honey. It’s okay.”

  “I gotta go,” Roxanne said.

  And she was gone.

  I stood by the truck. Hit redial. Got Clair’s voice mail. Said, “Call me as soon as you can.”

  I looked across the common, the red and white geraniums by the monument, the flag furling and unfurling in the breeze, people coming and going at the quaint general store. The news satellite trucks, booms telescoping into the sky.

  Two more had arrived from Portland and Bangor while I was inside talking to Tory and Rita, setting up on the common with the monument and store in the background. The first reporter, with backup now, was speaking into a camera. Another woman, dark-haired in khaki slacks and a sleeveless red top, was fixing her makeup. A young guy in a Dan Rather safari vest was flipping through a notebook, the cameraman waiting.

  I walked over.

  The dark-haired woman was brushing something from the front of her top.

  The guy, tall and blond and Ken-doll handsome, stood away from the camera and warmed up. The camera guy, stocky and shaggy-haired, in shorts and running shoes, waited.

  “Yes, Sarah,” the blond guy began. “I’m in Sanctuary, where, as you can imagine, it’s a somber scene. First this small town was ravaged by an arsonist, who has killed one man and has authorities working feverishly to apprehend him. And now the news that Wilson Harvey—I mean, Woodrow—”

  He looked down at his notes.

  “And now the news that Woodrow Wilson—shit.”

  The cameraman laughed. “Try Teddy Roosevelt, why don’t you.”

  “It’s not funny,” I said.

  They turned to me.

  “A kid’s dead. It’s not funny at all.”

  “Chill out, dude,” the camera guy said. “We’re working here.”

  “Is this the way you work? Thinking it’s all a big joke?”

  “Hey, go easy,” the blond guy said.

  “It’s Woodrow Harvey. And he was seventeen. And somebody kicked his head in. Ever seen what that looks like? Know what it feels like?”

  “Listen, bud,” the camera guy said, moving toward me. “I don’t know what your problem is, but I’m gonna have to ask you to move along.”

  He stopped in front of me, hands on his hips, chest puffed up.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “Make my day.”

  He stared at me and I stared back. Then he flinched, turned, and backed away. The blond guy scribbled in his notebook. Looked up at the camera and said, “Tensions are running high here in the town of Sanctuary, where local residents have been shaken by news that assault victim sixteen-year-old Woodrow Harvey has died.”

  He paused and looked at me.

  “Once more,” I said. “With feeling.”

  I walked to my truck, climbed in, set my notebook, recorder, and phone on the passenger seat. I sat and looked the place over: the general store, the red geraniums in the window boxes, the flags on the common. A Norman Rockwell scene, if you didn’t mind the phonies and drunks, the murderer and the arsonist—although in fairness to Sanctuary, they could be one and the same.

  As I watched, the blond TV guy was doing it for real, his expression somber and serious. An actor playing a part: the concerned journalist. As he talked into the camera, I considered my next step. Did I have enough for the magazine story? No. What was I missing? I wasn’t sure.

  And then Don Barbier’s truck rolled out of the parking lot. How was Don feeling? Was he freaking out like his partner? I started the motor, put the truck in gear, and followed.

  Don drove slowly, past the common, through the village and heading south, the direction of his house. I hung way back, catching glimpses of the black truck, the silver toolboxes. The road followed the river’s course, swinging left and right, probably stamped out on the top of the ridge by horses and early settlers. A new wave of settlers here now, one of them bent on—

  And then the truck wasn’t popping back out. I sped up, slinging the Toyota through the S-curves, and then, when it was clear he wasn’t in front of me, slowed down. There had been an occasional house near the road, a driveway or two. Had he turned off and into the woods? I was approaching Don’s driveway so I slowed, stopped across the road, and looked up through the trees. No sign of him.

  And then there he was, the Dodge approaching from the rear.

  It slowed. I waited and caught a glimpse of Don at the wheel as he turned in. He looked like he was whistling.

  I backed up, crossed the road, and drove up the tree-lined path. Popped out in the clearing. Don had parked on the side by the remains of the barn. The crime-scene tape was still there, like something left over from a party. The barn looked the same, a blackened hulk. I pulled in next to Don’s truck as he got out of the cab, unfolding his long frame, pulling his baseball cap into place.

  He smiled as I got out, came around the front of the truck. Gave me a manly handshake.

  “Thought that was some lost tourist or something, parked down there. Then I saw it was you, Jack the reporter, digging up some dirt.”

  He held out his hand and we shook.

  “What do you say, Jack,” Don said. “How ’bout a cup of coffee? Maybe a doughnut. I got some from Harold’s store. Hundred percent locally grown organic cholesterol.”

  He reached back into the truck, took out a box. “Mi casa,” Don said.

  I followed him across the yard. There were rubber boots by the back door, a hose on the ground.

  “Dog crap,” he said. “Out behind the barn. Stuck my foot in the shit, as they say. I said, ‘What the hell is a dog doing back here?’ ”

  I thought of Louis and his hound.

  “Somebody snooping around out there?” I said.

  “Woulda been last night,” Don said. “Wasn’t warm; wasn’t all dried up, either.”

  “Come back to the scene of the crime?”

  “Don’t know. But next time, I think I’ll keep an eye on my own property ’stead of driving all over the willy-wags.”

  He opened the door and I followed him in. The door led to the kitchen, which was clean but nearly empty. Nothing on the counters. One plate in the rack by the sink. There was a coffeemaker on the table, a bag of ground coffee beside it, a box of filters. Don went to the cupboard and opened a door and the cupboard was empty, too, save for two mugs.

  He took them out, went to the table and got the carafe out, filled it at the sink. Spooned coffee, poured the water in. The machine gurgled and hissed.

  “Doughnuts and milk—left ’em in the truck,” Don said.

  He banged out the door. I heard him go down the steps, and hurriedly looked around the kitchen, poked my head into the next room. There was a folding chair, a stack of books, a TV on a box. Nothing else. It was like he was camping. I retreated to the kitchen, heard him talking. Went to the door and looked out, saw him by the truck, on the phone. I heard him say, “That the best you can do on price?”

  I moved from the door, crossed the kitchen to the counter. There was a stack of mail and I flipped through it. A flyer for cable TV, addressed to Occupant. An electric bill, forwarded from Georgia Power. Fifty-eight dollars and change, billed to 587 US 41, Milner, Georgia. Another house he’d flipped?

  I leaned toward the door, could hear him talking
.

  “Yeah, but you know I can do this myself for the cost of the shingles.”

  I stepped to the door, looked out. Don was between the barn door and his truck. He was carrying the rubber boots. I went back to the mail. A bill from a hospital. The Medical Center of Central Georgia. I peeked. Overdue bill from the ER for $245.55. Third notice.

  And then Don was on the steps. At the door. I dropped the mail, no time to neaten the stack. Had it been neat? I hadn’t noticed.

  Don came in carrying a box of doughnuts and a half-gallon of milk. He put them on the table, said, “Roofers. Think just because I’m from Sanctuary, I’m made of money. Got him talking sense by the end.”

  He went to the sink, squirted dish soap on his hands, washed them under the faucet.

  “All that talk about dog turds,” he said.

  He dried his hands, walked to the table, opened the doughnut box, and held it out to me. “Harold’s finest,” he said. They were plain doughnuts. I took one and he did, too. We both took bites and chewed and swallowed. And Don said, “So—Louis. That what you’re thinking, too?”

  “Crossed my mind,” I said.

  “It was one big turd,” Don said.

  “One big dog.”

  “I’m thinking maybe he came back to check his work.”

  “Or just to check it out,” I said.

  “Could just come by during the day to do that.”

  “Told the cops yet?”

  “No,” he said. “Hate to point fingers. I mean, he isn’t the only one in town with a dog.”

  “I’d tell them. Don’t have to accuse him.”

  “No, I can let them do that, I suppose,” Don said.

  He took another bite of doughnut. The coffee was dripping.

  “Milk?”

  “No thanks,” I said.

  Don poured coffee in the mugs, then milk in his. He handed me a clay-colored mug, painted with yellow and black stripes. A Southwest motif.

  I looked at it.

  “You’ve lived in New Mexico? Arizona?”

  “Hell, yes. You reporters don’t miss much, do you. Yeah, did a year in a little town called Jerome, northern Arizona. Bought a place dirt cheap, fixed it up, sold it to a lady from San Diego, just got divorced from some big shot, looking to open a B&B with her settlement. I made a serious chunk of change on that one.”

  “And then you moved on?”

  “My job there was done,” Don said.

  “Where to after that?”

  “Oh, jeez. Northern California, Washington State. Back to the Southwest. Flipped a place outside Taos. Nice payout on that one. Serious money in some parts of New Mexico. Taos, Santa Fe, but that got way too pricey to get in. Okay, then North Carolina, Georgia, up to Maine. May have missed a couple in there.”

  He finished his doughnut. Washed it down with coffee. Licked his fingers. Reached for the box and broke off a half, offered me the other one. I shook my head.

  “Don’t ever want to stay put?” I said.

  “Nah. Hey, life’s too short. Things to do, man. Places to see.”

  He leaned against the counter. One long, tall guy. All muscle.

  “What kind of name is Barbier?” I said. “Kind of unusual.”

  “Well, that’s because it’s made up,” Don said. “Story I was told was my great-grandfather, he came down from Canada. Somebody at Ellis Island there saw his name, long and French. Barbiereaux. Too many letters, I guess. Maybe a long line of folks waiting to get their papers filled out. So he writes Barbier. ‘Next!’ And here I am.”

  I smiled.

  “Funny how one thing leads to another,” I said.

  “Yes,” Don said. “It is. And then you live with the consequences the rest of your life.”

  “You can tell that story to your kids someday.”

  “Right.”

  “Hey, speaking of not having kids—the artist woman,” I said.

  “Lasha,” he said.

  “Yeah. You know her?”

  “Sure.”

  “She with anybody?”

  “No,” he said. “Recently divorced, some guy from New York. We sort of dated a time or two.”

  “Really. Seems like she might be somebody fun to spend some time with.”

  “Nice lady,” he said. “A little nuts, maybe, when she gets drinking. But I don’t know. Coming off a bad divorce, I got the rebound vibe, you know? Look out or you end up with a ring in your nose.”

  He poured himself more coffee, held the pot up to me. I shook my head.

  “So, what do you have to do to this place?” I said. “To flip it?”

  Don looked around.

  “Oh, paint mostly. Sand the floors. Nice pumpkin pine under the linoleum. Needs a new roof, upgrade the electrical. But paint. Paint’s big, in terms of return on investment.”

  “Tory your partner on this one?”

  “Oh, no. I bought this from him and Rita when I first got here. Me and Tory decided to team up like a week after that. He’s got three places he’s looking to turn over, big nut to pay every month.”

  “This fire thing isn’t helping?”

  “Not hardly,” Don said. “I kinda roll with whatever comes down the pike, got plenty of cushion. But old Tor, I worry about him. He smiles a lot, but underneath he’s wrapped tighter than a baseball. Hard work, going around being upbeat all the time. And he’s got a lot of money riding on this town.”

  “I’m sure he thought this was a pretty safe investment,” I said. “That ‘Hidden Treasure’ article.”

  “And instead you get some whack job burning down houses,” he said. “Who would’ve thought?”

  Don was looking away as he spoke.

  “This story,” he said.

  “That I’m writing?”

  “Yeah. Any way you could hold off on that for two or three months?”

  I eyed him, shook my head. “No,” I said.

  “What do you make on something like this, a couple grand?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What if we fronted you some cash, tide you over?”

  I shook my head again, his intent sinking in.

  “How ’bout ten grand,” Don said.

  “You’re thinking my story’s going to kill the market for your houses.”

  He smiled.

  “Not gonna help,” he said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “You can still write the story, of course. Just give us a little time to move some of this property. Summer is prime time for this real estate stuff. You could have it come out in the fall, say October.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  “The amount too low? Me and Tory could throw in a little more, for the inconvenience. Say, fifteen grand. Cash. Like making twenty-five, pre-tax.”

  “Wasting your breath,” I said.

  “Think about it,” Don said.

  “I did,” I said. “Not interested.”

  Don shrugged his big shoulders.

  “Straight shooter, huh? Travel the high road.”

  “Sometimes,” I said.

  “Making a mistake,” he said.

  I paused. “Not taking the money, or writing the story?”

  He waited, gave me a long look, the smile gone. “Maybe a little of both.”

  “Jeez, Don. That sounds like a threat.”

  Another long look, our eyes locked in. And then he smiled.

  “Nah. I don’t blame you. I told Tory you didn’t get to the New York Times taking payoffs. But people like him, it’s all about the money. And man, is he on edge.”

  “Why didn’t he ask me?”

  “He said he had more to lose. If you put it in the paper that he offered you money, I mean. More damage to do in the court of public opinion. Me, I’m nobody. I just move on. The money’s sort of incidental. I’m doing what I want to do.”

  “Which is?”

  A pause, just a beat, and then Don said, “Sticking to the plan.”

  “Always on th
e move?” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “You know the Travelers? In Ireland, England? Places like that?”

  “Sure. Like Gypsies.”

  “Right. They keep moving, don’t put down roots. Call the non-Travelers ‘settled people.’ ”

  “And you’re not one of the settled people?”

  “Can’t do it,” Don said. “Couldn’t if I tried.”

  He looked away again. I closed my notebook, tucked the pen in the coiled binding, stuck it in the back of my jeans.

  “Most people I’ve known who roamed like that were running from something.”

  Don turned toward me, gave me a defiant sort of stare. “Not me,” he said. “I never run away. When I’m moving, it’s because I’m looking for something.”

  “Find it yet?” I said.

  “Coming close,” he said, raising his mug. “Closer and closer.”

  I mulled him over as I got back in the car, headed out the drive through the woods.

  Don was an odd one, hard to place. He had skills. Why would he choose this itinerant-contractor life? Who would want to be so unattached, to people or place? What straight single guy would turn Lasha down? I could see marriage, maybe, but not sex. So maybe he wasn’t straight. But what the hell was he looking for?

  I was a mile down the River Road when a gray Impala pulled up behind, flashed its headlights. I pulled over and the car passed me, pulled in and backed up. There were blue lights on the backseat deck. A police aerial.

  Scalabrini, the State Police detective from the Woodrow scene, was getting out of the driver’s side, coffee in hand, circling the front of the car and approaching my truck on the ditch side. As he reached for the passenger door, I popped the lock. Moved my stuff. He got in, reached down to his right hip, and adjusted his gun.

  “Got a minute?” he said.

  “Sure,” I said—like I could say no.

  He sniffed. Reached in his top shirt pocket for a tissue and blew his nose.

  “Allergies,” he said. “Tree pollen’s ungodly.”

  “Bummer,” I said.

  He balled the tissue up, looked around for a place to put it. I pointed to a plastic grocery bag on the floor at his feet. He opened it and dropped the tissue in.

  “Here’s the deal, Mr. McMorrow,” Scalabrini said, looking straight ahead. “Every time I go to talk to somebody, you’ve already been there. I’m talking to Woodrow’s little sister.”