Once Burned

by Gerry Boyle

  Just like that.

  She wobbled for a moment, like a tree about to fall. And then she collapsed into him, sobbing. He held her and I walked toward them, the Glock down. Roxanne stepped through the door.

  Clair said softly, “It’s okay, honey. It’s really going to be okay.”

  Roxanne went to them, put her arm around Beth, and eased her to a chair. I went to the table, picked up the revolver, a heavy .38 with a six-inch barrel. I started to open the cylinder.

  “It’s not loaded,” Clair said. “I could see the empty cylinder.”

  “You couldn’t see behind the hammer,” I said.

  “Sometimes you go with your gut,” Clair said.

  I flipped the cylinder open and tipped it up. A single cartridge fell into my hand.

  It was a sheriff’s deputy who arrived first, but it was Trooper Foley who put Beth in the back of his cruiser. She rocked forward and back, her hands cuffed in front of her, her hood up. He sat beside her for five minutes, talking and taking notes, then got out and walked over to Clair and me, standing by the house.

  “Is your wife—”

  “She’s with my daughter,” I said. “Do you need to speak to her?”

  Foley shook his head.

  “Not now. Beth just said she wanted to tell her she’s sorry. She was trying to die.”

  “Suicide by cop,” I said. “Except it was Clair.”

  “Very troubled young lady,” Clair said.

  We looked over toward Beth, who had started to cry again, her sobs muffled from inside the car.

  Foley said he was going to take her to the county jail in Belfast, that there were multiple charges, she wouldn’t make bail. He had our statements, and Roxanne’s; he’d be in touch with us if he had any questions. We said okay, and he walked to the cruiser, got in, and backed it out into the road. Beth stared at us through the rear window, forlorn and alone, like a stray dog collected from the street.

  As the cruiser started to pull away she mouthed the words “I’m sorry.”

  “Lost soul,” Clair said.

  “Could have put a thirty-eight slug through your head,” I said.

  “But she didn’t,” he said.

  “I was a hair away from shooting her.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  He took a deep breath and looked up at the sky, rose-colored above the trees to the west, darkening to the east.

  “This, my friend,” Clair said, “is our lucky day.”

  He smiled, and there was bone-deep weariness in his eyes.

  “I’m going to go home and have dinner with Mary, if she’ll reheat it. You go tend to your girls.”

  I touched his shoulder and he said, “No man hugs,” and walked down the driveway and up the road.

  I went into the house, making my way up the stairs toward the sound of their voices. They were in Sophie’s room with the door closed. I knocked and pushed it open, saw Roxanne on the bed with Sophie tucked in the crook of her arm. Sophie’s face was blotchy and her eyes were red.

  “Hi, Daddy,” Sophie said.

  “Hey, honey,” I said, moving to her and sitting on the bed. “How’s my girl?”

  “I was scared,” she said. “Because everybody was yelling and I was all by myself.”

  “That’s a scary thing,” I said.

  “Is she gone?” Roxanne said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Where did they take her?” Sophie said.

  “To the jail,” I said. “They’ll help her to calm down, maybe give her some medicine. She can sleep. I think she was very tired.”

  “I could hear her crying,” Sophie said.

  “She’s been upset,” Roxanne said. “About her little boy.”

  “She should have another baby to make her happy,” Sophie said.

  “Maybe she will,” I said, putting my arm around her shoulder. “Maybe she will.”

  Sophie was quiet, one of us on either side of her. She seemed small and delicate, precious and vulnerable. I held one of her hands in mine and she squeezed, her fingers barely covering my palm. I held it up and kissed it.

  “Is Beth coming back?” she whispered.

  “No, honey,” I said. “She’s not coming back.”

  Sophie fell asleep in our arms. We waited until she’d gone limp and I stood and held her while Roxanne pulled off her shorts and tucked her under the covers in her bed. There were two chairs by the window, and we sat. I took Roxanne’s hand, bigger than Sophie’s but still soft, and I looked out, saw the sun fall behind the trees, the flaming clouds billowing above it.

  “It’s over,” I said softly. “Next they’ll pick up Alphonse.”

  “I prayed to God,” Roxanne said.

  “Did you?”

  “Yes. When she was standing there, I was praying.”

  “It worked,” I said.

  “Yes,” Roxanne said. “I guess it did.”

  We were quiet, and then she said, “Will they let her out?”

  “Not soon.”

  “Weeks?”

  “At least. With the gun thing.”

  “There’s good in her,” Roxanne said.

  “Hard to find it,” I said.

  “She’s just all scrambled up.”

  “All the king’s horses,” I said.

  “But I tried,” Roxanne said, a tear spilling down her cheek.

  “Yes,” I said. “You did.”

  We were quiet again. A wood thrush was calling from the trees. I squeezed Roxanne’s hand and she said, “Are we safe now, Jack?”

  “One step closer,” I said.

  “Alphonse. The arsonist,” she said. “Maybe we should move.”

  “This is our home.”

  “Maybe there’s too much baggage. Maybe we need to start clean.”

  “Here,” I said. “Right now.”

  “We were happy before,” Roxanne said.

  “We’re still happy,” I said. “We’re very, very lucky.”

  “Sometimes I think we want this fairy-tale life and it doesn’t exist. I mean, all around us. People hurting each other, in this beautiful place.”

  “It’s still beautiful,” I said.

  “I want Sophie to believe in our fairy-tale life,” Roxanne said. “But I don’t want her to think we lied to her.”

  “She won’t,” I said. “We don’t.”

  The thrush kept calling, another thrush answering from deeper in the woods. The sunset was deepening, from rose to red.

  “I’m going to have her sleep with us again tonight,” Roxanne said. “I don’t want her to wake up alone.”

  A pause as Roxanne looked over at Sophie, her head cradled on a stuffed lamb.

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? About our fairy-tale life?”

  I put her hand to my mouth and kissed it.

  “No,” I said. “I wouldn’t lie to you about anything.”

  Roxanne put on a flannel nightgown, an extra layer of protection. Then she went to go get Sophie and bring her into our room.

  I had two pints of Ballantine, sitting out on the deck. The sky darkened. Bats visited and I watched them, swooping back and forth like dolphins.

  By nine o’clock the bugs were out so I went inside, sat on the couch with my notebooks. I went through my notes from the visits with Mr. Penney, the folks at the hair salon; Louis, now an official suspect.

  I looked out at the new darkness, the thrushes still calling, and I put my head back on the couch. Closed my eyes. Dreamed that an alarm clock was ringing but I couldn’t find it, awoke to see the lights on, realize the alarm clock was my cell phone.

  I staggered to my feet, moved to the counter, picked up the phone. It was 4:37 a.m.

  I said hello.

  “Jack,” Lasha said. “Did I wake you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. But it can’t be.”

  “It is.”

  “Where?”

  “Tory and Rita’s,” she said.
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  “Their house?”

  “And it’s really burning,” Lasha said. “I can see it from here, the glow in the sky.”

  33

  I looked in on them. They were asleep, Sophie’s head back and mouth open, wrapped up in Roxanne’s arms. I watched them for a minute, then went back downstairs.

  I left the note on the kitchen counter: WENT TO A FIRE. BACK SOON. XOXO

  I hesitated, then collected my stuff, locked the door behind me.

  It was a fast ride in the dewy dawn, the truck tires slapping the wet road. I passed a milk truck, pickups, and then I was in Sanctuary and I could see it, from the Ridge Road, the orange glow and glimpses of the popping strobes, red, white, and blue.

  The driveway in was gravel, single lane, and there were firefighters’ pickups parked at the entrance, a deputy doing guard duty. I parked at the end of the line and walked toward the house, notebook and recorder in hand. It was the same buzz-cut cop from Don Barbier’s fire and he recognized me, held up his hand.

  “Sorry,” he said. “We’re keeping the public away from the—”

  “I’m not the public,” I said, and I strode by him, didn’t look back.

  The smoke smell was all through the woods, the sound of radios, too. When I was closer I could see the orange glow, hear the crackle. As I came out of the woods and into the grassy field in front of the house, there was an explosion, shouting, sparks and embers shooting into the air and floating down like glowing confetti. The firefighters, silhouetted against the flames, staggered backwards with their hoses like the winners in a tug-of-war.

  The public had beaten the deputy to the scene, and there was a sizable group watching the blaze. I moved into a clump that included Tory and Rita, Russell, the purported ex-spook, Don Barbier. They stared into the flames, squinting when a billow of smoke washed over us.

  Rita was sobbing quietly, a balled-up tissue over her mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Our pictures. My wedding dress. All my clothes. My shoes.”

  Tory stared, didn’t speak.

  “All that work,” Rita said.

  “Insurance?”

  “For the purchase price, not the replacement or the actual value.”

  “I thought the banks—”

  “We paid cash,” she said. “Just did the bare minimum, figured we’d up it later.”

  “It’s okay,” Don said. “You can replace a house. You guys are safe; that’s what matters.”

  He reached past me and gave Tory a pat on the shoulder.

  Ray-Ray ran by, pulling a hose. Chief Frederick was shouting into his radio from close to the fire, his face flushed in the glow. Derosby strolled by with a video camera, filming the bystanders. He was followed by the dog, sniffing for accelerants. I looked to the other group, didn’t see any unfamiliar faces; they were all regulars at the Sanctuary General Store. The dog came up empty. There was a roar as flames shot from the roof.

  Rita cried out, “Oh, my God.” She moved close to Tory, put her arm around his shoulders and led him away, somewhere behind us.

  “So it was—”

  “Set?” Don said. “Yes. Roaring when they got here. Somebody called it in from a mile away.”

  “Unbelievable,” I said.

  “Yup,” Don said. “That it just keeps happening.”

  “With all these cops, the fire marshal’s people. You guys on your patrol.”

  “We were out,” he said.

  “Where was Rita?”

  “At the firehouse. They had coffee, doughnuts. Some of the guys were headed that way when the call came in—”

  “Tory must have freaked,” I said.

  “I guess. More like paralyzed, you know? Like he just couldn’t take any more. I was getting the truck gassed up, ready to do the second shift. Heard it on the radio. I said, ‘You have got to be shitting me.’ I mean, how many times . . .”

  There was a pause, the sound of the fire, Chief Frederick on the PA, the radios amplified from one of the trucks. Rita sobbing.

  “You’ve been through this before,” I said. Not a question.

  He glanced at me, his eyes glittery black in the firelight.

  “Sure. My place. Their office. The Talbot house.”

  “No,” I said. “I mean, years ago.”

  He was staring at me, then looked away.

  “Not sure I follow.”

  “When you were in high school,” I said. I watched him, but there was no reaction, then a shake of his head.

  “Still not sure I—”

  “When you were Derek,” I said. “Derek Mays.”

  He didn’t look at me, just watched the fire. I could feel his boot tapping the grass.

  And then I felt someone behind me, at my right shoulder. I turned and saw Tory. He was back, looking at Don strangely, almost angrily. And then he turned and hurried away.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jack,” Don said.

  An awkward silence, the crackling of the fire and radios in the background. And then Don turned and looked back toward the driveway, where Rita was being hugged by a woman while another waited her turn. I didn’t see Tory. I moved closer to Don and we both watched the flames. When the wind shifted and the smoke crawled over us, neither of us moved.

  “I talked to Penney, from the Fire Marshal’s Office,” I said. “He told me the whole story.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  He stared.

  “Penney’s still around,” I said. “I talked to him for a long time. He remembers it. Julie. The duct tape. The explosion.”

  I paused as the firefighters trained water on the garage. There was a hiss and a billow of steam and smoke.

  “A nice lady at the hair salon in Bucksport—she knew you from your picture. Twenty years and a beard and a few pounds, but still.”

  He watched the fire like he was studying a painting.

  “This must be hard for you,” I said. “Not just this one; all of them. It must bring it back.”

  I waited. Waited some more. Still nothing.

  “I can’t call you Don Barbier in the story if I know that’s not who you are,” I said. “Would be dishonest.”

  “And you’re never dishonest?” he said, his first words.

  “I try not to be.”

  “Good for you,” he said. “What if I don’t want to be in your story at all?”

  “Too late,” I said.

  He mulled that over for a bit. The smoke swept over us again but we stayed—like our conversation had to take place on this very spot.

  “When does it run?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m writing it in the next couple of days.”

  He waited to answer and then said, “Don’t you want to know why?”

  “Yes.”

  “I had a nervous breakdown, or whatever they call it now. I loved her completely. I mean, not like a high school thing. I was going to spend my life with her.”

  “But you broke up,” I said.

  “She wanted to make sure I was the one. Spend a little time on her own.”

  “And what did she decide?”

  “That I was the one.”

  “Who was the guy who died with her, then?”

  “Bartender in the restaurant where she worked. She dated him for a while, but was gonna tell him it wasn’t working out. She was coming back to me.”

  “But she was with him that night?”

  “I think he was giving her a ride. Her car wouldn’t start.”

  Fate, I thought. Very bad luck.

  “Why the new identity?”

  “After she died, I ran. Like, if I could run far enough, fast enough, it wouldn’t have happened. When I stopped running I was in Indiana. Ended up in a psych hospital. There for a couple of months, them trying to get me back on my feet. Finally it was this doctor who suggested it. Try being somebody else for a day. I picked a name. Barbier. It was my way of remembering her.�
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  He paused. I waited.

  “But it wasn’t for a day. It was for years. Many years. Until just now.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “But it’s weird. I don’t even know Derek anymore. It was like he died, too.”

  We stood. The firefighters were knocking the fire down, the diminishing flames popping up here and there, guys starting to hack at the edge of the rubble.

  “Did you ever think you’d see one more arson fire, let alone this many? I mean, up this close?”

  He shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “It’s so weird. I mean, what are the chances?”

  We watched as the water cascaded onto the blackened rubble. I wasn’t sure what the fire department had saved—whether it was worth the effort.

  “Penney said the suspects in that Bangor fire were drug dealers,” I said. “That the guy who died with Julie was dealing, too.”

  “Cocaine,” he said. “It was everywhere back then. I mean, not me. I was in high school, a total jock. But I heard about it.”

  “Was Julie mixed up in it, too?”

  A flicker of anger, then nothing.

  “She wouldn’t even take aspirin,” he said. “No, it was just wrong time, wrong place.”

  “Horrible,” I said. “Kill an innocent bystander like that.”

  “They were animals.”

  “And they never caught them.”

  “No, but they’re probably dead by now. People like that don’t live long.”

  “Live by the gun,” I said.

  “You got it,” he said.

  “Small consolation, I’m sure.”

  The fire was all smoke now, steam from the embers. The chatter on the radio had subsided, leaving the sound of idling trucks.

  “So what are we going to do, Jack?” he said.

  “I think we should talk,” I said. “On the record. Have a real conversation about all of this.”

  “Or else?”

  “Or else I write it anyway, with what I have now.”

  He considered that.

  “I could call your bluff,” he said.

  “Sure you could,” I said. “But you’d lose.”

  He looked at me.

  “For a nice guy, you’re pretty much a hard-ass, aren’t you?” he said.

  I didn’t answer. He looked away, his jawline hard and lean.