Pyrophobia

by Jack Lance

  ‘I see,’ Jason said.

  Then he showed the undertaker the first picture with the gate, a different gate from the one he and Kayla had opened the day before.

  ‘North Gate,’ Chuck commented after only a cursory glance at the photo.

  Jason gave him a quizzical look.

  ‘The northern entrance to the burial site,’ Chuck explained. ‘Visitors arriving from Chloride Pass often use it. It’s about a quarter mile past Pete’s Ranch.’

  After that clarification, what passed for a conversation summarily ended. Jason stuck to his lie and said that he was ‘glad to have found the right cemetery’ since the details of it tallied with his research. That was important, because it gave him more to go on, he claimed. Chuck asked if there were any graves in particular he hoped to find at St James’s; he might be able to assist in the effort since he had a comprehensive list of all the graves. Jason sensed that the offer was extended out of courtesy, and that the man had no real interest in helping them. Jason thanked him anyway, and said that he might take Cleigh up on his kind offer at some later time.

  He and Kayla said goodbye and walked back outside. They left Chuck scratching the nape of his neck, probably wondering why these two people had driven all the way from Los Angeles to ask such vague questions. That is, if he cared at all.

  Getting to North Gate involved a three-mile detour. Jason’s sense of direction told him they were driving in a wide arc around the graveyard. On Chloride Pass Road they passed a wooden sign that said PETE’S RANCH and then another one a little farther on that said ST JAMES CEMETERY. Soon they reached the entrance Cleigh had mentioned.

  Jason stopped the car, peered at the gate, and saw the first photograph.

  Beyond the gate he saw a narrow path leading to the graves. He walked into the cemetery and discovered why they hadn’t seen North Gate the day before. The second entrance was hidden among the greenery surrounding the entire graveyard.

  Now what? He could walk past the graves and look at them one by one, as he had yesterday, and hope to miraculously stumble upon something, even if it was only a small, seemingly meaningless detail that he would recognize from the third photograph. But that plan was bound to fail, just as it had the day before.

  Breaking the ‘code’ seemed to be his only hope.

  Could the M be a very specific message after all?

  But he had already deciphered the letter M, he reminded himself. It represented Mount Peytha City, and together the three Polaroid photos had served as signposts leading him toward this cemetery.

  What if I’ve overlooked something?

  He reviewed everything in his mind yet again. His life during the last four years had been normal, without nightmares – he had convinced himself that he had left all this misery behind him. Receiving the three photographs had convinced him that he was living an illusion. Then a door had opened inside his mind and he had remembered ‘Mapeetaa’, which had directed him to Mount Peytha. But here was where he appeared to have run out of road.

  I must have missed a clue somewhere.

  Yes, that had to be it. Whatever the photographer wanted, he wouldn’t steer Jason toward this cemetery if there was no chance of finding the grave in question. So there had to be more clues hidden inside the messages.

  The pictures had depicted a destination; the messages printed on the backs were directed at him personally. Literally speaking, they said that he was dead and buried in this cemetery, beneath the headstone in the last photograph.

  And that headstone had a date on it: August eighteenth.

  That was what he needed to search for; a date, not names.

  ‘What are you brooding about now?’ Kayla asked.

  ‘Maybe our friend did take a picture of my grave after all,’ he said casually. He shouldn’t have said it – it was, in fact, the worst thing he could have said – but it had popped out of his mouth before he could help himself.

  They had arrived back at the memorial.

  Kayla sat down on a bench. He sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. She avoided his eyes.

  ‘Here’s what I don’t like,’ she said icily. ‘In fact, there are several things I don’t like. The first is that you’re calling this psychopath your “friend”.’

  ‘I was being flippant. It was meant as a joke.’

  ‘What is worse to me,’ she continued, ignoring him, ‘did you listen to yourself just now? Did you hear what you said? You’re talking about your own grave, as though that is the most natural thing to discuss. I love you, Jason, I truly do. And I want to help you. But if you’re going to start with that—’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he interrupted.

  ‘Then what did you mean?’

  ‘I …’

  He wanted to explain that it had simply been a thought but, confused by her caustic response, he couldn’t find the right words.

  ‘Forget I said anything, Kayla. It was nonsense, I shouldn’t have said it.’

  ‘No, you shouldn’t have,’ she said, her voice rising in anger. ‘And I don’t want you to talk about it any more, do you hear me? Don’t ever talk to me about your own death. Not ever. I don’t want to hear it!’

  ‘Kayla …’

  She buried her face in her hands. He heard her sob and then she said, quietly, ‘You … bad things might happen and then … and then I’ll lose you too.’

  He knew whom she was talking about and that was why she couldn’t come to terms with what he was doing now.

  I’m not Ralph, honey. I don’t know who I am, but I’m not Ralph.

  He was afraid of fire; she, in turn, was afraid of death. Her cup had slowly filled, and it had finally reached the tipping point. The last drop had been his careless, thoughtless remark.

  Kayla was fearful and her fear made her angry. He had no doubt that she loved him. But no doubt he was making her life pretty damn miserable with this quest of his. Had there been an easier way to do this, he would have jumped at it. But unfortunately there was no other way.

  ‘What do you say we go back to the motel?’ he suggested.

  ‘Yes. I want nothing more than to get the hell out of here.’

  In their motel room, Kayla lay down on the bed, but Jason was too restless to join her. She hadn’t said a word to him during the drive back. Kayla’s mind was on Ralph, he suspected; the memories of losing him were probably replaying in her mind’s eye for the thousandth time. Ralph, who had died so unexpectedly during a hike, and most likely she had been alone with his dead body for hours before help finally arrived.

  ‘Kayla …’ he said gently. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Listen, I know this brings back memories—’

  ‘No!’ she cried, turning her back to him and burying her face in the pillow. ‘Go away! Leave me alone!’

  She was at once both angry and despondent. His heart wrenched as he sat there, staring at her shaking shoulders. He caressed her wavy black hair carefully with a finger, listening to her wretched sobs. Nothing he could say could ease her pain. Eventually he walked out of the room, exchanging the cool air-conditioned room for the oppressive oven outside. He sat on the curb, fished his sunglasses from his shirt pocket, and put them on, idly watching a Land Rover drive into the parking lot. A rotund man got out of the car, his head covered by a large black Western-style hat. With a brown briefcase tucked under his arm, the man disappeared into the reception building. In the distance, Jason could hear the muted sounds of the highway. The desiccated leaves of the palm trees, on either side of the dusty neon welcome sign for the Mount Peytha Inn, hung limply in the sizzling desert heat.

  Would he sit here until she had cried herself out? He had seen her like this before; this wasn’t her first crisis. Previous occasions had taught him that efforts to comfort her would do no good. Kayla Evans, formerly Sheehan, was normally a lively, cheerful woman. But if she were having problems, it was best to steer clear.

  H
e had sometimes wondered whether Kayla had loved Ralph more than him. He didn’t think so – he didn’t want to believe it – but he knew he would never have married her if Ralph Grainger had lived.

  The source of Kayla’s fear was obvious, but the seed of his pyrophobia was still an enigma. Convinced he needed to dig deeper into his psyche, Jason knew that he would soon go back to Mark Hall for another hypnosis session – or two, or three, or however many it took.

  But now he was here, in Mount Peytha City. Mark’s couch was three hundred miles away.

  What in God’s name has this photographer done to me? I’m walking around thinking I had a previous life that may have ended in a fire on August eighteenth. I get this urge to go to Mount Peytha City and find St James Cemetery. Is this where I was buried?

  In a previous life he would have had a different name. Maybe a name starting with an M.

  All this was guesswork, of course. Suddenly he realized he had something more substantive to delve into. Which individuals buried in the Mount Peytha cemetery had died on August eighteenth?

  That’s what he should have asked Chuck. How could he have been so stupid that he had never thought of this before? On the other hand, there was a simple explanation. Being very much alive, searching for your own grave was not something you did as a matter of course, even though this obsession had controlled his life for the past two weeks.

  Quickly he made up his mind.

  I’m going to ask Chuck. Right now.

  Twenty minutes later the beanpole young man at the funeral home answered the door. Jason wondered what the boy’s name was and whether he was the son that Chuck was training to some day take over the business.

  The young man led him to Chuck’s office, who glanced up from a stack of paperwork, his surprise clearly registered on his face.

  ‘I was hoping I might ask you one more question,’ Jason said before Chuck could object.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘It relates to my research into my family tree. I’ve gone over it and I think that the person involved may have died on August eighteenth. Mr Cleigh, would you mind checking that for me?’

  Chuck frowned.

  ‘It’s not as easy as that. I would have to review all of the names one by one. Have you any idea how many thousands of graves we have here? It would take hours.’

  ‘I understand that,’ Jason said quickly. ‘I would be willing to go over the lists myself. I do not want to inconvenience you.’

  Chuck shook his head. ‘I can’t give you access to our files. Company policy.’

  ‘Oh,’ Jason said, dismayed.

  Reluctantly, Chuck continued, ‘Tim, my son, has some spare time. I’ll have him work on it. He needs to become more familiar with the files in any event. If you leave your phone number, we’ll call you back.’

  Now Jason knew the name of the boy who had opened the door for him.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said softly. ‘I would of course expect to pay Tim for his time.’

  Chuck nodded and folded his hands. ‘That’s it?’

  Yes, that was it. Unless …

  The most morbid thought of all kept gnawing at him, like a crushing headache that refused to go away no matter how many aspirin he swallowed.

  ‘It may be,’ he started, ‘that the deceased is a namesake of mine. Mr Cleigh, just one more question: is there a grave with the name Jason Evans on it?’

  Chuck sighed and invested a few minutes peering intently at his computer screen. Jason, on the other side of the desk, felt an urge to get up and peek over the man’s shoulder. But he held himself in check and remained seated.

  ‘We have five by that name,’ Cleigh said.

  ‘Five?’

  Chuck shook his head. ‘Five people named “Evans”. Not one of them is named Jason. The first one is Zack, died March sixth, 1988. Then there’s Greg, June twelfth, ’76. Elizabeth, died November twenty-eighth, ’97. Then a Sam, first of July 1970. And finally Jeff Evans … date of death December twenty-fifth, 2005. Are any of them related to you?’

  ‘No,’ Jason said.

  Of course there was no Jason Evans buried here. If there had been, it would only have been a coincidence.

  He rose. ‘I’ll wait for your phone call, then. Again, I’m very grateful that Tim can take the time to do this research for me.’

  ‘We aim to please,’ Chuck said primly.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Funeral

  Kayla was sitting on the short white wall beside the motel sign, in the shade of a date palm tree. She watched as he parked his car and walked up to her. When he kissed her on the lips, she responded, signaling to him that her anger had cooled.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked her tenderly.

  ‘Better,’ she said less than enthusiastically.

  ‘I should have kept my mouth shut at the cemetery.’

  But I did go over to the funeral home to ask Chuck Cleigh about a grave with my name on it.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ she asked.

  ‘Just walking around a bit,’ he said evasively. ‘Trying to sort things out. I did ask Chuck to do some digging for me. So we’ll have to wait and see now.’

  He was becoming increasingly concerned about the distance between him and Kayla. Neither of them said anything about it; they didn’t have to. He could feel the gap widening and deepening, and it sickened him.

  It was entirely his fault. He was dragging her along on a quest she detested and wanted no part of. Just a couple of weeks ago they had been overjoyed about their decision to start a family. But since then, all that he had been thinking about was death and misery. He had talked her into coming with him on this trip, and she was too loyal and loving a wife to refuse him.

  You’re a jerk, you know that? She deserves better.

  Still, what else could he have done? Ignore all this? What good would that do? For them to rediscover the joy they once shared, he needed to solve this mystery. And he felt he had to solve it before August eighteenth, a day that was fast approaching.

  At seven they went to The Wagon, a real-life covered wagon turned into a bar in which bottles of whiskey, vodka and other spirits held court in the center of the restaurant. Around it, in a circle, were dining tables.

  Jason’s gaze traveled around the room. A heavyset man with a felt hat sitting at the table in front of theirs was visibly enjoying a juicy steak. His knife and fork tingled rhythmically against his plate. He was eating noisily and had eyes only for his dinner. At the table beside his, a waitress served glasses of ice-cold beer to two men who could be father and son. They were laughing. The older man smacked the younger on his back with a hand covered with what looked to be calluses formed by decades of hard work on the range.

  The three men, seated side by side in a row, had each found their own way through life. They seemed content. Until recently, Jason had been more than content. He had what he believed was the perfect life. Now everything had been turned upside-down. He prayed it was only temporary.

  ‘Jason?’ Kayla said. ‘What about Chuck? Has he come up with anything?’

  ‘Chuck hasn’t called back yet,’ he answered forthrightly. ‘Apparently his son didn’t have so much time on his hands that he could check the list right away. Maybe we should go back to the cemetery tomorrow and start looking for graves with August eighteenth on them. Who knows, we might get lucky. What else can we do?’

  His voice held little hope. Nor did his heart.

  ‘And if that leads nowhere?’

  Kayla’s words held an uncharacteristic coldness, a reminder of Carla and Tracy that made him blink. Trace had been an alcoholic, and all Carla was concerned about was herself. Now he, Jason, was only thinking of himself, working on a mystery that had morphed into an addiction.

  Jason reached out and placed the palm of his hand against the softness of her cheek. ‘If we can’t find it, and if Chuck can’t help us,’ he said, ‘we’re going home. And then I’m going to forget the whole thing.’

&n
bsp; Did he believe that? Did she?

  That night proved to be a restless one. Sleep came easily to neither of them. They still had their loving bond, but fear was gnawing away at it. His search was increasing hurtful to her. She supported him because she loved him. But how much longer could she offer her support?

  Time was growing short. More keenly than before, he feared he might lose her over this.

  That he could not bear to even think about.

  Next morning they went out for a cup of coffee before paying another visit to St James Cemetery. As they walked toward the town center, Patrick Voight called Kayla on her cell phone. He wanted to know whether she would be back for work tomorrow. On Monday she had told him she would probably be gone for three days, maybe four, and Patrick hadn’t heard from her. Kayla threw an inquisitive glance at Jason. What she desperately wanted was for him to say: OK, this is it, we’re going home and we’ll let the police handle it from here on.

  ‘Just a little while longer,’ he whispered.

  ‘Patrick?’ Kayla said, keeping her eyes on Jason. ‘We’re still in Arizona. The soonest we’ll be able to leave is tomorrow. I’ll be back at work on Monday.’

  Voight complained that she was leaving him in the lurch by staying away this long a week before she was due to leave for vacation. Kayla apologized and told him she understood, but unfortunately she had no choice in the matter.

  After she hung up, Jason grabbed his cell phone. He had remembered an appointment he had made with Mark for tomorrow. He had to cancel, and he would do so in a minute. But first he had to make a less pleasant phone call to his own boss. Brian had already been upset because he had gone out of town on such short notice, and he would be angrier still when he heard that the head of the Tommy Jones team wouldn’t be back in the office until Monday – even though Jason had told him that would likely be the case. Before speaking to Brian, he spoke to Tony, Donald and Carol. Then he spoke to Brian, who told him straight out that he was expecting Jason to show up for work as soon as possible, before he dropped the dreaded and hated words ‘Tommy Jones’. Jason told him that something had come up, he realized it was a terrible inconvenience, but he would return to Los Angeles this weekend and be back at work at Tanner & Preston on Monday.