Pyrophobia

by Jack Lance

  Phil pondered that and then shook his head. ‘Sorry, no. Should it mean something to me?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know,’ Jason confessed.

  This was not going well. Kayla had left him, and now Jason had traveled from the Great Southwest to northern California, so far for naught.

  Perhaps he would have better luck with Hugo and Felipe Garcia, his uncle’s best friends.

  Jason said goodbye to Phil, drove to the Surf Hill Motel, and after checking in to his room, called Kayla. It was a short conversation. But at least she was talking to him.

  For now.

  By late afternoon on the next day, Jason’s initial feeling of disappointment had yielded to desperation. His investigation into secrets his Uncle Chris may have kept hidden were leading nowhere. Hugo hadn’t been able to supply any information about Mount Peytha City or the Chawkins family, and neither had Felipe. However, both sixty-year-olds, one of them lean and gray, the other with chestnut skin and still blessed with surprisingly thick dark hair, had reminisced endlessly about the past – remembrances that Jason had no wish to hear.

  These trips down memory lane were mostly about his uncle’s avid prize collection. Chris had been exuberant about any type of medal, certificate, coupon or monetary prize – no matter how small. One of the last times Jason had seen his uncle in such a state of euphoria was during his father’s previous birthday party, after he had won yet another fishing trophy. Jason had promised Chris that he would visit him soon, but that never happened. San Francisco, where his uncle lived, was not around the corner from Los Angeles and there had always been more pressing matters – or so it had seemed at the time. Of course, his excuses to keep postponing a trip to San Francisco had been no more than that: excuses. Jason would surely have gone had he known how seriously ill his uncle was. But as elaborate as Chris had always been about his harvest of prizes, he had been equally reticent about the dark side of his mind.

  What had driven the man to hang himself? Hugo and Felipe could not enlighten Jason. Yes, they had noticed that Chris had been feverish and had lost some weight, but they had never made the connection to cancer. Jason would have thought it impossible to keep something like that a secret. But his eccentric, inimitable uncle had somehow managed to do it.

  The only option he had left was to talk to Phil. After that he would return home and try to mend fences with Kayla.

  Jason sat inside his car in the driveway in front of Chris’s bungalow and stared at his bleak, red-stained eyes in the rear-view mirror.

  He heard his mobile ringtone. It was The Car Song, by some band he had forgotten about. The song hurt his ears. He had downloaded it at a creative low point during the Tommy Jones campaign, and he hadn’t bothered to erase it.

  He answered. ‘Jason Evans.’

  ‘Brian here.’

  Jason slapped his forehead. Damn it! He had completely forgotten to call his boss. And tomorrow was Monday, the day he had promised to be back in his office.

  He decided to not beat around the bush.

  ‘I’m sorry, Brian, but I’m not coming in tomorrow,’ he said, closing his eyes in anticipation of Brian’s tirade. He got one. An earful. Brian demanded to know if Jason had completely lost his marbles. He couldn’t do this to his co-workers, Brian fairly shouted; it was simply not done, because so much was riding on the Jones campaign. Finally Brian paused in his tirade long enough to ask Jason exactly when he would be coming back to work.

  Jason had not asked himself that question and thus had no definitive answer.

  I think I need a vacation, Brian. No worries for a while, that would suit me just fine. You can stick your campaign up your ass, and while you’re at it, shove Tommy Jones up there too.

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ he said tonelessly. ‘By then I should know more about what’s going to happen here.’

  ‘Shit! What are you doing out there? Are you still in the desert?’

  ‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Brian,’ he said, and then pressed the end button.

  He suppressed the urge to smack something, hard, and then remembered that he had not spoken to Kayla since last night. Reluctantly, he punched in her number. His voice was soft, broken. She wanted to talk, make up. It was encouraging. If she were willing to offer him another chance, he would seize it like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.

  Maybe, he reproached himself, he should have realized this long before now.

  Inside his tastefully decorated living room, replete with antiques in subdued shades, Phil put an ice-cold bottle of Budweiser in front of Jason. Phil’s wife Joyce came in to greet him and then returned to the kitchen, where she was fixing dinner. The countertop was full of pots and pans, Jason noticed. Phil followed his gaze, smiling.

  ‘Joyce doesn’t mind cooking, and you won’t hear me complaining,’ he commented with a smile, patting his ample girth. ‘I get to eat better than in a restaurant. By the way, may we assume you’ll be joining us for dinner tonight?’

  Since Jason had no other plans, he gracefully accepted.

  ‘How did it go with Hugo?’ Phil asked, leaning back in his chair and taking a swig of beer.

  ‘It was nice talking to him,’ Jason answered. The fact that nothing had come from it did not detract from the pleasantness of the conversation.

  ‘Have you met any of Chris’s other mates? Did you see Felipe?’

  ‘Yes, but no one else.’

  ‘How long will you be in San Francisco?’

  Jason shrugged. ‘I’m not exactly sure.’

  Phil leaned forward expectantly. ‘OK, Jason, why don’t you come clean with me? Why did you come here?’

  Jason gave him a tired smile and took a sip of beer. ‘As I told you yesterday, it’s a long story,’ he said as he placed the bottle gently back on the side table.

  Phil studied him pensively. It was quiet for a moment, except for small sounds emanating from the kitchen where Joyce was orchestrating dinner.

  ‘I assumed you came here because you don’t believe it either,’ Phil said bluntly.

  Jason frowned. ‘Don’t believe what?’

  ‘His suicide, of course,’ Phil exclaimed.

  Jason blinked. ‘I don’t follow.’

  Phil sighed. ‘I’m convinced. So is Joyce. Unfortunately, no one else is.’

  Now Jason leaned forward. ‘Could you be more specific?’

  Phil shrugged. ‘Not much to relate, really. Except that Chris never gave me the impression that he was planning to commit suicide. Granted, you could say the same thing for a lot of people who subsequently end things that way. It’s like my mother once said: “you can look at people’s faces, but not inside their minds.” But I was with Chris on the night he died. I talked to him, even. Maybe I was the last one to talk to him. Because a few hours later he was dangling from a noose in his attic.’

  ‘I never heard anything about that during the funeral. What did he say to you?’

  Phil grimaced, sorrow written indelibly upon his face. ‘See, that’s the thing. We were supposed to go bowling two days later. He was looking forward to it, and so was I. He was laughing, determined to win – he was very clear on that. Chris always wanted to win. Except we never went. If he was planning to kill himself when we set the date, that would mean he’d have to be one hell of a good actor. But he wasn’t that great an actor, and he wasn’t acting either. Certainly not that night. I swear to you, Chris was sincere. I knew him as well as anyone on this planet. Better than anyone, in fact. He was sincere that night. Trust me on that.’

  Phil fell silent as Jason sat staring at his feet.

  He looked up. ‘So what are you saying?’

  ‘That your uncle didn’t commit suicide,’ Phil responded without pause.

  A surreal feeling, as if he were having another hallucination, swept across Jason. ‘Then what do you think happened?’

  Phil’s expression was etched in stone. ‘It leaves only one conclusion, doesn’t it?’

  Jason nodded; his
voice turned hoarse. ‘That he didn’t die voluntarily. That he was murdered.’

  Phil’s silence confirmed it.

  ‘Do you have any evidence?’

  Phil drank deeply from his bottle of beer. ‘Well, I’ve discussed it with people in the neighborhood, of course. But no, I don’t have evidence, and neither does anyone else. However, Burt Carlsen across the street will tell you that on the night Chris supposedly killed himself, he saw a man standing outside his house. He was on the sidewalk, staring at the house.’

  Joyce poked her head around the kitchen door. ‘I’m setting the table. Are you coming?’

  Phil glanced across his shoulder. ‘Coming, dear.’

  She disappeared back into the kitchen.

  ‘And what else?’ Jason asked softly.

  Phil cast him a pensive look. ‘Burt happened to see it from his window, but he didn’t stay and watch. Later, the man was gone.’

  ‘So there’s no evidence,’ Jason said.

  ‘Objectively, I have to agree with you,’ Phil said. ‘There is no evidence. I haven’t been able to convince the police, either. You know what they say.’

  Jason did know. The brief police inquiry had concluded that his uncle had likely gone mad from the emotional and physical pain of his cancer. They assumed he had taken a fall, because there had been injuries to his face, but he could have done that to himself. He had written a suicide note and had gone upstairs to end it all.

  ‘And this man on the sidewalk. What did he look like?’

  Phil shrugged. ‘It was dark. Burt said he was built like an outhouse, someone you wouldn’t want to mess with. He was dressed in black from head to foot.’

  Jason considered it. This probably meant nothing, and Phil was rolling along with a paranoid theory. Maybe even an obsession. Jason knew all about obsessions.

  On the other hand, he wanted to snoop around inside his uncle’s house. He was here now, and during the funeral he had been mainly concerned with Kayla. All of his attention had been focused on helping her through their loss as much as he could, and that had gone surprisingly well.

  ‘Phil, do you still have a key to Chris’s house?’

  ‘Yes. Until it’s put up for sale, I’m keeping an eye on the place. Joyce goes in there from time to time to clean a little. The family has not asked her to do, mind you, and she doesn’t get paid for it. But she does it anyway because she wants to.’

  ‘Would you mind if I had a look around in there?’

  ‘Why would I mind?’ Phil said. ‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’

  ‘I’m not sure. At least it’ll give me an opportunity to formally say goodbye to Uncle Chris.’

  Phil stood up. ‘Fine with me. We’ll go over there later. Let’s grab some dinner first, otherwise Joyce will be on us like white on rice.’

  Jason followed Phil to the table in the kitchen. Joyce had gone all out, serving a virtual feast from soup to nuts.

  Even so, Jason did not enjoy his dinner. He had no appetite. And he kept peering anxiously at the burning candle Joyce had set on the table. He would feel rude asking her to snuff it out, so he didn’t.

  Chris’s house was meaningful to Jason. He had experienced the emotion of it three months ago, during the funeral ceremony, and he felt it again now. Except all was quiet this evening. The last time the small home had been full of people, almost his entire family had shown up. Aunt Ethel had been in tears. For once, Uncle Hank had refrained from asking whether Tanner & Preston was in the market for a big-time client. Aunt Hilary had left her journal of medical complaints at home. The atmosphere had been as black as night. Jason had kept his arm around Kayla constantly, helping her to get through it all.

  Chris’s friends had also attended. Hugo, Felipe, Phil and a few others; someone named Reggie Griffin and two other men whose names had slipped from Jason’s memory. He had spoken briefly with most of them. All in all Chris had had few friends and had pretty much kept his own counsel. Only a new game or contest could fire up his juices. At the funeral there had been a lot of reminiscing about that. The time he lost playing cards, for example, causing what seemed like a short circuit inside his brain, manifested when he butted his head against a wall. And then there was another time he had disagreed with the judges during a contest he hadn’t participated in. He had been furious nonetheless, and had even threatened to sue them.

  These stories were told with the sole purpose of trying to find an explanation for what Chris had done. The conclusion Jason had reached was that his eccentric uncle had been unable to face losing. He would never be able to beat the cancer ravaging his body. It was inevitable that he would lose this one round, which was perhaps why he had decided to quit before the game was over.

  He was not acting, not that night.

  Jason turned to Phil, who was standing beside him in the middle of Chris’s living room. The furniture was still in place, arranged just as it had been. As were the three shelves with trophies, certificates and scrap books adorned with press articles and photos. No one had dared take or move any of them. His pictures were still on the walls. Only his personal documents had been removed. Jason had the sense that if Chris walked into the room at that moment, Jason would not be the least surprised.

  ‘When’s the place going up for sale?’ Phil asked.

  ‘The family is still considering what to do with it,’ Jason responded. ‘They haven’t decided yet.’

  Phil nodded. ‘It’s going to be tricky to sell it. It will have to go to someone who falls in love with the place instantly. But that’s unlikely. People are bound to find out what happened here.’

  Jason ignored that. ‘Let’s go up and have a look at the attic.’

  Phil led the way up the stairs. The attic, with an angled roof on both sides, had been Chris’s hobby room. Daylight entered through a skylight. Across the entire length of the ceiling was the massive support beam from which he had hanged himself. Phil looked up, and Jason followed his gaze. Neither of them said anything. There was nothing to say.

  Phil looked down at his feet and sighed.

  She’s gone over to Ralph, you know.

  Jason glanced at Phil. ‘What did you say?’

  Phil arched his eyebrows. ‘I didn’t say anything.’

  Jason listened intently as his gaze settled on the massive beam.

  Had he been hearing his inner voice again? Or was it Chris’s voice?

  Suddenly the air felt as if someone had turned on an air conditioner. Goosebumps broke out on his arms.

  Jason wanted out of there. He turned on his heel and walked toward and down the stairs to the living room. Phil followed after him.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked, concerned, when they reached the bottom. ‘You acted funny up there. And from what I can see, you’re not doing all that well down here.’

  Jason was breathing as though he had been running.

  I’m losing it, Phil. Just like Kayla said. Go ahead, tell me the same thing.

  ‘I think I need to sit down for a moment.’

  He sank on to the brown sofa, where no one had sat for weeks.

  So here he was, in the bungalow where he had been born and where Chris Campbell had died. Chris had been in Mount Peytha City in 1977. Jason knew because he had recognized his uncle in the old black and white photographs Joe Bresnahan had shown him. He had participated in the funeral procession transporting the bodily remains of Robert, Amanda and Mikey Chawkins to their final resting place.

  Jason was pretty sure that he remembered Chris mentioning Mount Peytha to him at some point, words that he had garbled as ‘Mapeetaa’ in his old drawing. But Jason was also sure that Chris had never said he’d been at the Chawkins’ funeral.

  It was another clue to a morbid puzzle.

  What was Chris doing there?

  The answer to that question was the key.

  Earlier in the day Jason had called his father to ask this question, but Edward had not been able to enlighten Jason. They had a big fami
ly, and there were aunts and uncles who had known Chris well. On impulse, he had made two additional calls. The first was to his Aunt Ethel, and the second to Aunt Stephanie. Both calls had consumed forty-five minutes and had yielded nothing. After Aunt Stephanie’s emotional outburst, he had felt disinclined to call other relatives.

  ‘Phil, would you mind giving me some time alone?’

  Phil seemed primed to ask a question, but then simply nodded.

  ‘Will you come back over later, Jason?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Just pull the door shut when you leave,’ Phil said on his way out. ‘I’ll lock it after you leave.’

  Alone now, Jason stretched out on the sofa. The house breathed an unnatural stillness. Ghosts from the past became tangible. From nowhere, a rhyme entered his mind; one that Chris had taught him when he was a little boy.

  In the back of my father’s yard, there’s a vegetable tree. Here a tree, there a tree, every tree a branch. Here a branch, there a branch, every branch a nest. Every nest an egg. Here an egg, there an egg, every egg a black spot on the hole. Do you know what this is?

  Chris had been fond of riddles. This riddle didn’t mean anything. But still … a vegetable tree. He remembered Joe Bresnahan’s vegetable garden beneath the Joshua trees. A black spot. Something that had burned: a scorched place? And a hole: could that be another word for a grave? An egg from a nest? A child that did what it wanted, that wouldn’t stay dead? Now that was a morbid leap, he chided himself.

  On an impulse Jason turned his head to the left.

  Underneath the china cabinet, right in front of him, was something on the floor. A stone? He could barely see it, had only noticed it because he was stretched out on the sofa and his gaze had happened to fall on it.

  Something inside of him told him this was important. He rose, knelt down in front of the cupboard, and reached under the cabinet, trying to locate the object. No luck. He lay down to increase his reach. When his fingers finally closed around it, he dragged it out and peered down at it.

  It was a ring. A silver ring. Small and delicate, with a Celtic cross on it.