Slow Burning Lies - A Dark Psychological Thriller

by Ray Kingfisher

  Maggie said nothing.

  “Come on! What would you do?”

  Maggie shrugged. “I… I guess I’d want to kill them.”

  “Just kill them. Is that all?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You wouldn’t just want to kill them, would you? You’d want to make them suffer like you did.”

  “I’m not sure I would, as it goes. And anyway, how exactly would you do that?”

  “Well, you could hurt the thing they loved the most.”

  Maggie gave a serious, measured nod. “Yeah. I can see that. But how? I mean, what did you do? I mean, what happened next?”

  A smile bared the man’s teeth. “Lots of questions, Maggie. Let me answer them.”

  He placed the lighter in the middle of the table, carefully balancing it on its end, and drew breath.

  “Patrick dragged the Sandman into the games room and strapped him to the seat in the WishPhixxer pod – just like the Sandman had done to him. Then he went into the kitchen.”

  “The kitchen?” Maggie said.

  “Yes. To get a knife.”

  “A knife?”

  “Yes.”

  “But he didn’t kill him with it?”

  “He didn’t think of that at the time.” The man laughed. “Then again, he didn’t need to; he had a much better idea.”

  “So what did he do with the knife?”

  “He felt behind his head. It took a while, but he found the pimple at the top of his neck, and took the knife to it.”

  “Ugh!” Maggie grimaced.

  “Yes, it was messy, but not really painful. He’d stopped feeling pain by then.”

  “So he took it out?”

  “Yes. And there was a microwave oven in the kitchen. He switched it on and put his head close to the door.”

  “No headache?”

  “No headache.”

  “So it was all true?”

  “Maggie. Everything I’ve told you is true.”

  “So tell me what he did to this Sandman guy.”

  “He hadn’t thought things through so well – he wasn’t in a fit mental state to do that – so he just told the Sandman what he thought would scare him the most at the time. He told him he was going to burn the house down with him in it, and asked him whether he wanted to make a last confession.”

  “And did he?”

  “Oh, yes.” The man glowered across the table to Maggie. “He talked about the biggest regret of his life.”

  “Which was?”

  “I’ll come to that. The Sandman was too calm for Patrick’s liking. Patrick wanted him to suffer, to cry and beg for forgiveness and mercy. But he wouldn’t. Perhaps he thought he could still somehow control Patrick and talk his way out of it. But no. Patrick found his plastic bottle of gasoline and started splashing it around the drapes and the carpet and the base of the WishPhixxer pod – especially the WishPhixxer pod. And it was such a good feeling, knowing the contraption would soon turn to ash and broken glass. He felt like lighting it there and then and running off, but for once in his life he decided not to take the easy way out. He had to make the Sandman suffer – or rather, spend a little time watching him suffer.”

  “So?”

  “So they settled down for a talk. The Sandman had been quite strong and calm until Patrick started dousing the place with gasoline, probably thinking he was just going to get beaten up or even shot. But with that sweet smell teasing him he became almost delirious with fear – and that was when he spilled the contents of his soul right into Patrick’s lap. This is what happened next:

  —‘I need to tell you something,’ the Sandman said.

  —‘A confession?’ Patrick asked.

  —‘I suppose it is, yes,’ the Sandman replied.

  —Patrick said, ‘Then go ahead,’ and put on his most sympathetic frown.

  —‘You know the reason I was attracted to taking on your case?’

  —‘How would I know that?’ Patrick asked him.

  —The Sandman took a breath, then said, ‘So many children simply don’t realize what their parents sacrificed for them. They’re ungrateful until it’s too late to say sorry. Behind all the bravado of independence they want to please their parents, but they put it off, thinking their parents will be there forever. And you, Declan, you were like that as a child. You never gave a second’s thought to how your parents slaved away, what they could have had but did without for the sake of your happiness. And that reminded me of my daughter.’

  —‘You have a daughter?’ Patrick said.

  —He nodded. ‘At least, I did have a daughter. I haven’t seen her for years. We fell out, you see. I know where she works. I have her phone number and I’ve wanted to ring her a thousand times. And I guess whether she owes me an apology is irrelevant. The truth is, I owe her one – a damn big one.’

  —‘Why’s that?’ Patrick asked. Then he saw tears running down the Sandman’s cheeks, and that can tickle no matter how upset you are so Patrick almost untied him. But he didn’t.

  —‘I used to think she was so ungrateful,’ the Sandman said.

  —‘Ungrateful for what?’

  —The Sandman sniffled a little. ‘We gave her the best of everything. She had the best education money could buy, went all through college with top grades, then got to medical school and excelled again. We thought she was going to follow in my footsteps. And then one day she came to see me. She broke down and said she couldn’t carry on with her studies anymore. She said she wanted to drop out – drop out of the rat race.’ Then he shook his head in despair.”

  At that moment, as the man in the coffee shop paused for breath, Maggie shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  “What did you say was the Sandman’s real name?” she said. “Did you say he was a doctor?”

  “I haven’t finished!” the man in the oversize coat said. “I’m telling you about the Sandman and his daughter.”

  “Okay, okay,” Maggie said. “Carry on.”

  “Right. I will:

  —When he spoke about his daughter like that Patrick could all see the love and remorse and desire in his sad eyes.

  —‘You know,’ the Sandman said, ‘she could have been doing well for herself by now. She could have been doing good as a physician – or something else in medicine – enjoying a fulfilling career relieving suffering and earning a decent living for herself too. You know what she wanted to do instead?’

  —Patrick told the Sandman he hadn’t a clue.

  —‘She told me she wanted to write,’ the Sandman said. ‘She wanted to become some big shot novelist. I begged her and begged her, then when she wouldn’t listen to sense – at least what I thought was sense at the time – I tried to tell her I simply wouldn’t tolerate it, that no daughter of mine was going to be poor and that was an end to it. But she told me it was her life; that I’d controlled her all her life and she wasn’t going to let me do it anymore, that she had to make her own mistakes.’

  —Patrick nodded to him, but said nothing more, leading him on to continue tying his own noose.”

  “Wait!” Maggie said, her lips trembling and her eyes glistening. “This has gone on far enough. Who the hell are you? I wanna know right now!”

  “But, I keep telling you,” the man said, his voice straining. “I don’t know who I am!” The last words were shouted, and the man slammed his fist on the table.

  The cigarette lighter fell over. Maggie flinched.

  And the knife fell to the floor.

  It bounced on its rubber handle and came to rest a few feet away.

  For a second they both stared at it. Then Maggie fell down towards it.

  Before she reached it the man lunged over and kicked it away. It scraped along the tiled floor and clonked against the far wall.

  Maggie got up and started to run, but the man grabbed her arm, pulling her back to the table.

  “I still haven’t finished!” he shouted.

  “But I’m scared.” Maggie�
�s face now wrinkled up and a watery streak crossed each cheek. “Please let me go.”

  “No. I need you to listen.”

  Maggie gave a few frenzied nods.

  “You know what the Sandman said after that?” the man said. “He told me his daughter spent her evenings writing pap that never sold and her days working at the Lake’s End coffee shop. He said she could have had a career and a husband and a family but she has none of that because of her obsession with writing, with finding that one story that changes her life.

  “And you know what else, Maggie? His biggest regret isn’t that you never got that career or husband or family – it isn’t even that he stupidly blamed you for his break up with your mother. His biggest regret is that he lost contact with you and was too pig-headed to call you for these last few years and admit he was wrong, that he knew after a while you’d done the right thing in following your dream, by doing what made you happy instead of trying to do what would have made your parents happy.”

  Maggie started tugging to escape. The man grabbed her other arm and pulled her close across the table.

  And then the phone on the counter started ringing again.

  Maggie wrestled one arm free and slapped the man’s face. She scratched his arm but he held on, now starting to grin. She picked up a sugar bowl and rammed it towards his face, the sugar cascading over the table and onto the floor like a freak snowstorm. He let go of her to put up a protective hand. As the bowl smashed into him Maggie stepped back, stumbling and falling on the floor. The man leapt over the table and held her down with the weight of his body.

  “That’s my father ringing, isn’t it?” she said. “He’s been trying to warn me.”

  “I reckon you’re right.”

  Maggie grunted, still not giving up the struggle. “So you didn’t kill him?”

  “Like I told you, that wouldn’t have been punishment enough for what he did. Don’t you agree? Knowing that his daughter not only will never have that career or husband or family – or even that hit novel – but also that she hated him so much she wouldn’t even answer the phone or call him back. And of course, knowing that he’ll never again hear the voice of the daughter he loves so much.”

  The man pulled two luggage straps out of his pocket. He let one fall to the floor and tied Maggie’s wrists together with the other, pulling it tightly as she screamed and kicked out at his legs. He pulled her down onto her knees, picked up the second strap, and dragged her along to the end of the table. As she continued to cry out the second strap was whipped around both the first strap and the table leg, locking her to it. She slid her arms down to the bottom of the table leg but it was bolted to the floor.

  “Oh, no! Please, Patrick – Declan – whoever you want to be. I haven’t done you any harm. You can’t…”

  The man held her chin in his hand like a delicate wine glass. “I’m sorry, Maggie. I know it’s not your fault; you’re just collateral damage. You do know that, don’t you? It’s your father who has to suffer.”

  The man stood up and pulled the clear plastic bottle from his coat pocket, then crouched down in front of her. “I know it’s not fair.” He could see the furrows and wrinkles deepening with the fear of what was about to happen. “It’s just something I have to do,” he said.

  Then he unscrewed the lid of the bottle.

  Maggie’s nostrils twitched and she let out another scream, this time one that sounded like her lungs were on fire. The man glanced back to the shop door, then slapped her. She stopped screaming for a moment then started again. He drew his hand back to strike her again – but stopped short. He stood up and started splashing gasoline from the bottle onto the floor, the tablecloths and the wallpaper.

  Maggie was still screaming when he reached out for the cigarette lighter. He flicked the lid open and hit the wheel. The flame danced for a moment and grew as the man turned the control up. He passed the flame under his chin for a second and shut his eyes, caught in its spell, wafting it like his favourite perfume.

  “Please forgive me,” he said to Maggie.

  Maggie’s scream turned to a whimper as he placed the lighter down and slid it along the floor. It was more of a boom than a roar as the flames rose to the ceiling within seconds, and the flimsy tablecloths disintegrated, whirling ghostly fragments around the room in the hot draught.

  Maggie’s screaming – all but over anyway – was drowned out by the thunder of fire taking hold. Still she struggled and shouted between coughs.

  “Stop!” the man shouted. “It’s better for you if you’re unconscious.” He held her face again, cradling her jaw in that same delicate way, then brought the other hand across, cracking into the side of her head. She went limp immediately and slumped to the floor.

  Now the man himself started to cough, and he grabbed a bunch of napkins and clamped them onto his mouth.

  He sprang up and within seconds was standing outside the coffee shop.

  He ran across the road, scanning the street to see if anyone had yet noticed the flames engulfing the shop; apparently they hadn’t. He started calmly walking away.

  Then he turned to take one final look at the shop, the flames now only visible behind the weaving plumes of smoke because full darkness had fallen.

  And there he stood for a moment.

  53

  An hour and a half later the fire had been all but extinguished. The Lake’s End coffee shop was little more than a forlorn pile of debris floundering in a swamp of black treacly mess.

  The only thing left undamaged was the sign above the shop, and even that was heavily dusted with soot.

  Tesla and Johnson stood and surveyed the sad scene, lifting up their safety visors now the worst was over.

  Ovens that once cooked bagels and cakes and pizzas – not forgetting the best cheesecake in Chicago – had themselves been cooked and ruined beyond salvation. Most of the tables were no more than searing hot metal legs with charcoal fragments atop. The counter, likewise, was now just a honeycomb frame with nothing to support but ash and melted formica. If there had been anything else – tills, display cabinets, utensils, chairs – then the inferno had left them unrecognisable amongst the watery sludge plastered over absolutely everything.

  “I used to come to this place all the time,” Johnson said, glass fragments screeching under his boots as he turned.

  Tesla nodded. “Well, we all gotta find someplace else from now on.”

  “But they did the best cheesecake in Chicago here.”

  “You know what?” Tesla said. “The place that did the second best just got promoted.”

  The men stood in silence for a few seconds, then Johnson’s nose twitched and sniffed the damp smoky air.

  “What d’you reckon?” he said.

  “I reckon… not good,” Tesla replied.

  “Gasoline?”

  Tesla nodded. “Yep, but we’ll let Eddie find out for certain.”

  Johnson let out a long breath and idly shoved a lump of ceiling plaster with his boot. “It’s a goddam coffee shop. Who on God’s earth would want to do this?”

  “The place that used to do the second best cheesecake?”

  Johnson tutted a short laugh. “You’re a sick man, you know that?”

  “When I took you on didn’t I tell you you needed a sense of humour?”

  “Okay,” Johnson said. “Point taken.” He pointed to the doorway. “Hadn’t we better arrange for this place to be boarded up?”

  As Tesla opened his mouth to speak there was shouting from the street outside. They recognized some of the tones as their colleagues’ don’t take no shit attitudes and turned.

  Between the wisps of smoke they spied a struggle of sorts and went out to see.

  “What’s going on?” Tesla bellowed.

  Two firemen were struggling to restrain a wiry middle aged man who wore a dirty tracksuit, a pair of well-used running shoes, and a distressed, wild-eyed expression.

  “He wants to go in,” one of the firemen said.
>
  “Tell him he can whistle,” Tesla said.

  “I did.”

  “Well, call the cops. Dealin’ with crazy bums like this ain’t our job.”

  “Listen to me,” the man said. “My name’s Doctor Dolan. I threw on what clothes I had to hand and rushed out of my house because I knew my daughter’s life was in danger.”

  Tesla looked back into the shop. “Oh. And you think she’s…?”

  “I know she works here.”

  “She sure as hell doesn’t anymore.”

  “Will you tell your clowns to let go of me? I need to look inside. I need to know whether that son of a bitch killed her.”

  The other firemen looked to Tesla.

  “What did you say?” Tesla asked the doctor.

  “He’s evil. He said he was going to kill her, he told me he was going to burn her alive.”

  Tesla crossed his arms, making his thick plastic sleeves squeak. “And how exactly did he say he was going to start the fire.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But my guess is he used the bottle of gasoline he had on him.”

  Tesla and Johnson seemed to float an inch taller as they gave each other a sideways glance. Neither man spoke.

  “Come on,” the doctor said. “I need to know. Did you find anyone in there?”

  “Follow me,” Tesla said, grabbing a safety helmet from one of his colleagues and placing it on the doctor’s head. “You too,” he said to Johnson. He turned back to the doctor. “You won’t be able to come right in. This is a crime scene until we find out how it started.”

  “I told you how it started,” the doctor said. “It was gasoline.”

  “But how do you know all this?”

  The doctor didn’t react to the words. He’d already stopped still, open-mouthed at the wreckage before them.

  “I guess we can talk about that later,” Tesla said.

  “Oh, please,” the doctor said, his tone now weak. “Please look for her.”

  “Listen,” Johnson said. “We all know how you feel, buddy. But you have to wait up here.”

  The doctor nodded and stood in the doorway as Tesla and Johnson started sifting through the crumbled remains with wrecking bars. They were re-treading old steps, except the smoke had almost completely cleared now so visibility was better. More importantly they knew someone was in here – or had been.