The Burn Palace

by Stephen Dobyns

  “Whatcha lookin’ at, Maudie?” said Tommy, coming to a stop.

  Maud Lord turned with a look of severe distaste that Tommy at first thought was directed at him. But it wasn’t. “Somebody,” she said, “has hung a gray cat by a piece of yellow twine from a branch, and it appears to be dead.”

  Tommy walked quickly across the grass. “Holy shit, Maud, you’re right! Dead as a doornail. Poor thing.”

  • • •

  Jill Franklin drove her Tercel slowly down Water Street to police headquarters, but her speed was due to thought rather than safety. She had reached a point of crisis concerning her chosen career, and she wondered if a job with less risk might be more to her taste, something like bronco-busting or bull riding, for it wasn’t physical danger that worried her but ethical danger. Even that might not have bothered her, if it weren’t for her son, Luke. At six, he was full of questions, and how could she answer them if she saw herself as a shit-heel?

  She had gotten pregnant in the spring of her senior year at the University of Colorado in Boulder. It had been entirely her own fault; she’d been too lazy or cheap to renew her prescription of birth control pills, and Derek, her live-in boyfriend, hadn’t pulled out in time—a small interior spill that resulted in Luke. Derek had vaguely offered to marry her, but Jill hadn’t been that rash. He was a short-term rather than a long-term pleasure. Hiking, skiing, camping, and sex—he was great, but for how long can one dedicate one’s life to fun? Besides, he was a complainer.

  It wasn’t till the baby had been born that Jill realized she had seen Luke as the answer to the question: What do I want to do after college? Do I want to teach, try journalism, join the Peace Corps, get a job in publishing, work in a bookstore, coach girl’s soccer, lacrosse, basketball, or softball? No, I’ll have a baby.

  So after graduating, Jill had returned to Wakefield and moved in with her parents, who, fortunately, loved her. At first Derek had flown east twice a year to visit Luke, who he saw more as a curiosity than a son; but once Luke had stopped being a curiosity, the visits slowed. He had offered her child support, but since she felt entirely responsible for getting knocked up, she had turned him down. The money would also increase a sense of obligation that she didn’t want.

  Once settled, Jill had a series of boring part-time jobs that didn’t interfere with being a mother. As Luke got older, the quality of these jobs increased, but they remained jobs of convenience, jobs she had fallen into. None had she hated; they were just dull. Of all of them, being a reporter for the Brewster Times & Advertiser was the most interesting, especially once she got past covering anything but social news. Now, however, she worried her interest came at an ethical price. It had been fun sneaking through the hospital and locating Peggy Summers. It had been fun practically kidnapping Hercel McGarty and Baldo Bonaldo, and getting Hercel to name his snake Satan, but perhaps it hadn’t been good clean fun. Now something nasty had occurred, and Jill, whose sense of morality had been developed on playing fields, didn’t approve of putting it in the newspaper, which is why she was driving to police headquarters. It is rare, however, that an action has a single cause, and perhaps Jill was motivated in part—she would deny it—by the chance of seeing Woody.

  As with most conflicted desires, she both hoped to find Woody and hoped to find him gone. Yet when the dispatch officer told her Woody was upstairs and he’d give him a buzz as soon as Jill said what it was about, she felt a surge of pleasure, along with lesser surges of embarrassment, timidity, and desire.

  “Tell him it’s about Peggy Summers,” she answered.

  A few minutes later, she was ushered into Woody’s office. It was not long after Woody had concluded his conversation with Dr. Balfour, and at the moment his faith in humanity was at a low point. He glanced at Jill without pleasure.

  “I’ve got nothing for the press. What’s this about Peggy Summers?”

  Jill left the door open as she approached Woody’s desk. “First of all, I saw Alice Alessio this morning going into that little market on Ash Street, around nine-thirty.”

  “I already know about it. What about Peggy?”

  “I talked to her this morning. I thought you’d want to know what she said.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Can I sit down?”

  “Can’t you stand and talk at the same time?”

  Unpropitious was one of Jill’s favorite new words, and recently she’d been giving it a workout in her interior monologues. Woody had just given her another chance to use it. This was the best to be said of his question.

  “I more or less pushed myself into her house and wangled my way into her bedroom. She didn’t want to talk, but I got her to.”

  Woody had learned much of what followed from Bobby Anderson, but he let Jill tell her piece. Mostly he asked himself what she was doing here, why she wanted to talk to him, what favors she’d ask in return. If that were so, she would be unhappy.

  Jill spoke of the party in the woods and that Peggy wouldn’t say who had invited her or who had taken her there. She spoke of the music—flutes and drums—the dancing, and what must have been drugs, because there wasn’t alcohol. She’d been blindfolded for part of it and didn’t know how many people were there. Maybe twenty. Some wore masks; all wore cloaks. She didn’t recognize anybody, nor did she see the friends she had hoped to meet. The only light came from a bonfire.

  At some point, Peggy realized she was the reason for the festivities. Probably it happened “when I was getting fucked,” Peggy had said. People made a circle around her; it wasn’t the fucking she minded so much as being watched. After all, wasn’t fucking what life was about? The man had been neither gentle nor rough—it had just been an unwanted, impersonal fuck.

  Some of this, Woody realized, Peggy hadn’t told Bobby Anderson.

  The other thing Peggy hadn’t liked was the guy was wearing a mask of a human skull. She found it “creepy.”

  Woody took Jill through the story again. There was another detail Bobby hadn’t known.

  “Peggy said she’d had to walk through water, about a foot or so. She couldn’t see, and two or three people held her hands. Whatever she walked on was hard, but it didn’t seem like stone, because it bounced a little. She wasn’t sure how far she walked like this—maybe fifty feet or so. They went very slowly.”

  When Woody was satisfied that Jill had nothing else about Peggy’s story to convey, he asked, “Why are you telling me this?”

  Jill felt embarrassed. “I didn’t think I could report it. I mean, it would send people into a tailspin. A girl raped during some awful ritual? She already said it reminded her of Rosemary’s Baby, and this sounds just like it. It’s pure witchcraft. I don’t report witchcraft. In fact, I’m not sure anymore what I report.”

  Woody studied her for a moment. “And you believed her?”

  “Pretty much. I mean, the details seemed true: walking through the water and maybe the skull mask. The rest seemed basic horror stuff, which doesn’t mean it didn’t take place. But my reason for not wanting to report it isn’t because I find it true or false. I just don’t want to help create mass hysteria. People are already having fits about the snakes and the scalping.”

  “So what d’you plan to do?” Her admission surprised him, and it went a little way to balance out his irritation with Balfour. Maybe she was a person, not a problem.

  “I’m not sure. I can’t just report what the cops tell me to report.” Jill laughed. “I’ve even thought I should quit. Something nasty’s going on, and I don’t want to frighten people. Maybe I’ll write about it when it’s over, if I have a job. Or maybe I’ll write about stuff not directly tied to it. I liked those boys yesterday, Hercel and Baldo, even though you think I kidnapped them. I could write something about Hercel’s dad giving him the snake. That doesn’t seem too dangerous.”

  Woody had a difficult relationship with sincerity, meaning other people’s. He tended to distrust it. It embarrassed him. Was he expected to respond with something
equally sincere? After Jill had disclosed her ambivalence about her job, Woody found himself ready to say that he liked how her blond hair framed her face. Where had that idiotic idea come from? Luckily, before he embarrassed himself, a Brewster cop, Harry Morelli, burst into the room and began to blather.

  “Maud Lord just found a dead cat! Somebody hung it by the neck with twine. Tommy Cathcart the mailman was with her. He’s the one who called. You want to go down there?”

  Woody Potter, as Jill said later, went ballistic.

  “You think I’m here to go chasing after dead cats along with everything else? What d’you mean busting in here with that crap. Don’t you have anything better to do?” This went on a bit longer, but then Woody came to a stop. He wondered what had gotten into him. He felt embarrassed at making a fool of himself in front of the girl reporter, who would probably rush off to tell the world about his rotten temper. He felt embarrassed about yelling at another cop, even a small-town cop.

  Morelli stood in the doorway, wincing. Two other people stood out in the hall, staring at Woody in surprise.

  “Sorry, Corporal,” said Morelli. “Fred told me you were interested in Carl Krause. It was his cat, or maybe his kid’s cat, you know, Hercel McGarty? I mean, I wouldn’t tell you about any dead cat.”

  Woody sat with a hand to his forehead, partially covering his eyes. He didn’t want to look at the girl reporter, didn’t want to look at Morelli, didn’t want to see the people in the hall. He took his cell phone and punched in Bobby’s number. When Bobby answered, he tossed the phone to Morelli, making him jump for it. “Tell him. He’s on cat detail this week.” Woody began fussing with some papers on his desk. He didn’t look up until the door closed; then he saw the girl reporter was still there.

  “What’s your name again?” Woody remembered her name perfectly well.

  “Jill Franklin. Could I buy you a cup of coffee, or would you like a soothing martini?”

  Woody processed this information and then got to his feet. “Coffee’s good enough, and I’ll buy my own. We’re not allowed to take bribes.”

  • • •

  Bobby Anderson was leaving police headquarters to hunt down Carl Krause when he ran smack into an older woman with lots of silver earrings wearing an oversized denim jacket over nursing scrubs. It was shortly after two o’clock.

  “Hey, watch out,” he said.

  “Why?” said Bernie. “Are you going to hit me again?”

  Bobby burst out laughing. In fact, he hadn’t hit her. It had only been a nudge.

  “So how’re things at the hospital?” he asked.

  “Nervous.”

  Bobby introduced himself. It was the least he could do since he’d nearly knocked her down. He also figured she must be curious about the identity of this handsome black dude. Hip-hop star? Famous actor? No, just your humble state police detective.

  Bernie introduced herself as well. She mentioned working part-time at Morgan Memorial, having returned several years earlier after a ten-year absence. “When I left, the nurses dressed in white. Now they’re dressed like clowns.”

  “What do you do in your time off?”

  “Raise sheep and study weaving. We’ve a farm outside of town. In fact, maybe you can help me. It’s why I was coming here. What do you know about coyotes? A boy was nearly killed by a pack of them last night.”

  Bobby, as we know, had a growing interest in coyotes. He and Bernie had moved to the side of the steps as others entered and exited the building. When Bobby learned the boy was Hercel McGarty, his interest increased. He liked the part of the story where Hercel ran his bike at full tilt against the stone wall, standing up on the pedals at the last moment so he could be thrown forward.

  “Damn, I don’t think I’d have the guts to do that even in the best of times.”

  “But coyotes don’t attack people. These acted more like wolves.” Bernie described how the coyotes wouldn’t cross the wall to get at her sheep. “They’re scared of the two dogs, and with reason. But in the past six months some have tried it. Anyway, I wanted to report what’d happened to Hercel. If he hadn’t made it across the fence, I think he’d have been killed.”

  “How many were there?”

  “I couldn’t tell. Maybe half a dozen. Maybe less. I didn’t really see them.”

  Bobby said he would contact the Division of Fish and Wildlife in Wakefield and also tell acting chief Bonaldo. Rhode Island had little history of coyote attacks, but there had been several in the past year. Even so, he doubted Bonaldo could handle it by himself.

  Bobby had talked to Bonaldo within the past hour and learned about his call to Chief McGarrah. Much of it gave Bobby food for thought, but one sentence stuck out above the rest: “Carl’s a great guy if he takes his meds.” Otherwise he got paranoid, “a little violent.”

  “Did Hercel say anything about Carl Krause?” asked Bobby.

  “No, but something’s not right at home. He didn’t say what, but he was biking out to our place to get away from it. He’s friends with Tig—that’s Antigone, our granddaughter.”

  Bobby considered telling her about the hanged cat, but he decided it wasn’t her business—sharing information with civilians was something he had been warned about—nor did he tell her he was on his way to talk to Carl.

  Harriet Krause had a part-time job at the CVS on Water Street. Bobby found her just as she was going on her lunch break and asked where he could find Carl. She knew nothing about the hanging of the cat, and Bobby lacked the nerve to tell her. Maybe he’d do it later, or maybe somebody else could do it.

  Harriet said Carl was doing some painting in a summer home in Hannaquit. She described where it was, adding that Bobby would see Carl’s red Ford F-150 in the drive. When Bobby had mentioned Carl’s name, Harriet had tensed; or maybe she’d tensed when he had introduced himself as a detective. He guessed it was the business with the shotgun that bothered her. But then what had sent Hercel biking through the dark to Bernie’s farm?

  “What does this concern?” asked Harriet.

  “Just a question about the shotgun business. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  But Harriet was worried, though whether it was specifically directed or free-floating, Bobby couldn’t tell. To quiet her a little, Bobby said, “You’ve got a great kid there in Hercel. Smart dude. I really took a liking to him.”

  “Yes,” said Harriet. But the worry didn’t go away.

  Ten minutes later Bobby pulled his Z into a sandy driveway next to Carl’s Ford pickup. Then he revved his engine to let Carl know he was there. The house was on stilts about thirty yards back from the water at high tide, with a staircase going up the side and four balconies facing the ocean—gray shingles, maybe ten rooms on three floors, and worth several million, or at least until the next big hurricane.

  He made a fair amount of noise ascending the wooden steps. “Hey, Carl, you in there?” His pistol was in a small holster attached to his belt and under his suit coat. Bobby had a fearful desire to put his hand on it, but he controlled himself. He didn’t know what was worse: his surprising Carl or Carl’s surprising him. “Hey, Carl, okay if I come in?” Bobby pushed the door and entered. The whole first floor was an open area, with comfortable couches and a kitchen area set off by counters. The huge picture window facing the water made Bobby feel he was standing on the edge of a cliff. Hunks of driftwood did the work of art.

  There was no sign of Carl except for several paintbrushes on the kitchen counter. The house was silent. Bobby could hear the slosh of the waves hitting the beach, the cry of a gull. In the distance, he could see Block Island. Bobby didn’t like feeling scared, so he told himself he felt only nervous. Just a tad. If Carl was here, he was upstairs.

  “Hey, Carl, where the fuck are you?” He crossed the living area to the open stairs, then went up to the second floor, banging his feet heavily on the treads. In a sitting area, another great window faced the ocean.

  He went through two bedrooms with minimal furniture
. Then, as he stood in the middle of the master bedroom, he heard a noise behind him. He spun around, putting a hand on his pistol but not drawing it. Carl stood in the doorway.

  “Shit, Carl. You trying to mess with my head?”

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  “The fuck you didn’t.”

  Carl raised a small pair of headphones. “I was listening to my iPod and doing some painting on the third floor.” He spoke without expression.

  Bobby reconsidered. Maybe he was telling the truth. On the other hand, he hadn’t heard Carl come down the stairs, so Bobby still thought he was lying. In the bright, reflected light from the ocean, the deep creases on Carl’s face looked black. He probably hadn’t shaved for three or four days. Carl’s unruly black hair reminded Bobby of the Greek woman with snakes instead of golden locks—what was her name? Medusa.

  “So what d’you want?” asked Carl. He wore a carpenter’s belt that included a hammer and pry bar.

  “Did you hang your gray cat?”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Your cat was found dead this morning. It was hanging from a piece of twine from a branch of the juniper just off your front porch. Did you do it?”

  “What the fuck would I hang a cat for?”

  Bobby was struck that Carl wasn’t surprised by what he’d said. “You tell me.”

  “Well, I didn’t do it. Anything else you want to bother me about?”

  “Are you taking your meds?”

  Very briefly, Carl had a sly look; then it vanished. “What meds are those?”

  “The ones prescribed for you at Benjamin Rush.”

  “Sure. Sure, I’ve been taking my meds. Anything else?”

  “What meds are they?”

  “You tell me, you’re so smart. I don’t have to tell you shit.”

  Bobby figured he could get that information later. “Who’d the cat belong to?”

  “Harriet.”

  “Did it have a name?”

  “Yeah, it was Sooty. Something like that.”