The Burn Palace

by Stephen Dobyns

  “Should I get a cell phone?” she asked. Maud had never used a cell phone.

  “Good idea. I’ll get you a phone and a phone card at Walmart.”

  Maud beamed. At ninety-five there was little left on her face but wrinkles on top of wrinkles, but Bobby thought she was pretty when she smiled.

  • • •

  Woody had called Bernie Wilcox when Nina Lefebvre became hysterical, and Bernie had got permission from the hospital to come over to the house. Bernie seemed a no-nonsense sort of nurse, and Woody liked that. Bernie’s job was to stay with Nina and keep an eye on her.

  When Nina had started screaming, her mother had rushed into the room and blamed Woody for everything. Woody had thought Nina was faking, but then he decided nobody could fake terror like that. Sarah Muller had tried to calm the girl, but Vicki pulled her away, sat on the bed, embracing her daughter tightly, while Nina tried to pull herself free. That was when he had called Bernie. As for Nina, she had said nothing else once she calmed down, but she only continued to weep as her mother held her hand.

  But at least Woody knew that what had happened to Peggy Summers had also happened to Nina, and if it happened to two young women it might have happened to more. He’d hoped that once Bernie had spent time with Nina, he could talk to her again. Surely, she’d recognized someone from that awful night. It might also be helpful if she and Peggy Summers were brought face-to-face. Woody was full of new plans, and it seemed that progress was being made.

  In return for Bernie’s help, Woody agreed to drive Tig back to the farm—she was at the library—since her husband wouldn’t be driving for a while.

  “Barton’s got himself a brand-new knee,” said Bernie, “and he’s promised to take me dancing once it’s healed.”

  Bernie had called the library to say that Woody would pick up Tig, and at four o’clock he had been outside in his Tundra. Bernie had described her granddaughter—tall, thin, black hair—but it was the fact she was accompanied by Hercel and Baldo when she came down the steps that led Woody to recognize her. Hercel was using a crutch. So he gave rides to all three.

  “I’m going over to Hercel’s house,” said Baldo.

  “No, let’s go to your house instead,” said Hercel. In Hercel’s voice, Woody heard a firmness that he guessed came from not wishing to see his stepfather.

  Hercel and Baldo sat in the small backseat with Ajax. Few things give a golden retriever more pleasure than the undivided attention of three ten-year-olds.

  After going three blocks, Woody slammed on his brakes and pulled to the curb. “What the hell’s that?” he shouted, staring in his rearview mirror.

  A bullet had pierced the rear window on the passenger’s side, and the glass was broken.

  Woody leaned over the seat. “I swear it wasn’t there a minute ago. Are you kids okay?”

  After a moment of silence Baldo and Tig burst out laughing. It was a decal that Baldo had stuck to the window when Woody had been looking elsewhere.

  “You could be real trouble,” said Woody humorlessly. In the mirror, he saw Hercel nodding.

  After dropping off Hercel and Baldo, Woody turned onto Water Street toward Barton Wilcox’s farm. “So what was it like last night with Hercel?”

  “He knocked himself out.” Tig said this as if it were an act of indescribable courage. She told how she and Bernie had heard the yapping of the coyotes and how they had hurried to the door when Gray and Rags started barking. Bernie had grabbed the shotgun. Running into the yard, Tig had seen something fly over the wall more than fifty yards away. It had been Hercel. “Bernie said he flew ten feet. He hit the wall as hard as he could. His bike’s a real mess. Could you crash into a wall like that? I could never do it. And this morning he didn’t even complain.”

  Woody asked how she liked having sheep. Tig said she liked the lambs best; the sheep themselves were smelly. What she really liked was the wool. She told Woody how she helped wash and card the wool and then helped Bernie spin it. Some yarn they used for weaving and some for knitting. Tig said she’d already knit two sweaters and she had promised to knit one for Hercel. Tig also said she wanted to weave something from Gray and Rags’s fur, but Bernie said it was probably too fine. Wouldn’t Woody like a nice sweater made out of Ajax’s fur?

  Woody said no, thanks. “I’ve already got what sticks to me off the furniture.”

  As the road out to the farm grew narrower and the woods thicker, Woody thought of Hercel biking in the dark with the yapping coyotes behind him. Had a pack of coyotes really come rushing out of the trees? Just how many coyotes had there been? But Bernie and Tig had also heard yapping. Yet coyotes weren’t supposed to behave like that. And he also wondered why the coyotes hadn’t caught Hercel, no matter how awful that would have been. Surely they could outrun a boy peddling through the dark.

  When they had nearly reached the farm, Tig said, “What do you think of telepathy?”

  “You mean reading people’s minds?”

  “Yes, I think that’s it.”

  “I think it’s hogwash. Sometimes a person’s expressions and body language tell you stuff so it seems you’re reading their mind, but you’re not. They’re just little signs, little tip-offs about what they’re thinking.”

  “And what d’you think about making something move by just thinking at it, you know, bombing it with your thoughts?”

  “You mean telekinesis?”

  “I don’t know what it’s called. Is that moving things with your thoughts?”

  “Yeah. That’s hogwash, too. It’s what people wonder about when they don’t have anything better to do. Why’re you asking?”

  “Just curious, that’s all.”

  Woody felt there was more to it than that, but now they had reached the farm and the two Bouviers came galloping out to great them.

  • • •

  Later, at five o’clock, Woody had driven out to the field headquarters of the Fish and Game Division in Great Swamp. Hercel’s bright green mountain bike was in the back of his truck. Barton had decided it was unfixable, and in a flash of altruistic stupidity—as Woody saw it—he had at first meant to buy Hercel a new bike. Then he thought it better to drop it off at a bike shop, despite its bent frame, handlebars, and front wheel. The seat, Woody sarcastically told himself, was still in good shape.

  Fish and Game’s field headquarters was a large cabin set among the trees along with half a dozen other buildings at the swamp’s entrance. One of the division’s coyote specialists, Gail Valetti, had come in specially that Saturday to talk to him. She was in her mid-thirties, with straight dark hair and a severe expression.

  “It’s absolutely impossible,” she said, “that a pack of coyotes would have pursued a boy on a bike. Coyotes don’t do that.”

  “Then what were they?” They were sitting in Valetti’s small office, the walls of which were covered with wood paneling.

  “They were probably dogs, a pack of dogs running loose. I do know that a lot of people who are completely ignorant about coyotes want to eradicate them, because of a bad and undeserved reputation. Coyotes serve a useful purpose within the environment and help to reduce the growing populations of smaller animals—foxes, raccoons, skunks . . .”

  “And house cats?”

  Valetti gave him a sharp look. “If you want your cat safe, keep it indoors.”

  Woody started to ask why coyotes were preferred over house cats, but he knew it would lead to an argument. To his mind, coyotes were like rats but bigger, cuter, and dumber.

  “Bernie Wilcox and her granddaughter also heard them. Bernie said they were coyotes, not dogs.”

  “Whatever,” said Valetti, raising her eyebrows in a way Woody didn’t like. “I’ve talked to Barton and Bernie many times about their coyote problem. Obviously, the coyotes are attracted by their sheep.”

  “I guess you think they should get rid of the sheep and raise bicycles.”

  “Your attitude,” said Valetti, “is less than helpful. It’s also ty
pical of most people’s attitude. Coyotes are a necessary part of the ecosystem and do little harm. Perhaps twenty people are bitten each year, whereas a million people each year are treated for dog bites. Are you suggesting we euthanize dogs?”

  “A coyote dragged off a seven-year-old girl on Prudence Island in December. Luckily, she was saved by her dog.” Prudence Island was in Narragansett Bay, north of Newport.

  Valetti’s voice took on a metallic quality, no emotion, all business. Like Robby the Robot, thought Woody.

  “That was terrible, admittedly, but people leave out food, leave their garbage cans open; they have compost heaps and bird feeders; they have lots of overgrown shrubbery; they don’t take care of their rodent problems; they let their cats wander around outside. Stop coyote feeding in a neighborhood and the coyotes will go away. There’s no reason we can’t get along with them through passive coexistence. Wherever we have a coyote problem it’s because people subsidize them.”

  Woody’s mind was brimming with wisecracks, and he turned away from her gaze. On Valetti’s desk were photographs of three children, miniature versions of herself. He also saw a picture of a man in uniform wearing captain’s bars. “Your husband’s in the service?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s he stationed?”

  “Right now in Iraq.”

  “It must be a worry for you.” Valetti’s cool expression indicated it was none of his business and why was he talking about her husband? “So,” said Woody, “what’s the size of the coyote population in Rhode Island?”

  “That’s hard to calculate, since they increase quickly. Five thousand, we think, but it could be twenty thousand more—it’s hard to say.”

  “Could these coyotes have been rabid?”

  “There are very, very few cases of rabid coyotes.”

  “Do they have any predators?”

  “Wolves.”

  “Great. So what about Hercel’s coyotes?”

  “I’ve already told you; they were dogs, perhaps feral dogs.”

  “They looked and sounded like coyotes.” Now it was Woody’s turn to sound like a talking robot.

  “Who saw them? Didn’t you say it was dark?”

  Woody recalled what Chmielnicki had said about shape-shifting. What if he asked Valetti about it? He could guess her response. And what would it do to his reputation if it got around that he’d asked Valetti about shape-shifting? Captain Brotman would order him to take a rest cure, and afterward he’d go back to pulling over speeders on 95.

  It was at this point that Woody’s cell phone made its irritating twitter. He dug it out of his pocket. It was Bernie Wilcox, and her voice was high and frantic.

  “Nina’s gone! She climbed out the bathroom window. I feel awful. What should I do?”

  “Stay where you are.”

  Woody was on his feet and out the door, leaving Gail Valetti to stare at his back in surprise at what she judged as rudeness. Not even a good-bye, she thought.

  Woody punched in the numbers of Bobby’s cell phone and then hardly gave him a chance to say hello. “Get over to Vicki Lefebvre’s. The girl’s escaped. Take a bunch of Brewster cops. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  • • •

  Bobby had clicked shut his phone and rolled his eyes. He’d been planning a quiet dinner at home with Shawna and their daughters. Good old Woody must have known he had been looking forward to something nice. No kids himself and no compassion—then Bobby grinned and headed for his Z.

  He had still been on cat detail, scouring the neighborhood with some Brewster cops, looking for anyone who might know something about the hanged cat. Nobody did. Now he sent his Brewster cops over to Vicki Lefebvre’s house on Market Street. Twenty minutes later Bobby was talking to Bernie on the front steps.

  “She went to take a shower and I waited in the hall,” said Bernie. “I should have gone into the bathroom with her, I know I should have. After a while, I thought Nina was taking too long, even though I heard the water running. I knocked on the door and called to her, but she didn’t answer. So”—Bernie shrugged—“I used my shoulder.”

  Bobby figured Bernie outweighed him by twenty pounds and nearly matched him in height. He felt sorry for the door. “And?”

  “She’d climbed out the bathroom window onto the garage roof. I don’t know what happened to her after that. I ran outside. There was no one in sight. She could have had a ten-minute head start. I drove around for a few minutes and then called Woody. I wish you’d just take me out and shoot me in the head.”

  “Maybe later.” More police cars were arriving, including three state police cruisers from the Alton Barracks. “What was Nina wearing?” he asked Bernie.

  “Jeans, sneakers, a purple sweatshirt. She’ll be cold.”

  Bobby had called the canine unit only to find that Woody had already called them. They would be there by seven. The police and troopers had fanned out in all directions, knocking on doors and driving up and down the streets. Nina had now been gone for a half-hour. If she was a runner, she could be four miles away. Bobby talked to Vicki to get the names of Nina’s friends and anybody else who might have helped her. Vicki was wild with anger.

  “That fat bitch was supposed to be watching her? Keep her out of my house! I’ve already called my ex-husband. If anything’s happened to Nina, we’ll take you to court. You just wait to see what the newspapers say about this!”

  Within the hour, fifty men and women were searching for Nina. A Belgian Malinois and its handler were also busy. The police sought out Nina’s friends and schoolmates. This was both a benefit and a disadvantage, because soon everybody in Brewster knew that a sixteen-year-old girl had vanished. More people joined in the search, until it seemed that crowds of people were filling the streets. A command center was set up at police headquarters under the nominal control of acting chief Bonaldo. These searches begin eagerly, but as time passes optimism decreases. People remain energetic, but it’s a grindingly obstinate and cheerless energy. In any case, on that Saturday evening, Nina wasn’t found.

  • • •

  Hercel spent the afternoon and early evening with Baldo Bonaldo, first having called his mother to say where he was. “Do you have homework for Monday?” she asked. Twenty vocabulary words and little else, which was true enough, but they were hard words: malevolent, portentous, caliginous. When would he ever use them? As for Hercel’s mother, she knew that by staying away from the house, Hercel was choosing to stay away from Carl. This frightened her. She had no idea what to do about Carl and was afraid to speak to him. Her friend Anita Barr kept saying, “Kick him out” or “Call the police,” but Harriet felt if she did, then nothing could be patched up afterward.

  Hercel had begun to ask his mother about Sooty, but then he didn’t. It would be dealt with like most of their domestic difficulties: with stubborn silence. Yet Hercel grieved. Most nights the cat slept at the foot of his bed. It kept him company when he read or watched TV. Sure, it liked Lucy almost as much, and his mother most of all, but Hercel was okay with that. What he didn’t like was the cat being dead.

  “Your cat kicked the bucket,” said Baldo.

  Hercel didn’t tell him to shut up, but he gave him a look that meant much the same thing.

  This silenced Baldo for a bit, but what interested him was Hercel’s trick, not a dead cat.

  Hercel shook his head. “I’m not talking about it. Ever. If you want to be my friend, don’t ask about it. I don’t want lots of people going on about it.”

  “I thought you said it was done with magnets,” said Baldo in an Aha-I’ve-caught-you tone.

  Hercel had forgotten the magnets. “They are magnets, very special magnets. My dad gave them to me. But I put them away and locked them up. They scare me.”

  This interested Baldo. “Why?” But Hercel wouldn’t answer. “I won’t tell anyone about them, really.” Baldo’s wheedling tone became a nasal whine, but it was a suspicious whine.

  “If you talk about it to
anyone, you’re not my friend. Maybe you’re not my friend anyway; maybe you’re just interested in my trick.”

  This hurt Baldo, and he fiercely shook his head. “I don’t believe it’s magnets. It’s something else and you should be proud of it. You’re like David in David and Goliath, but you don’t need a slingshot. You’d be a hero.”

  They were in the basement rec room. There was a Ping-Pong table, and Baldo had promised to teach Hercel how to play. “Would David still be a hero if he went looking for Goliath?” asked Hercel. “If he hunted him down?”

  “Sure,” said Baldo, “I guess so. Like if he just snuck up and murdered him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s David, right? He can do pretty much anything.”

  Baldo’s mother gave Hercel a ride home at nine. He disliked not having a bike. For some reason a lot of people were on the street. He hadn’t heard about Nina Lefebvre. He thought about David killing Goliath. He wondered if David had felt bad about it afterward.

  • • •

  At midnight Seymour and Jimmy were driving down Water Street toward the hospital. They had had an accident on Route 1, a couple of cardiac arrests, and an oldster for the Burn Palace, so it’d been a good night. Seymour was smoking weed, and Jimmy had the windows open. Every so often he’d cough dramatically, but Seymour didn’t seem to notice.

  As they passed Crandall Investments, Seymour said, “Hey, look at that. Ronnie’s not there. Second night in a row. I wonder where he’s sleeping.”

  “How can I look at something that’s not there?” Jimmy thought Seymour was always saying dumb things like that. “It’s like staring at the hole in a doughnut.”

  “Where d’you think he is?”

  This was another dumb remark. “He’s probably getting a haircut.”

  “At midnight? You’re fucking with my head.”

  Jimmy found the subject boring. “I was out at Digger’s Burn Palace. Guess who I saw?”

  “Ronnie McBride.”

  “Fuck you, can’t you ever be serious? It was Carl. I didn’t know Digger had Carl working out there. Larry was showing him shit. Carl didn’t say how long he’d been there. He was in a bad mood. So what else is new, right? You just gotta stay away from him when he’s like that. You think you could work out there? Like if Carl gets canned?”