The Burn Palace

by Stephen Dobyns

  Carl reached the stone wall at five-thirty. For the past half-hour, he had heard the coyotes; they were getting closer. He still had his claw, but then he picked up a thick branch and smashed it against a rock till he had broken off a piece about three feet long. He swung it a few times. It was his baseball bat; he’d hit some home runs. Not baseballs, though; he’d hit heads. They would bust like old pumpkins. He’d hit any heads that came his way. Just see if he didn’t.

  Carl had just crossed the wall when the Bouvier began barking and running in his direction. It didn’t worry him; it made him glad. Crouched over, he began running toward the house, great big steps. The big rubber boots went clomp, clomp. He could hardly wait for the dog to reach him. It made his mouth wet.

  They met halfway between the house and the wall. When the dog leapt, Carl swung the broken branch, his baseball bat, clubbing the dog. Home Run Number One. The dog fell, whimpered, and tried to get up. Carl clubbed it again. Home Run Number Two. Carl began to run toward the house again. About now, the old man would be getting his rifle. Carl meant to get there first.

  Barton was struggling with the front door, steadying the walker and shifting the Winchester from one arm to the other. He didn’t know where the kids were. As he opened the door, he realized Gray had stopped barking. At that moment, Carl smashed into him like a freight train hitting a tricycle. Barton was thrown back onto the floor. As he raised his head, Carl clubbed him with his baseball bat. Home Run Number Three. Then he picked up the rifle and went searching for Hercel and Lucy.

  The kids had been in the barn, looking for goose eggs, but they stopped when they heard Gray barking. Hercel went to the barn door and saw Carl running across the field toward the Bouvier. He pushed Tig and Lucy back behind him. Then Carl clubbed the dog. Hercel even heard the thump. His terror was such that he had to clamp his jaw shut to keep from screaming. Carl disappeared from view, and moments later he heard a crash as Carl knocked Barton to the floor, though Hercel didn’t know what the noise meant. Instead, very briefly, he thought Barton had beaten Carl, that he’d captured him and was tying him up, or maybe he had killed him. But then he heard doors slamming; he heard the growling.

  Hercel ran back into the barn, meaning to hide. But wouldn’t Carl look for them in the barn if he couldn’t find them in the house? Could he keep Lucy quiet, and, even if he could, wouldn’t Carl find them anyway? He stopped and put his hands to his temples. He tried to will something to move, something, anything, a ball, a rag, pieces of straw. He pointed his thoughts at it; he tried to push it, make it fly. Nothing happened. His fear got in the way of his concentration; he kept thinking he had to hurry, that he couldn’t wait.

  Tig stood just inside the barn door, holding Lucy by the hand. “He’s smashing stuff in there. I don’t know where Granddad is.” She paused. “Hercel, I’m really scared.”

  Hercel knew he had to make up his mind. He couldn’t let himself be scared as well. “We’ll go into the woods. We’ll go out the back of the barn and keep it between us and the house. Then we’ll circle around to the road.”

  “What about coyotes?”

  “Maybe it’s too early for them. I’ll get some kind of weapon.”

  Tig looked doubtful; Lucy was about to cry. The crashing and breaking glass continued, a steady, violent slamming and clangor.

  “Tig, what else can we do?”

  She squinched her eyes shut and moved back into the barn, leading Lucy. The little red lights in the heels of Lucy’s sneakers blinked on and off. Hercel ran to look for a weapon. The thought seemed ridiculous to him. How could he fight Carl?

  Hercel found a large screwdriver and a garden spade. It was almost funny. Tig kept saying, “Hurry, hurry!” Hercel thought if he had more time, he could find a better weapon, maybe a pitchfork. He grabbed up the screwdriver and spade, and ran to the back door of the barn.

  Outside, they ran toward the wall. They kept stumbling. The crashing stopped; a moment later a door slammed. Hercel and Tig each had one of Lucy’s hands, and they pulled her so fast that her feet hardly touched the ground.

  “Stop, stop, you’re hurting me!”

  “Be quiet,” urged Hercel.

  They had almost reached the wall when Carl shouted, “I see you little fucks!”

  This was immediately followed by a gunshot. The bullet pinged off the wall. Then came another shot that made a different sound that was more muffled. Hercel hardly thought about it. He helped Lucy over the wall.

  “Gray’s lying back in the field!” Tig could hardly control her voice.

  There was a third shot, the rifle again. Hercel and Tig climbed over the wall, picked up Lucy, and ran into the forest. They heard no more gunshots. They felt sure Carl was running across the field. They felt sure they could hear his footsteps. Hercel dropped the spade; the screwdriver was stuck in his belt; they kept running. Hercel heard the distant yapping of coyotes. Soon all that could be seen was the red sparkling of Lucy’s shoes.

  • • •

  Captain Brotman called the meeting of his task force for six o’clock, but he knew some wouldn’t be able to make it. The town was swarming with TV crews, radio and print reporters. Major Lancellotti, deputy superintendent and chief of field operations, had already called twice, and Colonel Schaeffer, head of the state police, had called once. Next he expected a call from the governor. Brotman hoped this was a joke, but it really wasn’t, because each minute the whole business made him look worse. He was being nibbled away by calamity as if being pecked to death by swans. The TV and radio stations wondered why the police hadn’t done more; the ProJo had run a critical editorial. Every time Brotman left or entered police headquarters, he was mobbed. The discovery of Benjamin Clouston’s body and the rest of the stuff on the island was the icing on the cake, but even as the thought passed through his mind, he asked what made him believe it wouldn’t get worse. When Brotman had got to police headquarters an hour earlier, a reporter had shouted if he meant to call out the National Guard. Brotman would have put in for early retirement, but he knew he’d be fired before he began the paperwork.

  When Woody entered the conference room, he thought Brotman had aged ten years. He seemed less tall, less imposing. There was no sign of the assurance he had shown over the past week. He nodded to Woody, who nodded back.

  I hope he’s not going to blame me for anything, Woody thought. Then he realized everyone had the same thought, beginning with Brotman. Boys and girls, let’s play the Blame Game.

  Bobby entered hurriedly and took a seat across the table from Woody. He glanced at Woody and winked. Woody decided he looked irritatingly cheerful.

  Bingo Schwartz entered, humming some god-awful something. Woody saw that at least ten men and women wanted to tell him to shut up. Woody felt the same way. Then he thought, It’s time to start my deep-breathing exercises.

  Detective Lajoie entered wearing the worst pantsuit Woody had ever seen in his life, with a terrible gold necklace and terrible gold earrings to match. Detective Gazzola looked at her with his pencil raised and his mouth open. Then he tore his gaze away as if turning away from a car crash. Captain Brotman considered mentioning the emerald-green pantsuit, ran over a number of possible remarks, and chose silence.

  Acting chief Bonaldo hurried in, saying, “Sorry, sorry.” He stumbled and bumped the chair of the FBI agent, who barked, “Do you have to . . . ?”

  “Sorry, sorry!” Bonaldo took his seat and mopped his brow with a gray handkerchief. He caught Woody’s eye and gave a nervous smile; the kind of smile, Woody thought, that a kid makes when he’s brought before the principal. Woody started to look away but then smiled back. His cheek muscles made a noise like a creaking door.

  So they entered by ones and twos until sixteen people sat at the table. None looked happy, though Detective Lajoie looked pleased with herself. She’s probably patting herself on the back for the deal she got on the pantsuit, thought Woody. If this goes on another week, we’ll shoot one another. Briefly, the only s
ound was the hum of the fluorescent lights.

  Captain Brotman got to his feet, staring at a paper on the table and at nothing else. He cleared his throat. “Benjamin Clouston was killed by a single shot to the forehead from Hartmann’s nine-millimeter Browning. The shell casing found on the ground matched the rounds in Hartmann’s box of Winchester nine-millimeters. The slug passed through his brain and ended up God knows where. When he was found he’d been dead about twenty-four hours. His Toyota Solara was located in a ball-field parking lot in Tuckertown, about a half a mile from the island. Near the body and leading to and from the shore were the footprints of size eleven-D Timberland Pro Terrenes. In addition, there were goat tracks, an abnormally large goat walking on its hind legs. Two six-inch straw dolls were also found. The remnants of the bonfire are still being sifted. So far a number of bone fragments have been discovered, possibly human. This information has been made public by a Brewster police officer. Mr. Bonaldo, would you like to comment on this?”

  Nobody in the room missed the “mister,” least of all acting chief Fred Bonaldo. “Not much to add. A police officer called some friends. Those guys called some other guys. A little while ago reporters started calling to see if it was true about the goat tracks. We been telling them ‘no comment.’”

  “Who’s the cop?” asked Joe Doyle, the South Kingstown lieutenant.

  Bonaldo glanced around the room, as if seeking a quick way out. “Patrolman Frank Hopper.”

  “Is he the one called Whole-Hog Hopper?” asked Doyle.

  Bobby Anderson gave a snort, but nobody else found anything funny.

  “Yes, I believe that’s what some people call him.”

  “Didn’t he let you down on other occasions? In one, he was supposed to be keeping an eye on Alice Alessio, and on the other he was watching Peggy Summers. Isn’t that right?”

  “He just scooted away for a jiffy to get something to eat.”

  Nobody spoke. As Bobby said later, “We left Bonaldo to fry in his own grease and listened to him snap, crackle, and pop.”

  Technically, an officer from another jurisdiction, even a lieutenant, had no right to speak like this to a police chief. But it wasn’t the words; it was the scorn.

  Joe Doyle’s red face got a little redder. “Have you dismissed him?”

  “Well, I was going to suspend him.”

  Doyle started shouting. “He should be fucking dragged out and strung up from a branch!”

  “You’re out of line, Doyle!” shouted Brotman. “Shut up or get out! And you, Bonaldo, stay where you are!”

  Fred Bonaldo had jumped up and meant to flee the room. Slowly, he sat back down. Chaos outside, thought Woody, chaos inside.

  There was a long moment of silence. Nobody wanted to speak. Then Bobby asked, “Captain, how do you explain the goat tracks?”

  “I don’t. People in town are saying it’s the Devil. I prefer not to believe that. The CIU kept going over the island till dark. Two guys from the URI crime lab were with them. Then they stopped till lights could be brought. Perhaps they’ve started again, I don’t know. I don’t need to tell you Patrolman Hopper’s remarks won’t make our work easier.” There was another moment of silence, and then Brotman, as Bobby said, “lost it.” “D’you fucking know what that means, Bonaldo?” Brotman stopped himself; he looked down at the table. Joe Doyle had a mean little grin.

  There was another silence. Bobby thought Bonaldo resembled a turtle trying to pull its head into its shell, but the turtle’s neck gets stuck and it gets bug-eyed and makes glug-glug noises. As for Bonaldo, he wondered if this was the time to say that Patrolman Hopper was his wife’s first cousin. The choice between being screamed at by Brotman or screamed at by his wife and her entire family, well, it was a toss-up.

  “What’s with the straw dolls, sir?” asked Detective Gazzola.

  Captain Brotman nodded to one of the DEM investigators.

  “They’re used to cast spells,” said the investigator. “The doll’s supposed to be the person you’re cursing. After reciting the curse, you throw it in the fire.”

  A little more oxygen was sucked from the room. No one looked at anyone else. It wasn’t that Woody believed in curses and voodoo dolls or whatever, he just didn’t like it when others did.

  “As for Benjamin Clouston,” Brotman continued, “his fingerprints were among those found in the hospital nursery, though he may have been there for legitimate reasons. You have something you wish to add, Woody?”

  “Yes, sir.” Woody pulled himself together and then described the little he’d learned from Clouston’s neighbors and colleagues at the hospital. “Clouston made trips to Las Vegas and Atlantic City. I’ve sent his picture and description, along with his credit card numbers, to the police in those places. What’s his gambling history? How often has he visited? I said it was urgent and sent the same stuff to the Connecticut state police casino unit to see if Clouston has been gambling at Foxwoods and Mohegan Sun. Clouston’s computer and records were taken from his house sometime on Wednesday. The crime scene investigation turned up absolutely nothing. However, the hospital direct-deposited his paycheck into a Bank of America account. The financial crimes unit has taken over the business of tracking his credit cards.”

  At the end of it, Bobby asked, “Can you say more about what he did at the hospital?”

  Woody described Clouston’s work as a pathology technician. “Everybody said he was first-rate at his job and could have made more money elsewhere. I was told he also loved to fish.”

  “So,” said Bobby, “what’s a top slabman doing in Brewster?”

  “What did you say?” asked Captain Brotman.

  “Slabman’s what they used to call a pathologist’s assistant or anatomical pathology technologist. That’s the gold-plated description. In the old days, a slabman worked with the coroner or pathologist, removing and weighing the organs and then stitching the guy back together to make him presentable for Mom and Pop.”

  The police officers digested this bit of wisdom. Bonaldo fidgeted and thought of raising his hand, then just broke in. “Did this guy know Ham Brantley, you know, Brantley’s Funeral Home?”

  “Why should he?” asked Joe Doyle, after a moment.

  Bonaldo had been afraid of this. “Well, you know, they had dead bodies in common. It seems a possibility.”

  Captain Brotman gave no indication that he’d heard Bonaldo. Instead, he asked Bobby to talk about Carl Krause.

  “You remember,” said Bobby, unable to help himself, “Krause is the distraction that Lieutenant Doyle was worrying about. . . .”

  Captain Brotman broke in: “Never mind that, Bobby.”

  So Bobby described Carl’s breakdown, Harriet’s murder, and Carl’s pursuit of the children. He said Carl had been growling and running on all fours. Nobody in the room seemed to be breathing. Bobby left nothing out—Bernie’s rescue of the children, the use of the canine unit, the fat woman at the convenience store, Carl fighting with coyotes, Barton Wilcox and his Winchester, Carl’s flight into the swamp, where the dog lost his trail.

  “They restarted the search this morning with two dogs, and they picked up his trail where he’d come out of the water. Carl was traced to a utility shed at the field headquarters, where he spent part of the night. He left early this morning, and they lost him again when he reentered the water.”

  Bobby went on to what he had learned about coyotes, or coywolves, as well as what people had told him about shape-shifting. Woody shifted in his seat. The very subject of shape-shifting made him angry.

  “This is all bullshit,” he interrupted. “We’ve got to strip everything away and look at the baby. There’s no such thing as shape-shifting or werewolves or vampires or shit like that. There’s no such thing as black magic or white magic or gray magic. Their phony spells don’t work. We need to get back to the baby! Once that’s figured out, the rest will fall into place.”

  Bobby thought, Don’t lose it, my friend, don’t lose it.

&
nbsp; Most everyone in the room understood there was a split between what they knew to be true and what they believed might be true. They knew Woody was right, but they had trouble being certain about it. First came the snakes and then the scalping. Each incident was more shocking than the last, and, as Woody had said on the first night, within this mass of barbarity the baby had been forgotten.

  The FBI said the search for the baby was continuing as vigorously as ever, but so far nothing had been found. Nor had any more been learned about Hartmann’s activities in Massachusetts, although people were being sought. Several detectives described interviews with Wiccans, but nothing had been learned about possible Satanists. Still, as one detective said, “I bet they’re out there somewhere.”

  Bobby realized that despite Woody’s warning half the people in the room thought it likely that the events in Brewster had supernatural causes.

  Bingo Schwartz described talking to detectives from Providence to New London, but he still had no leads about Ronnie McBride. The medical examiner’s office had reported that Nina Lefebvre had almost certainly committed suicide. Others spoke, and other ideas were thrown around.

  “There was this guy Bobby and I talked to,” said Woody. “Another nutcase, most likely. He said it was wrong to think of this stuff as suddenly happening. He said it had probably been going on beneath the surface for some time and we were wasting our time by looking at the bits and pieces rising to the top. He said we have to come up with an inference about what’s causing it. The thing is, every one of us knows this to be true. We have to see that to blame it on Satanism is the wrong inference. Somebody’s organizing all this satanic shit. Somebody’s doing it so we don’t see something else, like the baby.”