The Burn Palace

by Stephen Dobyns

  “Harvesting?”

  Brantley nodded.

  “Are you buddies with Balfour?”

  Brantley looked surprised. “I admire him and we’re friendly, but that’s the extent of it. As a doctor, he’s committed to curing the sick, fighting disease, and prolonging life. I, well, I’m at the other end of things.”

  “I’d like to see your records for October.”

  They had reached the hall. Brantley stopped. “Now? Really, Woody, I’m extremely busy. Can’t you see these people? I shouldn’t even be talking to you. After all, they’re the ones who need my attention.”

  “I want to see them.”

  Brantley didn’t seem angry, but his benign expression had frozen. “Then you’ll have to get a warrant and see them on Monday.”

  “You’re good,” said Woody. “You’re really good.”

  • • •

  Bobby had been on his way to see Margaret Hanna, the nurse who worked at Ocean Breezes, when he got a call from Woody to go to Brantley’s crematorium before it closed for the day to look at the cremation records for October. He wanted the names of men and women who had been sent to Brantley’s Funeral Home. On one hand, Bobby was mildly annoyed; on the other, he was interested in Woody’s question. Woody told him to take a few troopers with him, but Bobby didn’t want to bother. Rounding them up would take time.

  Bobby drove out 138 toward Skunk Hill Road. There was little traffic, but as he neared Wyoming he was abruptly passed by a red sports coupe. He responded to this on two levels. As a trooper, he realized the driver was exceeding the speed limit by at least thirty miles per hour. As the driver of a 370Z, his competitive instincts were engaged. Bobby increased his speed. It was still raining.

  When the red coupe stopped at the light at Wyoming, Bobby saw it was an Audi TTS. Earlier in life—maybe as a teenager—he would have been tempted to race it, but at thirty-five he knew it was a bad idea. Still, the car was going in his direction and when it went straight after the light and turned right toward Skunk Hill Road, Bobby was right behind it. Then the driver must have seen him, because he quickly accelerated. Soon only the glow of the car’s taillights was visible, and then not even that. Bobby slowed down. The rain was changing to sleet.

  But that was not the end of the red Audi, because when Bobby turned down the long drive to the crematorium he saw the TTS parked by the building and its driver in the process of unfolding himself from the front seat. Bobby pulled up next to him: a tall, thin young man with thick blond hair. It was Jonathan Balfour.

  “I could give you a ticket for driving like that,” said Bobby as he got out. A light was on above the door of the crematorium; the woods were in shadow. One other car was parked in the small lot.

  Balfour laughed. “If I’d known a trooper was driving that Z, I’d have offered to race. What brings you out here?” He reached out his hand, and Bobby shook it.

  “I wanted to check the cremation records. What about you?”

  “What’s that about great minds thinking alike? An old fellow, Jason Thomas, died at Ocean Breezes last week. Dr. Percival filed the certificate, and I wanted to see what he said. Jason was my patient.”

  “Couldn’t you have asked Percival himself?”

  “He’s gone for the weekend and I can’t reach him. Didn’t I see your car at Ocean Breezes earlier?”

  “Maud Lord’s a great pal of mine. I wanted to see how she was doing.”

  “She’s a tough old bird. And what’s the other cliché? She’ll outlast us all.” Balfour laughed again. “In her case, I bet it’s true.” He opened the door and held it for Bobby.

  “Maud said she’s seen you over there often. Have you been dating Margaret Hanna?”

  Balfour was behind Bobby as the two men entered the crematorium. Bobby didn’t want Balfour behind him, and he turned slightly.

  “Marge’s a great gal, but our relationship goes no further than chitchat. You troopers are always thinking about sex. You must have dull lives.”

  The crematory was bright and overheated. By the furnace, a middle-aged man in a gray T-shirt stood as motionless as a statue. His mouth was partly open, and he held a long-handled brush. There was something odd about him, but Bobby’s attention was focused on Balfour. He didn’t believe the story about Jason Thomas and Dr. Percival, and he thought he should give Woody a call. Then he decided to rile Balfour a little.

  “Several people have identified you going into Clouston’s house. I thought you hardly knew him. Are you hiding another relationship? Nurse Spandex, Margaret Hanna, Benjamin Clouston—you must be some kind of bunny . . .”

  Bobby stopped in mid-sentence. He stared at the floor. Most of it was dusty, but an area in front of him had been recently washed. The cleaned area extended to the cinder-block wall next to the door. Balfour was watching him. Bobby went to the wall and touched it. The wall, too, had just been cleaned, or this part had. Then, at his feet, he saw a reddish stain. Bobby bent down on one knee. He heard a quick footstep and started to turn. Then his head seemed to explode.

  TWENTY

  SNOW ON HALLOWEEN, messy, heavy snow, with the temperature a bit above freezing. The streets are sloppy with mush and crisscrossed with car tracks. The trees’ few last leaves are weighed down with flakes as big as thumbnails. Snow gathers on telephone wires and falls to the street with a plop. Anyone standing nearby when it drops jumps about a foot. People are sprung pretty tight. After all, it’s Halloween.

  Before six o’clock some kids go trick-or-treating—drenched witches, sodden white-sheet ghosts, waterlogged monsters—and each kid has two or three soaked adults as bodyguards. But at the stroke of six they vanish like vampires at dawn. Anyway, not many houses have porch lights on, and the few people giving out candy have bodyguards as well.

  Jean Sawyer closed up early at the Brewster Brew. Her house is dark, and it looks like no one’s home, but she and her husband are upstairs in the bedroom. The shades are drawn, and they are watching TV with the sound turned low. Ginger and Howard Phelps are also in their bedroom with drawn shades. They’re playing gin rummy but find it hard to concentrate. Right now even Old Maid would give them trouble. Whole-Hog Hopper’s watching TV in his living room, but he’s got his shotgun across his knees. Too bad for any kid who comes knocking on his door.

  Nobody’s at You-You tonight. Classes are canceled because of the weather. People are glad to have an excuse. The restaurants are empty; the bars have only a few diehards. Mayor Hobart is running the Halloween party in the high school gym, but only about twenty kids show up. Father Pete’s party at the church got twenty-five kids, but not all at once. Those with cars go to Westerly or Wakefield. Brewster’s dead.

  In the hospital, the emergency room has called in extra help. Nurse Spandex offered to work for free, but Tabby Roberts, the head nurse, said no, thanks. An ambulance should be parked outside, but it hasn’t shown up. No telling what Seymour and Jimmy are up to. Dr. Joyce Fuller is in her office and plans to stay all night. She hopes nothing will happen, but if it does she won’t be caught flat-footed. Helen Greene, the Methodist whose windows were broken by Mackie McNamara, is spending the weekend with friends in Mystic. Sister Asherah and Sister Isis are celebrating Samhain someplace out of state.

  Most people are hunkered down, waiting for daylight, but not the police—they are out in force, with a dozen patrol cars, cruising the streets and local detectives pursuing a dozen leads. Some things are easier in a small state. Captain Brotman is working with lawyers from the attorney general’s office to cut through red tape. Detective Gazzola has roused the town clerk and is in City Hall, going through the death records for October and September. After Bobby Anderson reported that three people had died at Ocean Breezes on Thursday night, Woody recalled that was the night when somebody tried to crowbar his way into the homes of law-abiding citizens. Cops had been rushing all over and nobody gave a thought to what might be happening at Ocean Breezes. Woody felt sure that wasn’t a coincidence.

&nbs
p; In a large metropolitan area in a large state, it can take a few days to get a search warrant, but Beth Lajoie was back at Dr. Balfour’s condo by seven o’clock. Her request had gone straight from the state police colonel to the governor’s office. “No, it’s not a fishing expedition,” the colonel had said. The puzzle was coming together; the end was in sight.

  At first, Lajoie and the crime scene unit that made the search were disappointed. The five rooms of Balfour’s condo were, as she said, “squeaky clean.” None had thought they would find a weapon lying in plain view—say, on the coffee table—but it would have been nice nonetheless.

  However, at the bottom of the clothes hamper beneath some undergarments, Corporal Montesano found a dark sweatshirt. He carried a Vulcan lantern, and it made everything sparkle.

  “This sweatshirt’s covered with dog hair,” he said.

  The sweatshirt looked like one of Woody’s sweatshirts after he had been wrestling with Ajax.

  Detective Lajoie poked at the hair shimmering in the glare of the light. “I bet it’s coyote hair. Get it over to URI. If I’m wrong I’ll eat my rain hat.” She wore a Black Diamond sou’wester made of thick black rubber. It looked silly pulled down over her ears, but as Lajoie said, “It does the trick.”

  The second discovery was more dramatic. Lajoie was looking around a guest bedroom and opened the closet door without paying much attention.

  A gray-haired woman in a blue flowered dress stood in front of her.

  Lajoie screamed and stumbled backward. This was her first scream in seventeen years as a trooper.

  Montesano came rushing into the room with his weapon drawn. Seeing the old woman standing in the closet door nearly made him scream as well.

  But by then Detective Lajoie had recovered. “It’s a mannequin,” she said.

  Pointing his light at the figure, Montesano felt embarrassed he hadn’t seen it was a mannequin immediately. Maybe he’d been fooled by the gray wig and granny glasses; the black, high-top old-lady shoes.

  “Scared the shit outta me,” said Lajoie.

  Ten minutes later she described it to Woody when she called him on the cell. Why would Balfour have a mannequin of an old lady in his closet? Could it have some medical purpose, some teaching purpose, or was it a joke? They talked about it for a minute or two. Then Woody remembered his remark to Hamilton Brantley as they stood before the open casket of Frances Crenner: “Did you put shoes on her?”

  That connection led Woody to call Captain Brotman. “Hey, Captain, do you think I could exhume some bodies from the Brewster Cemetery?”

  He felt sure he would find mannequin parts in at least one of the coffins.

  Woody had been going full speed ever since leaving Brantley at the funeral home. He had talked to a detective in the financial crimes unit to get them busy looking into Brantley’s and Balfour’s bank accounts. He had made a bunch of calls to find out about local Samhain celebrations. He had talked to the DEM about coyotes.

  Woody had also checked on Barton Wilcox at the hospital, going up to his room in the ICU, where he had found Bernie.

  “Have you been here the whole time? You need some sleep.”

  “I’ve dozed a little. Anyway, where else would I be?”

  Barton was either unconscious or asleep, but at least his vital signs had improved. He still looked dead, Woody thought, but he didn’t look as dead.

  “Do you need anything?” asked Woody.

  Bernie shook her head. “How’re the kids?”

  Woody said they were still at Bonaldo’s, and Laura was with them. “They’re pretty sad, but they’re safe.”

  “That’s the main thing. I picked up that little dachshund and it’s in my car. It’s scared to death, poor thing. I’ll take it over to Laura’s if I get the chance.”

  Next Woody went searching for Margaret Hanna, the nurse who worked nights at Ocean Breezes. Bobby had raised some questions about her. She wasn’t in her apartment and hadn’t shown up for work.

  “This isn’t like her,” said her supervisor. “She’s always dependable. I’ve been trying to find someone to take her place, but who wants to come to Brewster on a night like this? I’ve called six people already.”

  “Maybe I can do something,” said Woody, and he gave her the phone number of Nurse Spandex. When Alice received the call, she agreed right away. It would help her forget the mess she was in.

  At some point during the early evening, Woody called Jill to say he wouldn’t be able to call her—he was too busy. “Will I see you later?” she asked.

  “I really hope so.” But Woody couldn’t swear to it.

  She asked about Hercel and Lucy, and learned they were with Laura Bonaldo. “Maybe I’ll go over there,” she said. “Luke’s with my parents. They’re a lot more enthusiastic about Halloween than I am.”

  Woody also called Bingo twice and Bobby once. Neither had answered. He called Bobby’s wife, Shawna. She hadn’t heard from him. Woody had been in his truck and he pulled over to the curb on Water Street. He again realized he was letting the flashy stuff distract him from what was most important. Where was Bobby? He dug out his cell phone and started making calls. The only available backup was Beth Lajoie and Bruce Slovatsky, who, at twenty-seven, was the youngest member of the detective unit. He told them to meet him at police headquarters.

  There was a paradox that bothered Woody that sometimes struck him when he was alone, say, sitting before the fire at night with a little whiskey. The moments as a trooper that scared him most, when he or his friends were most in danger, when a whole lot of shit was on the verge of going out of control and his adrenaline was blasting through the roof, those were the moments he liked best. Am I some kind of thrill creep? he asked. Do I put a whole lot of stuff in jeopardy just to make this happen? He was never sure.

  • • •

  When Bobby Anderson regained consciousness, he thought he was dead. He was cold; he’d never felt so cold. His head hurt. He could see nothing; he couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or shut. He raised a hand to his eyes and his hand hit the flat surface of something a few inches above him. He pushed it but it moved only an inch or two. I’m in a box, he thought. No, I’m in a coffin.

  Bobby pressed his hands to his chest and tried to keep from screaming. He squeezed his eyelids so tightly his cheeks hurt. He squeezed his fingers into his palms so tightly the nails cut the flesh. This was how he tried to relax—a little pain to distract him from a great terror. He heard a roaring noise he couldn’t identify. Was he really underground? No, he could still breathe; it was stuffy, but he could breathe. He relaxed his fingers and opened his eyes.

  He lay quietly and tried to think. Slowly, he straightened his arms and felt the side of the coffin. It was smooth, like wood. He tapped it with his knuckles and it made a hollow sound. He tried to think what that meant. It meant for sure he wasn’t underground. He lifted a hand along the side of the coffin until he reached the top. When he pushed, the top raised up a little. He felt the top edge of the coffin. He could bend it inward and realized it was thick cardboard. He was in a cardboard coffin with a loose cardboard lid. He refolded his arms across his chest and thought some more. He still wanted to scream; he wanted to go fucking hysterical. But he wasn’t going to let that happen.

  Bobby pressed his arms back behind his head to the front panel of the coffin. He pushed until his feet pressed against the farther end. There was about six inches of space. He raised his knees to give himself another two inches and pressed his fists against the front panel. Then he kicked hard. The end bulged slightly. He kicked harder. Then he gasped, relaxed, and went back to thinking. This is all there is, he thought. This is the only way out.

  He pushed at the rear panel with his feet and the front panel with his hands. Then he began to kick and push, kick and push. The cardboard coffin rocked; the end bulged. Bobby pushed harder; the end bulged more. He relaxed again.

  I gotta get outta here, he thought.

  He pushed again. He stamp
ed his feet against the rear panel. When he felt it give an inch, he slid down to keep up the pressure. No more resting, he told himself. He pushed until he thought he’d explode. He was sweating, sweating and freezing at the same time. The panel bulged some more, and then, abruptly, it gave way.

  Bobby pushed with his arms, sliding down and kicking away cardboard, until his feet hung over the edge. Then he wriggled toward the opening. The sides of the coffin were smooth, and his fingers slid across the surface, but after his knees passed through the opening, he rocked and slid and wriggled himself forward.

  All of a sudden, he slipped over the edge. He tried to curl into a ball and crashed onto the floor. Maybe he fell five feet. It nearly finished him, and maybe he lost consciousness again. When his mind cleared, he gingerly moved his arms and legs to see if anything was broken. He touched the back of his head where he’d been hit earlier. It hurt. There was a lump crusted with blood. He hurt, but he was okay. He stood up. He still couldn’t see anything. He felt cold again.

  His pistol was gone, a Sig P229 like Bingo’s. His wallet, cell phone, and keys were gone. So was his watch. His suit was a charcoal-gray pinstripe. Merino wool—the jacket provided some warmth, but not much. He checked his pockets; they were empty. Handcuffs, pens, and notebook—all were gone.

  But he had a light. Clipped to a belt loop was a Photon Micro-Light the size of a quarter. Woody had given it to him. “Here,” Woody had said. “I got a dozen. They’re cheaper that way.” Woody was like that. He would never say he gave you something because he was your friend.

  Bobby unhooked it. When he squeezed, the LED bulb sent out a stream of pale light; when he relaxed, the light went out. Bobby began to investigate his prison cell. There was a steel door, which was locked, and a light above it. The switch must be outside. Bobby hammered on the door. The noise was as loud as the other noise, the noise of the fans.

  After a minute or so Bobby gave up and looked around. It wasn’t a prison cell; it was a cooler. There were sets of racks on either side of the door and a metal wall at the end with three fans. On the four shelves were twelve coffins like the one he’d been in. Bobby still felt like screaming. It felt as if there was a little creature inside him who was scared shitless. He told it to shut up.