The Burn Palace

by Stephen Dobyns

  Bobby began jogging in place to stay warm. He stared at the coffins and wondered what was in them. Dead people, most likely. Or maybe somebody like him, somebody scared shitless. He went to the racks and pulled at the coffins to see if they were occupied. Anybody home? Two seemed empty, seven seemed full, and one was somewhere in between. He shook the in-between one and something rolled around inside. Bobby went back to jogging in place and wondered what made that particular sound. After a moment, he pulled the coffin down onto the floor. Whatever was inside bumped and rolled around.

  Bobby lifted the lid and pointed his Micro-Light. Inside was a head. He had found Carl Krause, or at least part of him.

  But it was worse than that. Carl’s lips were pinned up into a grin. He wore lipstick and rouge, and his eyes were open. He looked jolly. He wore mascara and eye shadow. He looked flirtatious. Bobby stepped back, dropping the lid. His light went out, and he squeezed it again. Once more he had to hang on to himself so he wouldn’t go bonkers.

  Bobby again lifted the lid and squatted down. Carl was made up like a drag queen. It looked as if somebody had really been pissed at Carl. He’d made Carl into a joke. He was a cross between Bozo the Clown and Mae West. Bobby dropped the lid and went back to pounding on the door. Then he put his ear to it. The roar of the fans seemed to cover all other sounds, but Bobby thought he heard music. He could hear the bass. He pounded the door a bit more and then gave it up, at least for the time being. Maybe he should investigate the other coffins. It took a minute to summon up the courage.

  The first contained an old woman. It made Bobby recall what Maud Lord had said about the recent deaths at Ocean Breezes. He had pulled the coffin out about two-thirds of the way. He pushed it back.

  He pulled a second coffin out a third of the way and raised the lid. He shone the light on one black boot. Bobby clenched his teeth. He knew that boot—or, rather, he knew the type of boot. He’d worn them for years as a uniformed trooper. He didn’t want to see what was in the coffin. He knew it wasn’t an old guy. Stop whining, he told himself. Bobby pulled out the coffin. It was heavy and he let it fall to the floor. It hit at an angle, and the lid popped off. Inside was Rodger Legros. There was a hole in his forehead. But that wasn’t all. His right leg was missing. It had been taken off at the hip.

  Bobby went back to the door and leaned against it. What was Legros doing here? Bobby didn’t want to continue. It wasn’t worth it. Legros had been a trooper for six years. Bobby had been to his house for a spaghetti dinner. He’d played with his kids. Bobby had to shout at himself some more. You sentimental fuck! Now he was shouting out loud; he was even louder than the fans. He shouted until his throat hurt. If someone heard me, he thought, they’d think I was nuts.

  Over the next fifteen minutes Bobby pulled down five more coffins. He would look inside and then shove them against the far wall. All contained old people with parts missing—legs, arms, internal organs. Bobby’s anger was almost great enough to sweep away all other emotions, but his fear was still there, niggling at him. He pulled down the last coffin, the heaviest. It crashed to the floor and the lid flew off.

  Bingo Schwartz lay with his hands folded across his chest. His eyes were half open. He had a bullet hole in his forehead. Bobby knelt down beside him. He didn’t know he was weeping until he felt the chill of his tears on his cheeks. Reaching forward, he closed Bingo’s eyes. Bobby had known Bingo ever since Bobby had become a trooper. He had learned stuff from him. He had made fun of him, made fun of his mumbling. All that fucking opera. They weren’t friends, but they were friendly. Part of Bobby was sorry they hadn’t been better friends; part was sorry he had ever met Bingo. It might be easier if Bingo was a stranger.

  Bobby stared at him until his knees ached, until the cold dug itself deep into his belly. Then he went back and pounded on the door.

  • • •

  Laura Bonaldo didn’t know when Baldo had snuck out of the house. He had been dressed up as a vampire with a black cloak and an over-the-head vampire mask with long black hair, bloodshot eyes, and fangs. He had worn it to the Halloween party at St. John’s, and Father Pete had made him take it off. It scared the little kids. Laura went downstairs to the rec room. Hercel and Tig were still sitting with the dog. Lucy was watching a DVD of The Sound of Music. Julie Andrews was singing about all her worries and being scared. “Kids, have you seen Baldo?” They hadn’t. They hadn’t even seen him leave.

  The first house Baldo visited was the Murrays’ next door. It was still snowing, and his were the only tracks on the sidewalk. Baldo had known the Murrays all his life, which wasn’t very long. He rang the bell.

  When Heather Murray opened the door, she jumped. It was eight o’clock, and she wasn’t expecting any trick-or-treaters. The mask was horrible—a thin gray face, black circles around bloodshot eyes, and those teeth. On the other hand, he wasn’t quite five feet tall. His black cape was speckled with snow.

  “Baldo, is that you?”

  “Tricker-treat!”

  “Does your mother know you’re out?”

  “Sure, she does. It’s just next door.”

  Mrs. Murray hadn’t bought any candy because her husband had said trick-or-treating was canceled. She should have known Baldo would show up. All she found was a bar of Ghirardelli dark chocolate that she had been saving for when her PMS kicked in. “Don’t eat it before bedtime, honey,” she said. “It’ll keep you awake.”

  “I won’t.” Baldo ran down the steps. “Thanks.”

  She kept the door open long enough to see Baldo turn down the street. He wasn’t going home after all. Maybe she should give Laura a ring.

  The lights were out in the next house and the house after that as well. Baldo decided to go farther afield.

  Patrol cars were driving up and down Brewster’s streets. Baldo saw one, but they didn’t see him. He was small and quick; the officers were sleepy and bored.

  A few blocks away, a white Chevy van drew into the alley behind You-You on Water Street. A man jumped out, ran to the rear doors, and pulled them open. Then he got out of the way. After a few seconds, a coyote jumped down into the snow and started sniffing around, then another and a third. They sniffed along the wall and then trotted forward, leaving their tracks in the mush. Shortly after eight o’clock, Heather Murray called Laura Bonaldo. “Laura, are you letting Baldo go trick-or-treating? I’m really surprised at you.”

  • • •

  Woody was already at police headquarters when Lajoie and Bruce Slovatsky arrived. He tossed them each a 111A Kevlar vest. He already wore his. It had a front pocket for a hard trauma plate, but Woody didn’t bother with it.

  Acting chief Fred Bonaldo watched from the hall as Lajoie and Slovatsky put on their vests. He hoped he wouldn’t be asked to go along. He had never worn a Kevlar vest except when trying it out in front of the mirror. He was a big guy. A vest was no good for him. He needed something the size of a hot-water tank.

  Slovatsky had thick black hair that started about halfway down his forehead. His part on the left side was a white streak back across his skull and his hair shone with gel. He was a bodybuilder. Wearing a vest meant he probably wouldn’t be asked to use his muscles. He had mixed feelings about that.

  Lajoie wore her vest under a GORE-TEX parka. “We going to a Halloween party?”

  “Hey, Bonaldo,” called Woody.

  Bonaldo flinched. He knew if he went with them he’d be killed for sure.

  “Go pick up Hamilton Brantley and search the funeral home. You’re looking for mannequin parts. You think you can remember that? Don’t go alone.”

  Bonaldo ignored the rudeness. After all, Woody was under a lot of stress.

  “What’s the charge?”

  “Suspicion of murder.”

  “Are you sure? I’ve known Ham all my life.”

  Woody didn’t rush at Bonaldo, but he moved very quickly; and whatever behavior he had been considering, he changed his mind when he got within six inches of Bonaldo’s nose. �
��Do it,” he said softly.

  They took the Tundra with Slovatsky scrunched in the small backseat. The roads were slick with snow and ice. Woody had the truck in four-wheel drive, but if he hit a patch of ice he’d spin like a figure skater.

  “Can you tell me where we’re going?” asked Slovatsky.

  “It’s called the Burn Palace.”

  Lajoie turned and patted Slovatsky on the knee. “Don’t worry, sweetie. He only means a crematorium.”

  Salt trucks were out, the first of the season, but there was little other traffic. Woody had a flashing red strobe light with a magnetic base. He slapped it up on the roof and stuck the end of the cord in the cigarette lighter. “Now we’re official,” he said. He told Lajoie and Slovatsky why they were going to the crematorium.

  “Bobby went there this afternoon, and I haven’t heard from him. Nor has anyone else. I don’t know if he’s there, but that’s where we start.”

  The farther they went from the coast, the colder it became. The snow thickened. The pines on either side of the road formed great white columns. Woody drove quickly, though a few times the rear end began to slide out. Each time it happened, Lajoie said, “Oops.”

  Woody wanted to bark at her, but the trouble with Lajoie was she always barked back a whole lot louder. She’s got no sense of proportion, he thought.

  The crematorium was about fifteen miles from Brewster. By the time they reached Skunk Hill Road, the snow was coming down hard. Maybe six inches had fallen. It made little white towers on fence posts and mailboxes. Woody turned onto the long driveway to the crematorium. Between the trees, the driveway was a blanket of white. No vehicles had been in or out for a couple of hours. Woody went slowly for about ten yards; then he turned out his lights and kept going. Through the trees he saw the light above the door of the crematorium. He drove to the edge of the open area around the crematorium and stopped. Three cars were parked in the small lot. They were covered with snow, but Bobby’s 370Z was easily distinguishable: a sleek, low silhouette. Smoke rose from the crematorium chimney.

  “There’s a camera over the door,” said Woody. “If anybody’s watching, they already know we’re here.”

  “So how we gonna get in?” asked Slovatsky.

  Woody thought for a moment. “Like a ton of bricks.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” said Lajoie.

  • • •

  After Woody left headquarters Bonaldo began rounding up officers to go with him to the funeral home. He tried to think of it as a SWAT team. He could stand back and let the team take care of the problem. But Brantley gave no evidence of being dangerous. Lieutenant Damon Constantino said no way could Bonaldo call out a SWAT team. It’d make him look foolish. Sometimes Bonaldo thought of Lieutenant Constantino as “the cross I have to bear”; other times he thought of him as “the thorn in my side.” Constantino was in fact an efficient police officer who handled much of the daily running of the small department. But it seemed like every day Constantino would say, “If you do that, you’re going to look foolish.” What he meant by this, and Bonaldo was sure of it, was that Bonaldo was an acting chief, not a real chief. Constantino was a pain in the butt.

  So Bonaldo had to be okay with six guys. Anyway, he and Brantley had always been friendly. Brantley was a year older than Bonaldo; he had known Brantley his entire life. And Bonaldo had looked up to him. When he was a sophomore, Brantley was a senior with a nice car and a pretty girlfriend with big tits. She had been Jenny Genoways, captain of the cheerleading squad; now she was Jenny Brantley. How could Bonaldo not look up to him? Now he was meant to arrest him for murder? For Bonaldo, this was a big problem.

  Then, as Bonaldo was leaving the building, he got a call on his cell phone from Laura. “Your son’s gone trick-or-treating,” Laura said. “You got to deal with it.”

  This was a complicated statement. Bonaldo and his wife had three sons, but Baldo, the youngest, was the only one Laura called “your son.” The others were “our sons.” That was because Baldo was a miniature replica of his father. Nothing about him looked like his mother. Just as Zeus gave birth to Athena—she sprang from his head fully formed—so Fred Bonaldo seemed to have given birth to Baldo all by himself.

  The other part of the complicated statement was unstated but understood: “Fred, your son’s life is in danger.” For Bonaldo, Ham Brantley’s importance vanished.

  The dispatcher notified the cars patrolling Brewster to look for Baldo Bonaldo. The department used the ten-code system so a lot of 10-4’s came back and with them was a 10-11, which in this instance meant an animal problem.

  “There’s a lot of coyotes out here tonight,” said an officer.

  So Bonaldo sent Constantino to pick up Brantley, and ran to the garage to get a car. But all the police cars were being used, so Bonaldo had to take his black Chevy TrailBlazer. Hurrying out, Bonaldo slipped on the snowy walk and nearly fell. It was an awful night for anything except sitting in front of a fire. Despite his anger and fear, Bonaldo had to be impressed that Baldo would brave such weather in pursuit of candy.

  Hercel McGarty, when he heard Laura telephone her husband, thought much the same thing. He was also torn. If Baldo was his friend, was it right for Hercel to remain in comfort in Baldo’s own house when his friend might be in trouble? When one is ten years old, such questions have no gray areas. The sensible answer was to stay inside. Hercel saw what the weather was like. He had no wish to go out in the snow. Yet he thought it would be cowardly to stay, which doesn’t mean he thought it would be courageous to search for Baldo. All he knew was it wouldn’t be comfortable to stay. It wasn’t an argument; it was just a feeling. And he didn’t tell anybody, not even Tig. But he did try to take Ajax. The back door was halfway down the kitchen stairs to the rec room. Hercel called Ajax, who came willingly enough, but once the dog saw what the weather was like, he refused to go outside and trotted back downstairs. Ajax was no fool.

  So Hercel ran out by himself. He had a wool jacket and his Red Sox cap, but the wind was nasty and the snow stuck to his jacket, and in a few minutes he looked like a snowman. The good thing was he could see Baldo’s tracks, although they were quickly being covered with snow. Still, they gave Hercel a direction. Also Hercel was running and Baldo never ran. The bad thing was that Hercel heard a yapping and he knew it was a coyote.

  In the meantime, Fred Bonaldo was going up and down the streets near his house. Two other patrol cars were also cruising the area. As for Lieutenant Constantino, he and his men drove to Brantley’s Funeral Home. It was dark and shut up tight. No tracks showed in the driveway. Next Constantino drove to Brantley’s home on James Street. It, too, was dark. So he called the dispatcher and had him put out an APB. Then he called Captain Brotman about search warrants. Constantino had also known Brantley his entire life, or most of it, but he had never liked him much. His hands were too white.

  • • •

  About the same time, Detective Lajoie was driving Woody’s Tundra fast through the snow-covered lot toward the door of the crematorium. She then swung the wheel so the truck skidded in a half-circle. Grinding into reverse, she backed toward the door. Woody sat beside her; he hoped she wouldn’t flip over. In order to get a permit to drive his truck on the beach Woody had to carry a first-aid kit, a shovel, and a tow chain. He had plans for the shovel, but most important was the nylon tow strap with a thirty-six-thousand-pound capacity.

  When the Tundra was ten feet from the door, Woody and Slovatsky jumped out. Slovatsky had the strap, Woody the shovel. Slovatsky hooked one end of the strap over the trailer hitch. Woody jumped up and knocked out the bullet camera. Then he wrapped the other end of the strap around the door handle. Woody whistled, and Lajoie accelerated. There was a loud wrenching noise.

  As Lajoie said later, “It popped that door as easily as a kid pops a birthday balloon.”

  Woody and Slovatsky ran through the door. Woody was aware of loud music, a discordant, unrecognizable blare. The room was dimly lit and hot. Fans we
re blowing. Larry waited by the furnace. He held the Browning Hi-Power in both hands, pointing it toward the door. Woody was struck by Larry’s face. It showed not the least trace of emotion.

  Woody and Larry fired at the same time. Slovatsky grunted and fell back. Larry stood frozen, as if, for the first time in his life, something had grabbed his attention. He started to fall. There was a movement to Woody’s left and he fired.

  “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot! I don’t have a gun! Larry made me stay here; I haven’t done anything.” It was Jimmy Mooney. Woody barely heard him over the noise of the heavy metal band. He kept shouting until Woody told him to shut up and lie down with his hands behind his back. He glanced at Larry, who was sprawled motionless. His eyes were open, but he wouldn’t be seeing anything anymore. Woody had never killed anyone before. It made him want to throw up. Instead, he kicked away the pistol, and then patted down Jimmy Mooney and cuffed him.

  Lajoie knelt beside Slovatsky, who was grimacing in pain. He had received what’s called a backface injury, the indentation of the bullet against the body armor. More simply, the seventh rib on his left side had been cracked.

  The music came from an iPod attached to two small speakers and a woofer. The song was “Seed of Filth” from Six Feet Under. Were it not for the drums, Woody wouldn’t have known it was music. He grabbed the iPod, dropped it, and stamped on it.

  “Thanks,” said Lajoie.

  The room was silent except for the noise of the fans and the muted roaring of the furnace. With the front door broken open, the temperature was dropping fast. Then Woody heard a pounding. After a moment, he realized it was coming from the cooler. He ran to the door and yanked it open.