The Burn Palace

by Stephen Dobyns

Margaret described the men who worked for Brantley, but the only one she knew was Jimmy Mooney, because she’d been friends with Jimmy’s older sister, Linda.

  Jill wasn’t convinced right away, but the more she thought about it, the more she thought it might be true. Anyway, Margaret certainly thought it was true.

  What happened next didn’t happen right away. And it was the opposite of serendipity, whatever that is. Maybe just bad luck. Or maybe talking about Brantley and the others put something in their heads as if she were calling to them. So it wasn’t right away that Seymour Hodges entered the bar, but it was soon. Jill saw him first. She didn’t know him, but she found him familiar. Actually, she had seen him on the night the baby was stolen from the hospital. Seymour had been sitting in the ambulance parked by the emergency entrance. Nor did she realize that Margaret knew the man, until she looked at her. “She turned as white as a sheet,” said Jill later.

  Margaret ducked her head and shot a glance at Jill. Margaret’s back was to the door, and maybe everything would have been okay if she hadn’t panicked, but maybe Seymour would have seen her in any case. After all, he was looking for her and perhaps he had recognized her car in the parking lot despite the snow.

  “He’s the one who picked up bodies at Ocean Breezes,” said Margaret. “He works with Dr. Balfour. He and Jimmy Mooney.”

  Jill again touched Margaret’s arm. “Sit still. Don’t look around.”

  Margaret lowered her head. Jill saw she was weeping. She watched Seymour walk to the bar and say something to the bartender, who then dug into the cooler for a beer. Seymour looked around the room, a stocky young man wearing an EMT jacket. Briefly, his eyes fastened on Jill and then he turned away.

  “I’ve got to go,” said Margaret.

  Before Jill could answer, Margaret jumped to her feet and headed to a hallway in the back. The restrooms were there, so was the rear exit. Jill hoped that Seymour would think Margaret had gone to the bathroom. Instead, Seymour abruptly left the bar.

  For a moment, Jill felt paralyzed. Then she, too, ran for the rear exit. Running outside, she slipped in the snow and barely regained her balance. The parking lot was along the side of the bar. Seymour had already grabbed Margaret and was shoving her into a small SUV. Then he hit her with something.

  “Hey!” shouted Jill. She ran across the lot, slipping and stumbling as she went. Seymour was already behind the wheel. Jill shouted again: “Stop them!” which was foolish because there was no one in sight.

  Swerving through the snow, the SUV pulled out of the parking lot.

  • • •

  Acting chief Fred Bonaldo was fit to be tied. He couldn’t imagine how Baldo, his own flesh and blood, could have been so stupid. It was one thing to go next door and maybe to the house after that for a few treats, but Baldo had disappeared entirely. It was dangerous out tonight. He should have come home long ago.

  Driving up and down Brewster’s streets in his Chevy TrailBlazer, Bonaldo had seen several coyotes but no people, except cops in patrol cars. Baldo was plump; he would make a nice coyote dinner. The acting chief hit his head with the flat of his hand: What was he thinking? All he cared about was his son’s safety. He was angry, was all, and everything was fucked.

  Then, as Bonaldo was driving back down Water Street, Laura called. Baldo was home. He was all right. Mrs. Klimek, the lady who lived around the corner, had called. She had found Baldo and Hercel on her front steps. Coyotes had been in the street. She’d phoned Laura more than once, but the phone was busy. So Mrs. Klimek had driven them home herself. Now Baldo and the three children were sitting in the kitchen and eating candy as if nothing had happened. Fred should come home and give them a talking to.

  “You bet I’ll come home!” shouted Fred Bonaldo. “And I’ll give him more than a talking to. . . .”

  “Don’t be too rough, Fred.”

  But Fred wasn’t paying attention. He pushed his foot down on the accelerator of his TrailBlazer and fishtailed up Water Street. Then he swung the wheel and spun sideways through the snow. As he tried to straighten out, he saw an SUV pulling out of the parking lot of Tony’s Bar, “dashed out without even looking,” Bonaldo told reporters afterward.

  Bonaldo slammed on his brakes, but the TrailBlazer kept sliding sideways without the least diminishment of speed. At the last minute, Bonaldo pressed his hands to his face. He smashed sideways into the SUV’s front end, knocking the SUV back onto the curb so it ran into the wall of Phelps Plumbing & Heating where it stopped. And this was how acting chief Bonaldo captured Seymour Hodges and became a hero, sort of.

  • • •

  Beth Lajoie brought Jimmy Mooney back to police headquarters in Jimmy’s own car, a 1990 Honda Civic that had belonged to his parents. Jimmy talked the whole way. And because of the snow, Lajoie could drive only about twenty miles an hour. It felt like driving in Siberia.

  “Digger said I could buy a Beemer, like my own Beemer, maybe a Roadster. He said I could buy a Beemer Roadster and a Beemer SUV. You know how many girls you can get with a Beemer? Like, they’d be crawling through the windows. Not the Roadster, the SUV. I’d have to fight them off, all but some.”

  Other than Jimmy’s meth-accelerated chat, the only other sound was the grinding of Beth Lajoie’s teeth.

  “Digger said I had a knack, the way I fixed up the stiffs. He said they’d get to the Pearly Gates and Saint Peter would say, ‘Good golly!’ just like that, ‘Good golly!’ He said I made them beautiful, you know, beautiful for dead people. Stiff beautiful, not people beautiful. Digger said for sure I’d work my way up to assistant digger, then associate digger, and then whole digger. He’d turn the place over to me for hardly any money at all. A song, he said. He wanted to retire, just quit the business, take his old lady to the Caribbean or some such place and raise prize geese, like the big ones with the golden eggs. He and his old lady are crazy about the beach; Digger says he just likes to roll around in the sand. Even if he puts no more than a toe in the water, he’s happy as a clam. He’s got this little cottage in Hannaquit where he . . .”

  “What’s that?” said Beth Lajoie, coming awake.

  “I said if he does no more than put a toe . . .”

  “Not that, the cottage—you said he had a cottage in Hannaquit.”

  “Yeah, it’s no big deal, just four rooms and a kitchen, a little past Otto’s Clam Shack on Beach Street. But it’s on the water, you know what I mean? Like you can’t beat the water, right? I mean, it’s water. . . .”

  “Tell me more exactly where it is.”

  So Jimmy did.

  Once she had turned Jimmy over to Lieutenant Constantino, Beth Lajoie grabbed Detective Gazzola and some cops and headed for Hannaquit. It was colder, and the snow was solid all the way to the beach, like a white wall in front of them. They took the department’s two Ford Explorers; otherwise they wouldn’t have been able to get through.

  Brantley’s cottage was a modest yellow-shingled cracker box. The sign out front said CRAZY DAZE. But the lot was about a half-acre and the whole thing had to be worth a million. Brantley’s BMW was in the drive covered with a layer of snow.

  The police officers parked on the street, blocking the driveway, and then slogged their way to the house. There were six altogether. All wore body armor, and the four patrolmen wore helmets. Lajoie carried her Sig P229 in one hand and a flashlight in the other. The image of Bingo Schwartz lying in that damn box with his hands folded on his chest and a bullet hole in his forehead flashed in her brain like a blinking neon light. She thought of the times she had yelled at him because of his mumbling and wished she hadn’t.

  Lights were on in the cottage; it was the only lit-up place on Beach Street. Hannaquit was a ghost town except for Crazy Daze. Detective Gazzola was puffing on one cigarette after another, smoking and chomping on a Nicorette. Detective Lajoie started to make a sarcastic remark about going to his funeral when she saw the side door of the cottage was wide open. The six police officers stopped, thought about th
eir options, and then kept moving. Lajoie flicked off her flashlight.

  They gathered by the screen door. There were three wooden steps with a bunch of footprints, but already the snow was covering them. Gazzola didn’t want to go in first, nor did the patrolmen. But it wasn’t an option. Despite having the figure of a loaf of bread, Lajoie was quick on her feet. After all, she was a second-degree black belt. She looked through the screen and into the living room. This was the moment she hated and loved—the moment between action and inaction. She flung open the screen door and sprang into the room, swung her pistol in an arc. In cop movies, cops shouted “Clear!” but Lajoie couldn’t tolerate that bullshit. The room was empty. “It’s okay,” she said to Gazzola.

  Three of the rooms were empty; the fourth had its door shut. The walls of the cottage were pine-paneled. The furniture was 1950s and a coffee table made from a lobster pot stood before a couch. Watercolors of seascapes hung from the walls: richly colored ocean dawns with fishing boats. Lajoie saw they had been done by Brantley’s wife, Jenny.

  The police officers gathered by the closed door and listened. The only noise was the wind outside. After about ten seconds, Lajoie got tired of standing around and kicked the door open. She jumped forward with her pistol held in both hands.

  The room was empty except for a dead woman lying on the bed.

  Lajoie stared at her; she felt short of breath. It was like a picture.

  “Jeez,” said a cop behind her.

  Jenny Brantley lay on a pink chenille bedspread wearing a lavender full-length gown. Her short, dark hair had been carefully brushed. Her long white hands were folded across her breasts. Her fingernails were bright red, and her eyes were closed. Around her neck was a white gold necklace with sapphires. Lajoie put a hand to the dead woman’s cheek. She was cold. Jenny Brantley was as carefully made up as if going to a party. Her feet were bare, but a pair of black high-heeled pumps stood side by side on a braided rug.

  “You think he killed her?” asked Gazzola.

  No marks could be seen on the dead woman. Lajoie shrugged. She couldn’t stop looking at Jenny Brantley. She wished she had a camera. Lajoie made herself look away. More seascapes were on the bedroom walls. Lajoie noticed a framed color photograph of Brantley and his wife standing together. He wore a dinner jacket; she wore the same dress as she was wearing now. They looked happy, successful, and in love.

  “That’s that,” said Lajoie. “The happy couple’s seriously fucked.”

  She left the bedroom, walked to the side door, and went outside. Flicking on her flashlight, she searched the snow until she found Brantley’s footprints. They were more indentations than footprints, but Lajoie could follow them toward the beach. The wind came from the northeast, swirled the snow across the low dunes. It tugged at her jacket. Her light reflected off the snow, its tumbling frenzy. The waves crashed and whispered, crashed and whispered. After a minute, she saw Brantley standing near the water.

  Lajoie approached him cautiously. Brantley’s silver hair blew in the wind. He wore only a suit coat and had to be freezing. His hands hung empty by his sides. Lajoie stood behind him. She reached out and touched his shoulder.

  “We were going to be happy.” Brantley didn’t turn around. It was as if he were speaking to the ocean. Lajoie realized he had seen her light; she leaned forward to hear him. “We should have left last week like she wanted. Balfour kept putting it off. I should never have listened to him.”

  They stood looking at the water. Then Lajoie asked: “How did she die?”

  “Sleeping pills, I expect. I found her on the couch in the living room. Doesn’t she look beautiful?”

  Brantley had found her two hours before. He had dressed her in the gown, put on the makeup, and arranged the necklace around her neck. Then he had carried her to the bed and set the black pumps on the rug. He’d done her nails.

  “I wish I could paint like she painted. I would have painted her picture just as she is now. I wish she’d waited. There was still time to leave; everything was ready. I’d even bought a house on a beach. A beautiful house. It was waiting for her; I told her that: ‘It’s waiting for you,’ I said. But she was too gentle. It was something I loved about her.”

  “We have to go now,” said Lajoie.

  “I know. I knew you’d be coming soon. I wanted to walk into the water, but I was scared. Isn’t that ridiculous? I wish they’d let me prepare her, take care of the funeral. I’d build her tomb with my own hands, the biggest tomb in Brewster. They won’t let me, of course. But what does it matter? It’s over.”

  • • •

  Woody and Bobby Anderson took the Tundra to Balfour’s farm. As Bobby said: “The Z’s not worth shit in snow.”

  They drove about four miles and then onto Hazard Road. It wasn’t hard to find Dr. Balfour’s farm if you knew where to look—a dirt road with no mailbox, though right now the road was covered with six inches of snow. Still, tire tracks were visible. As Bobby told Woody with a certain amount of envy, Balfour’s Audi TTS was maybe the only sports car with all-wheel drive.

  Lights were on in the farmhouse and more lights by the barn and kennel. A white Chevy van and Balfour’s Audi were parked by the house. Legros’s state police cruiser was parked by the barn. Woody had turned off his headlights. He already had his pistol in his hand and his window open. Jimmy had said Balfour had taken Bingo’s pistol; Rodger Legros’s also, for that matter. More troopers were on the way, Bobby said. He had made the call, but most of the police were still busy in Brewster. It was Halloween, and coyotes were on the prowl.

  Woody swung the Tundra around on the far side of the Chevy van; then he and Bobby jumped out. Bobby saw the doors of the kennel were open. They looked empty; there weren’t even any tracks. Three leafless maples stood in the backyard, plastered with snow on one side, black on the other.

  They made their way around the van toward the house. Neither wore boots. The wind howled, and maybe it had concealed the sound of the truck. At least they hoped so. The snow blew almost horizontally. Woody had body armor and Bobby didn’t, so Woody went first. The thick snow was like a curtain between them and the farmhouse. They brushed it from their eyes.

  They never saw Dr. Balfour, but suddenly there were gunshots. Bullets hit the van. Woody couldn’t tell where they were coming from. He dropped to one knee and began firing blindly.

  “He’s behind the tree!” shouted Bobby.

  Woody saw the flash of Balfour’s pistol and returned fire. More bullets hit the van. With a fresh gust of snow, the tree was little more than a shadow. Woody saw the muzzle flash and nothing more, not a person, not even an arm. No way were they getting Balfour out of there without a lucky shot. They would have to get back to the truck. Then Woody realized that Bobby had stopped shooting. He looked over his shoulder and saw Bobby lying motionless. Maybe Woody shouted Bobby’s name, he never remembered. He ran back toward his friend. Balfour fired and missed.

  Bobby lay on his back, looking up at the falling snow. Woody lay down beside him, getting between him and Balfour. Large flakes of snow melted on Bobby’s face.

  “I’m fine,” said Bobby. “I’m just resting.”

  Woody brushed the snow off Bobby’s forehead. He spoke softly and it was hard to hear him because of the wind. “Don’t say anything. You’re shot.”

  “Yeah, I was afraid of that. I don’t know, Woody, don’t let me die here. I thought I’d die in the fuckin’ cooler, so don’t let me die here. I want to go home.”

  “You’re not going to die.” Woody hoped it was true.

  “The fuck you say.”

  Woody fired two more shots back in Balfour’s direction and then began tugging Bobby behind the van toward the Tundra.

  “That hurts.” Bobby’s voice was just a whisper.

  “Where did he get you?”

  “I don’t know, I hurt all over. Maybe my shoulder or lung, that’s where it hurts most. And maybe I twisted my leg.”

  Once behind the van, Woody
picked up Bobby in his arms and carried him to the truck. He put Bobby inside, gently, not bumping into anything.

  “I’ll get blood all over your seats. I told you you should’ve bought leather. See what happens when you don’t listen to me?”

  “Jesus, can’t you stop talking? You gotta stop talking.”

  Woody had just shut Bobby’s door when he heard the Audi start up. He stumbled around the van, but the Audi was already fishtailing toward the drive. He fired twice, hit nothing, and ran back to the Tundra. He fell and got up again.

  By the time Woody got the truck around to the driveway, he couldn’t see the Audi’s taillights. He slammed his foot down on the gas and the truck swerved wildly forward.

  “Don’t hit a tree,” Bobby whispered. “I could get hurt.”

  Woody flicked on the ceiling light. Then, reaching back with his right hand and steering with the left, he felt around the floor for the first-aid kit. He dragged it up and tried to open it.

  “Give it to me.” Bobby took the first-aid kit and ripped open his shirt. “It’s my lung. I got pink bubbles coming out. Wanna see?”

  “I’m driving.” Woody had no wish to see. He was afraid it would be awful.

  “Actually, I feel like shit. I just talk and talk. What the fuck’s wrong with me? Sometimes it’s like I don’t exist unless I’m talking. I’m probably in shock. Do I sound like I’m in shock? If I die, they’ll give me a fuckin’ medal. What a bunch of crap.”

  The Audi’s tracks turned left on Hazard Road. Woody pushed his speed right to the edge, balanced between haste and spin, hurry and crash. His rear end made little gestures toward the ditch. He couldn’t see the Audi’s lights, but no snowplows had come along for a while and he could follow the tracks. Still, he couldn’t get any decent speed. Woody called the dispatcher and described what had happened. Cruisers were on their way, also an ambulance. After four miles, the tracks turned onto Skunk Hill Road. The trees on either side were vague white shapes. Balfour was clearly heading for 95, but he must know he had no chance. There were cruisers coming in from all over the state.