A Passing Curse (2011)

by C R Trolson

  “Take him to the emergency room,” the fireman told the cop in the driver’s seat.

  The cop recognized him and confided that if the winds came the whole town could go. They passed more fire trucks coming and the shadow and roar of a borate bomber as it unfurled clouds of reddish, moon-tinted dust onto the mission.

  They drove down the moonlit beach road. A hundred yards away, beyond the swells, a helicopter skimmed the ocean, filling a bucket dangling from a cable. He heard the rotors straining as the chopper picked up the load and flew to the fire, the bucket sloshing water on the road as it passed in front of them.

  “This time of year the air crews sleep inside their planes,” the cop said. “The helo’s on a five-minute standby.”

  Reese said nothing and noticed the cop staring at the soaked robe. A puddle had formed on the floor mat. Reese could smell the napalm and imagined it rising off of him.

  The cop said, “I smell gas.”

  Reese rolled down the window.

  “I meant gasoline.”

  “It’s coming from your engine,” Reese said, hoping the cop wouldn’t start thinking about a man running away from a fire, smelling like a gas pump.

  “What’re you wearing?”

  “I’m a priest,” he said.

  “Now you’re a priest?” the cop said and shook his head.

  At the small hospital he was rushed to the emergency room, an orderly under each arm. His wet running shoes squeaked on the linoleum. Several firefighters sat in chairs, their hats and jackets piled in the corner, their shoulders slumped, their blue shirts emblazoned with SMFD.

  The orderlies helped him onto a gurney, the paper cover crackling beneath him. He propped himself on his elbows. The paper cover quickly soaked through and felt like a sponge.

  “Totally gone,” a fireman said with a deep cut on his face. He winced when a nurse swabbed the blood away. “The wind’s still down. I hope we’re lucky.”

  “How’d it start?” He heard one fireman with a blistered hand say. He felt stupid wearing the robe. Running shoes sticking out. All he had on underneath was a t-shirt, pistol, and Levis, all soaking wet. He could hear the water dripping on the linoleum. He could no longer smell the napalm. The water had diluted it.

  “Probably candles,” a fireman said from a gurney as a nurse wheeled him off. He had a bandage on his ear. He glanced at Reese. “Too many candles.”

  An earnest and very young doctor came up to him. The doctor seemed proficient but had no idea what he was looking at. “How do you feel, Father?”

  “Shaken,” Reese said.

  A nurse came with a pair of trauma shears and cut the robe down the front. “Do you smell gasoline,” she asked the doctor, who looked around, too busy to notice, and shook his head.

  The doctor took his wrist and looked at a stopwatch hanging from his neck. The nurse attached a blood pressure cuff. “Any pain?” the doctor asked. “Anything broken? Nausea?” The doctor shined a light in his eyes. “What day is it?”

  “It’s the first day of the rest of my life,” Reese said as the nurse laughed and gently rolled him to get the robe off. When the nurse saw the holster, she said, “You’re a priest?”

  The doctor, eyes on the pistol, said, “You can’t bring a gun into a hospital, er, Father. It’s really against all regulations. A gun in a hospital? I mean, I’ll have to call security…”

  The swinging doors opened and there stood the Chief. “Well, well. If it isn’t Father Tarrant from the order of the goddamn burning of the missions. So this is your idea of going undercover?”

  “My cover was blown,” Reese said.

  The doctor and the nurse shot him accusing looks. The nurse dropped the robe in a garbage can like it was something dead and started to cut the Levis up the leg. He told her he could undress himself, but she was already halfway up the leg.

  The doctor told the Chief, “He’s got a gun.”

  The Chief walked over and roughly unbuckled Reese’s shoulder holster. The nurse helped him slide it off. “I’ll just hold onto this while you recuperate.”

  Someone shouted behind the Chief, “Any fireman who can still walk come with me. The wind’s getting up.”

  Around midnight, a nurse told him the fire was out. The Santa Ana winds never materialized. The wind came briefly then stopped. The town was safe. So far, no one had been seriously hurt. He did not call Rusty from the hospital. He did not want to be with anyone. He did not want to be with her and her accusing looks. If she was worried, she knew where he’d be. He’d made a mess of things, especially with her, but there would be no more killings at the mission.

  He called a cab. The Chief handed him his gun and shoulder holster at the hospital door and told him pointedly to get some rest. The cab came and the driver made a big deal out of opening the door for him, as if he were senile. Over his hospital gown, he wore a blanket under his armpits like a sarong. In the cab he buckled the shoulder holster over the blanket. The cabbie, the same one who’d driven him to Halloran’s, glanced nervously at the gun and chattered about the fire and all the killings.

  Once home, he put on fresh shorts and a t-shirt. He sat on the couch and cleaned the pistol. He removed and wiped off each silver bullet. He dried the leather shoulder holster as best he could and hung it from the shower head to dry. After oiling the pistol and reloading it, he slipped it beneath his pillow.

  He lay on the bed but kept smelling the gun oil. He went to the couch and nursed a beer. The burn on his leg was first degree, a large blister, nothing more. The nurse had attached a dressing the size of a pillow. He had a smaller bandage on his hand, another burn. All in all, both of his plans to kill Ajax had backfired.

  32

  The next morning when Reese got to the mission, it was nearly leveled. Smoke hung in the air. The smell was burned wood and paper. He felt strangely drawn to the smoking debris. He felt both invisible and anonymous. There was power in that. Returning to the scene of the crime seemed worth the risk. But he’d committed no crime. Then why feel responsible? He’d nearly killed Rusty but since she was alive and unhurt he was feeling better about that. The mission was gone.

  He weaved through fire trucks and police cars, stepping over hoses and smoking bricks of adobe. Puddles of water, like broken mirrors, reflected the deep blue sky, the fog lingering off the beach. Some puddles were dusted crimson from the borate.

  Only three structures were identifiable: the bell tower, the cemetery wall, and the stair tower to Ramon’s room, now only a warped steel frame. The adobe walls, mostly mud and dried straw, had exploded, littering the grounds with still-smoking clumps of adobe, some the size of basketballs, some fist-sized. When he kicked one, it disintegrated into ash. Splotches of borate stained the ground.

  A fire crew walked around, poking at the smoldering debris with spiked poles. When hot spots were found, the crew stepped back, and a fireman at the pump truck shot an arc of water from a turret, soaking and scattering the remains.

  The Chief pulled up in his black and white station wagon. He climbed out shaking his head. The Chief looked worried. He’d had a chance to think things out, Reese guessed. A chance to see how far his ass was sticking out.

  “The mission was over two hundred years old,” the Chief lamented. “Every year in April, the city has a festival - Old Spanish Days - this mission was the set piece. It’s a famous event and brings in a lot of tourist dollars.” The Chief shook his head. “But you took care of that.”

  “Where are the priests?”

  “No one was killed, luckily. No one even got hurt. The priests spent the night at the courthouse. They’re going to Los Angeles today, to the main church. They’re in shock.”

  “Bodies?”

  “No,” the Chief said.

  “He used a flamethrower. Tried to burn me up,” Reese said. “Remember I told you Ajax had picked up a flamethrower at a gun show? Remember our conversation?”

  “Ajax?” the Chief asked, a stupid expression on his face
, as if he were practicing for his cross-examination on the witness stand. “I killed the only suspect.” No way was the Chief admitting he’d more or less okayed his plan to hide in Ramon’s room, his plan to draw out Ajax. “Can you identify Ajax? Can you put the flamethrower in his hands? Flamethrower? Jesus. It sounds crazy just saying it.”

  “Think you can okey-doke your way out of this? Act stupid? It was Ted, Ajax’s chauffeur. He’s the one that came out of the rathole. We grappled. He’s the only guy I’ve seen lately with that size and strength.”

  “You’re confused.”

  “Your partner and good buddy Ajax Rasmussen sent Ted to burn me up. I can prove it. You’re going to look silly in your own jail wearing orange.”

  The Chief shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. I didn’t show up at the hospital dressed like a priest, smelling like an oil tanker.”

  “If I go down, you - ”

  “Prove it,” the Chief said smugly.

  “I might have been wearing a wire.” Reese said. “I might have been wearing a wire when you okayed my midnight mission. Think about that.”

  “Midnight mission,” the Chief scoffed. “I like that. If you were wearing a wire all that means is that we’ll be keeping each other company in jail. You any good at checkers?” The Chief pushed his thumbs inside his belt, and stood there, looking over the smoking rubble, like he might be thinking about writing him a ticket for littering. “The shotgun I gave you?”

  Reese pointed to the ruins. “You’ll need a strainer to find it.”

  The Chief shook his head. “Five years ago, I was entrusted with the safety of this town. I have made some mistakes. I lost Thomkins. Four civilians have been killed and I gave a man who is probably certifiable, even in California, a shotgun and night goggles. The main tourist attraction of this fine city has been destroyed. I could go to prison. And you claim the suspect is the town’s leading citizen and his butler.”

  “You’ve lost more than four citizens,” Reese said. “Did you take care of Dean Everett? I’m curious how you are going to explain that. Didn’t he come to you for help? Didn’t he tell you what Ajax was up to?”

  “He’s at the morgue. He was buried alive. Died of suffocation, according to Halloran. What about my night goggles?” the Chief asked. “I’m talking three grand. They’re fourth generation with the IR device.”

  “Ajax killed Dean. I need another shotgun.”

  “That’s a step down for you, ain’t it? The fire chief thinks someone shot at Ajax with a twenty millimeter anti-tank rifle yesterday. Tore hell out of his office. Ajax had some cock-and-bull story about a water heater exploding that no one is buying.”

  “You’re doubting Ajax?”

  The Chief ignored him. “I’ve confiscated Rupert’s anti-tank rifle. The only tank rifle I’ve seen, outside the army. Hell of a coincidence, No? I don’t suppose I’ll find your prints on it.”

  “You better not.”

  The Chief looked at him bitterly. “Ajax is having the governor and a few friends over tonight. The state marshals, the governor’s bodyguards, called and asked if anything suspicious has been happening in town, anything they should know about. I didn’t tell them that they ought to read the fucking newspapers more often. We’ve only had four killings and a major fire. I didn’t mention an ex-homicide cop on the loose. I don’t want you near that party.”

  “The governor ought to know the kind of man he’s taking money from,” Reese said, thinking that the governor probably didn’t care as long as the money was green. “I’m going after Ajax.”

  “Then you better have a good alibi.”

  She was just up, drinking coffee from the room’s four-cup machine. She’d been exhausted yesterday, twenty millimeter shells had a way of doing that, and did not feel much better today, even after seven hours of good sleep. She was not only exhausted, but she was sore and stiff.

  She’d tried to call Reese last night, but had gotten no answer. He’d probably fallen asleep in Ramon’s room. Quit worrying, she thought, he could take care of himself. He was a big boy. In the wastebasket, she saw the ball of burned and frizzled hair she’d combed out last night. She was afraid to look in the mirror and sat on the bed, staring at the curtains.

  The phone rang. She watched it, letting it ring at least ten times before picking it up. After she said hello to her ex-boss, Ajax said, “I have your tools.”

  “My tools?”

  “To keep looters from taking them,” he said quietly as if she would know exactly what he was talking about. “Just a precaution since the mission burned.”

  “What? The mission?” She opened the drapes. Smoke rose from the rubble. A helicopter hovered to the left. “Where’s Reese? Is he all right?”

  “He’s fine, dear,” Ajax said calmly. “No one was killed. Miraculous isn’t it?”

  “Do they know how it started? Was Reese involved?” She knew damn well he’d been involved, and now that he was safe, she wondered if he was being charged with anything.

  “Reese?” Ajax asked sweetly. “No. It was an electrical fire. A short circuit ignited fireworks the priests were storing for their Fourth of July sale. I really would not worry too much about Reese. He’s fine. Slightly tinged by the fire, I’m afraid, but fit as a fiddle. He can take care of himself.”

  That’s what everyone seemed to think, but she knew better. “You have my tools at your house?” She put down her coffee, shouldered the phone against her ear, and stepped into a pair of pants.

  “I’ve sent a guard to fetch you.”

  Before she could tell him she didn’t need to be fetched, someone knocked on the door. “Just a second.” She opened the door expecting Reese, but she saw a security guard, a thick-necked cretin with a shiny badge. Compared to Ted, though, he looked normal.

  “I have the car waiting ma’am,” he said and touched his cap.

  Reese limped into the elevator and limped off at the third floor. He’d replaced the huge hospital dressing on his thigh with gauze and a few strips of tape. His knee felt sprained and he limped.

  He knocked once. When she didn’t answer, he let himself in with his key. Her clothes were there. Her few cosmetics. But she was gone. The bed was unmade and still warm. He saw the smoking mission through the open window. She knew.

  He called the lobby and asked if she’d left a message.

  No, the clerk said, no messages from Miss Webber. No, he’d not seen her leave. There was, the clerk said, one message from Professor Hamsun. Reese took down the number, hung up, and dialed.

  “Is that you Reese?” Hamsun asked. “Did you hear about the fire?”

  “I heard.”

  “What happened? I understand the entire mission burned to the ground.” Hamsun paused, a suspicious note in his voice when he said, “Were you there?”

  “Fireworks is the story.”

  “The official story?”

  “Yeah, the story.” He was in no mood to explain. He was in no mood to think about what he would have to do next. “You haven’t seen Rusty have you?”

  “No. But I called earlier about the skeleton we recovered. I wanted to tell her that the bones are not as old as they first appeared. They don’t even date back to 1963.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “There was a ring on the left index finger of skeleton number three. A high school ring. Refugio High, 2009. It has a blue stone, aquamarine, set in 14k plate. No inscriptions.”

  “That nails it, then.”

  “Nails what?”

  Reese told him about the three girls who had worked for Ajax temporarily as maids. All three of them had graduated from Refugio High in “09.

  “It is convincing evidence of identity,” Hamsun said, “but hardly proves Ajax killed anyone. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure, but I probably should have done it a long time ago.” He hung up. He didn’t know what to do. He’d already tried to kill Ajax twice. He smiled. He hoped he’d have better luck the third tim
e around. It might be a charm.

  When he got back to the mission, two more fire trucks were parked in front of what was left of the gift shop. Several TV stations had shown up with trucks, cameras, and dish antennas for the satellite. Some of the TV crew were busy laying out cables and setting up cameras, others were busy drinking coffee and eating donuts.

  A bland TV reporter, his hair curiously spiked, was sitting in a high, canvas-backed chair having make-up applied and arguing with the producer.

  The producer told the reporter that, as yet, no one was sure it was arson. He suggested meteorites or the fireworks that had been stored in the basement. And why were the priests storing explosives in the basement? the reporter asked, arguing that arson was the better story. Maybe the priests were radicals? Terrorists or something.

  A make-up girl touched the reporter’s cheek with a small brush. The cheek turned red, and she rubbed the redness with the tips of her fingers, dulling it.

  Finally ready, the reporter stood before the camera, smiled, and, gesturing behind himself, murmured “tragedy” a few times just to warm up.

  Reese walked to the cemetery. The old wall was still standing, but the vines were charred and looked like steel wire waiting for flowers to be twisted on. The cemetery door was smoking. The skulls above the entrance were sooty and frowning. He kicked the door open. It fell flat off its hinges, hitting the ground and throwing up a cloud of ash that swirled up and joined like fingers above it.

  The rotting, leaning tombstones were untouched. The radiant heat of the fire had scorched the vines trailing down the walls but inside was fine. A few bushes were brown edged.

  None of Rusty’s tools remained. Everything had been cleaned up. All the holes had been filled, the ground leveled. Fat tire tracks led to a parked backhoe.

  A patrolman walked up. “You shouldn’t be here.” Then he recognized Reese. “Oh.”

  The cop was Thomkins’ age, but looked older. A black piece of tape was stuck across his badge. The edges of his shoes were white from the ash.

  “You hear how the fire started?” Reese asked. He wondered what kind of rumors were spreading. Specifically, what kind of rumors the Chief was spreading.