Incinerator sg-4

by Timothy Hallinan

  “That’s not allowed,” Schultz said helplessly, still standing there. People waved him back to his chair. “That hasn’t been made public.”

  “Sit down, Doctor,” Caputo said, flicking a finger at the floor director to keep the note on the screen. “It’s public now.”

  I got up, too. “You won’t show the other one,” I said, “or Dr. Schultz and I are leaving.”

  The monitors opened up to show a wide shot, Caputo, Schultz, and me all standing there, the woman in Seat Four looking calmly on. Schultz was jiggling from foot to foot like a prizefighter.

  “And why is that?” Velez Caputo asked, looking happy. She’d finally gotten her fight.

  “Because it’s privileged information,” Schultz said. “In any murder investigation, certain details are kept quiet. Do you know how many people have confessed to these murders?”

  “How would I?” Velez Caputo said accusingly. “The police haven’t released much of anything.”

  “More than a dozen,” Schultz said.

  The first note flashed back onto the screen.

  “We’ll make a deal,” Velez Caputo said. “We won’t show the second one.”

  “You sure as hell won’t,” Schultz said. “You’ll give it back, and you’ll tell us where you got your copy.”

  “We’ll talk about that after the show,” Caputo said. She came back onto the monitors. Up in the booth, the director must have been tearing his hair out. “For now,” Caputo continued, “we believe that the note you’re now looking at-where is the note?” she demanded. It reappeared. “We believe that the way this note is written tells us something entirely new about the Incinerator, and we have with us an expert who can enlighten us. Joining us,” Velez Caputo said, “is Dr. Catherine Cowan of the University of Southern California, an expert on medieval manuscripts.”

  “Hello,” Dr. Cowan said to the cameras. She was an angular woman of forty or forty-five with a determined jaw, a large Victorian garnet brooch, and a beehive hairdo that suggested a hidden fondness for country music. Schultz was studying her as though she were a piranha that had popped up in his bathtub.

  “Dr. Cowan,” Velez Caputo said, “you’ve had a chance to review all the Incinerator’s letters to date.”

  “I have,” Dr. Cowan said.

  “And what is your opinion of them?”

  “They’re parodies,” Dr. Cowan said, “no, that’s not the right word because they’re not scornful-they’re imitations of illuminated manuscripts of the Middle Ages.”

  “We already know all this,” Schultz said.

  “Our viewers don’t,” Velez Caputo said. “And what are illuminated manuscripts, Dr. Cowan?”

  “Well, as I say, they’re medieval,” Dr. Cowan said, settling into her chair for a nice long chat. “Should I establish the dates?”

  “Never mind,” Velez Caputo said. “The Middle Ages.”

  “Yes, well, illuminated. Anything illustrated in silver or gold. Usually, although not always, containing religious texts. They’re hand-painted, of course, on vellum, which is the stretched skin of a goat. Vellum is very durable.”

  “Is it?” Velez Caputo said, a bit impatiently.

  “Certainly,” Dr. Cowan said serenely. “In fact, the most common surviving objects from the Middle Ages are books.”

  “Isn’t that interesting,” Velez Caputo said. “Now the notes-”

  “It’s not just interesting,” Dr. Cowan continued, “it’s fascinating. Remember, most of the libraries and monasteries that held them have crumbled away into ruins, and they were made of stone. But the books are with us still.”

  “And looking at this note,” Velez Caputo prompted.

  “Some illuminated manuscripts survived appalling treatment. In Ireland, they were dipped in cattle troughs because it was thought that their magic would protect livestock.” Dr. Cowan permitted herself a well-bred snicker, and Caputo used it as a shoehorn.

  “Dr. Cowan,” she said in a tone that would have haltered an avalanche in midslope.

  Dr. Cowan had her mouth open to say something, but she took a little bite out of the air instead. “Sorry?” she said.

  “The note from the Incinerator,” Velez Caputo said briskly. “The one that will be on the screen as soon as the technical staff gets on the ball.” It appeared. “We’ll confine our discussion to that note,” she said, glancing at Schultz but meaning the words for Dr. Cowan. “Now, in what ways does this note- this note, Dr. Cowan- resemble an illuminated manuscript?”

  “Well,” Dr. Cowan said, her mouth a straight line, “it’s written in gold, of course. One of those cheap metallic pens from Japan. An authentic illuminated manuscript, you understand-”

  “Please,” Velez Caputo said. “It would have been written in real gold. We understand that.”

  “Not pure gold, of course,” Dr. Cowan began.

  “Ink with gold in it then,” Velez Caputo almost snapped. Schultz was beginning to enjoy himself. I, on the other hand, was feeling distinctly odd. I was hearing echoes.

  Dr. Cowan had her mouth zipped tight. “What was the question?” she said, after a moment. Schultz grinned uncharitably. Norman was wilting.

  “Other points of resemblance,” Velez Caputo said. “Looking at this note and this note only, Doctor.”

  “The drawing at the bottom,” Dr. Cowan said, giving Caputo’s attitude back to her, with change. “It resembles a miniature, a painting on an illuminated manuscript. They’re not called miniatures because they’re small-

  “Minium,” I said out loud. I felt as though I were saying it with someone else’s voice. Something that might have been a worm seemed to be crawling up my spine.

  Velez Caputo shot me a glance, but Dr. Cowan rolled on.

  “-but because they’re painted with a lead-based paint called minium. That’s one reason they lasted so-’

  “What do you know about minium, Mr. Grist?” Velez Caputo asked me. I shook my head. The worm, or the tremor, or whatever it was, had just about reached my shoulder blades.

  “The big initial at the very beginning,” Velez Caputo said, giving up on me and turning back to Dr. Cowan.

  “It’s an historiated initial,” Dr. Cowan said tightly, and the little worm reached the back of my neck and set off a small firework inside my skull, and just for a moment I saw a face, a very young face, and then it broke and shivered apart like a reflection in water that’s been disturbed.

  “… They have scenes painted in them,” Dr. Cowan said. Schultz was staring at me as though I’d popped out in spots. “Or around them, like this one,” she added, apparently unable to stop talking.

  “So what does this tell us about the man who wrote this note?” Caputo asked, happy to be back on track.

  My ears were humming, but I gathered that it meant that the Incinerator had some training in art history.

  “We already knew that,” Schultz said, a bucket of cold water in Seat Number Two. He was looking at me, but I barely saw him. I was wondering whether I’d kept any of my notes. My God, it had been thirteen or fourteen years.

  “… After this message,” Velez Caputo said. The studio went dark.

  “I must say,” Dr. Cowan began angrily.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Velez Caputo said, dismissing her. The powder-puff brigade reassembled and began its repair work. Norman and a helper ushered Dr. Cowan off the set. She sounded a lot like Hermione.

  “God damn it,” Schultz said to Velez Caputo, “where did you get that note?”

  “Sources,” Caputo said airily.

  “Simeon,” Schultz turned to me. “I promise you…”

  “I know,” I said. “Skip it.” I was trying to reassemble the face I’d glimpsed.

  “You’re next, Mr. Grist,” Caputo said as the tic started to count down from fifteen. I must have looked vague, because she said, “Mr. Grist?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said.

  The lights snapped back on.

  “Well,” Velez Caputo said, “
this has been interesting. New information about the nation’s most dangerous serial killer.” Stang made a scornful sound. “And the man who probably has most to fear from this monster is here in the studio. Mr. Grist,” she said as the monitors reflected a two-shot, “let’s assume that the Incinerator is watching. Have you got anything to say to him?”

  “I do,” I said, through the buzzing in my mind. The camera was now on me, as we’d been promised it would be.

  “And what is it?” Velez Caputo said, checking her lipstick in a mirror held by one of the makeup girls.

  “As you know, I got your letter,” I said to the camera. It was very hard to keep my eyes on the camera, as opposed to looking around the room for someone-Eleanor, or even Hammond-to whom I could speak directly. I’d been told, though, that skipping past the camera would look shifty and untrustworthy, so I forced myself to stay locked on the lens that had the red light beneath it, feeling like someone practicing a speech to an ashtray. “We all know what it said. It said I made you break the rules. It said, basically, that I’d betrayed you.” I took a deep breath and tried to keep my eyes on the camera lens.

  “Well, I did. I betrayed you. I was frightened, and I didn’t remember you, and I betrayed you. But, and I ask you to believe me, I told the police to keep their distance. They didn’t.” Behind the cameras, I saw Hammond bristle. Too bad.

  “I had a friend on the force,” I said, deviating from the script. “I trusted him to keep the cops under control. He couldn’t, but that wasn’t his fault. It was my fault for having involved him, and the LAPD, in the first place. So here’s what I’m saying.”

  I looked over toward Schultz, and he nodded encouragingly.

  “I’m saying no more cops,” I said between dry lips. “I’m saying that I’ve stopped working for Annabelle Winston. I’m saying that I’m hanging out there solo, and if you want to write me a letter, or talk to me, or burn me alive, there won’t be any cops around. Check out my street, if you’ve got the nerve.” The challenge had been Schultz’s idea, and I hadn’t been sure I’d use it until that moment. “Or else, wait a week and follow me. You’ll see. I’ll be clean.” I couldn’t look at the camera any longer, and I lowered my head.

  “Are you finished?” Velez Caputo said.

  “No,” I said. I encountered the camera’s gaze again and drew breath to steady my voice. “When you’re certain, come to me. Or make me come to you. But as long as I’m straight with you, no more women.”

  “A courageous pronouncement,” Velez Caputo said, pleased to have it behind her at last. “I’m sure we all sympathize with Mr. Grist.” She beamed to demonstrate her sympathy. “But tell me, if you will,” she said, and the camera once again switched to a two-shot. “This man is after you. Tall, dressed in black rubber, a cheap fright wig on his head, and a bottle of gasoline in his hand. Tell us, Mr. Grist, aren’t you afraid?”

  “Miss Caputo.”

  “Velez,” she breathed invitingly.

  “Velez,” I said to the whole nation on live television, “that’s a fucking stupid question.”

  13

  Aftermath

  There was more, but it was mainly Schultz and Stang and another expert brought in from God knows where. I reacted like a good monkey whenever I was cued. Eleanor left before it ended, as arranged, accompanied back to whatever hotel she’d been packed away in by her squadron of bodyguards. If the Incinerator decided to turn off his TV set early and show up outside the studio, I didn’t want him tagging along after her.

  She’d blown me a kiss as she left.

  I’d managed to be civilized, but inside I was in a towering rage, and it was all directed toward myself. I’d looked at the content of the letters and not at their form. I’d been so full of comparative religion, so full of myself, that I’d been staring into the wrong rearview mirror. He was back there, all right, but he wasn’t in the region of the map I’d been staring at.

  Try as I would, I couldn’t bring the face back.

  Whoever it belonged to, he was back there somewhere, buried in volumes of notes, possibly notes I’d long discarded, from years and years of college, years I’d spent wasting time in a system I understood, postponing the day I’d have to step out into a system I didn’t understand. Back then, at twenty-five, I hadn’t been able to figure out how they, whoever they are, assign you grades in real life. I still hadn’t found out.

  The show ended with a round of insincere congratulations. I shrugged off Schultz’s questions and headed for the parking lot. Breathing in the heady atmosphere of downtown L.A. in the late afternoon, I stood next to Alice for a good ten minutes, thinking and giving the Incinerator, assuming that he was still watching and that he was still interested, time to make sure I was alone. Then, for want of anything better to do, I went to see a movie.

  I never see movies, and I didn’t see much of this one. I stared up at large guns and screaming tires and myriad violations of Newton’s laws, and improbable heroism, and searched the baggage of my memory. Whatever had sent that worm crawling up my spine when Dr. Cowan had said whatever she’d said, when I’d first heard it, it hadn’t been important. It had been nothing.

  When I realized I was hungry, I left.

  The theater, I saw with some surprise as I emerged from it, was on Hollywood Boulevard, not far from the studio where Velez Caputo taped her show, and even closer to the Red Dog. For a long moment, jostled by freaks, tourists, and drug dealers, I thought about going into the Red Dog to see if Al the Red was terrorizing the natives. Too early, I decided, and anyway, he was with Eleanor. And, of course, we weren’t speaking.

  At the Gold Jug Coffee Shop, once a center of the underage hooker trade, my waitress stared at me until I wondered whether my nose was bleeding. When she refilled my coffee cup, she poured some into my lap.

  “Okay,” I said, “what is it?”

  She was young, no older than eighteen, and uselessly, even harmfully, pretty.

  “You’re him,” she said, brushing the coffee ineffectually off my lap. It felt good, anyway. “Aren’t you?”

  “I’m certainly him,” I said. “But which him?”

  “The one on TV,” she said. “The one who’s going to get burned.”

  “I’m not,” I said, “and could I have the check?”

  “You’re not?” The coffeepot tilted dangerously in my direction.

  “I’m the him on TV,” I said. “But I’m not the him who’s going to get burned.”

  No one behind me on the way home. No one behind me as I turned left off the Pacific Coast Highway and headed up Topanga Canyon Boulevard. I pulled over half the way up. Nine cars, headlights beaming merrily into the night, passed me before I departed my patch of chaparral by the side of the road and headed the rest of the way up the long hill.

  At the Fernwood Market, I stopped again, partly to check for a tail and partly to fill a more pressing need. I was out of beer. The Fernwood stocked Singha just for me, in recognition of my status as a regular customer and a reliable prealcoholic. The “pre” was my estimate.

  Once home, I patted Alice on the rear fender, opened the empty mailbox, and hiked up the driveway toting the beer. Here, away from the glare of L.A., stars fired off sparks above me. “Nice to see you,” I said to them halfway up. “I was afraid you’d moved.” The beer was heavy, so I took the rest of the driveway at an unaccustomed lope and turned the lock in the one and only door, the one that opens directly into the kitchen.

  When I turned on the light, he was standing there.

  I jumped back and hauled the door closed. The bag full of beer landed at my feet with the sound of shattering glass.

  The cops had taken my gun after I decked Hammond. Holding the door closed with one hand and listening for movement inside the house, I reached down very slowly and fumbled around inside the wet paper bag. I sliced my index finger on something sharp before I managed to grasp a broken bottle by its neck.

  I hoisted it in my hand, jagged points forward and wai
ted. I counted to one hundred. Not a sound.

  I let go of the door, kicked it in, and jumped through it, bottle extended.

  In the center of the kitchen, my own raincoat, stuffed full of newspapers, dangled from a string. A balloon bloomed above the neck. On top of the balloon, a blond wig squatted. A hot breeze made an entrance through the open door, and the ghostly assemblage did a graceful pirouette on the end of its string.

  I was so furious, furious at my fear, that I pushed the shards of the bottle into the face drawn on the balloon. It exploded, and the wig floated to the kitchen floor like a large blond spider. Blood dripped from my finger onto the floor, making bright splashes around the wig like berries on a Christmas wreath.

  All four burners on the gas stove were flaring merrily away, little campfires of blue. I kicked my raincoat aside and turned them off. The raincoat was swinging back and forth like a hanged man as I shut down the gas jets.

  “You sadistic shithead,” I said to the air. I licked my finger. Then I smelled the gasoline.

  I turned as though someone had tapped me on the shoulder. Heat rose in waves against my back, and I kicked the oven door shut and felt behind me for the large, greasy knob that turned it off.

  “Are you here?” I demanded. “Well, you got me.”

  No one answered me. A gust of wind made the walls of the shack rattle. The raincoat did a little jig. I grabbed paper towels off the roll and wrapped them around my finger.

  “Got me good,” I continued, stepping silently forward. “Got me with my own raincoat.”

  The smell of gasoline was stronger in the living room. “Got your little squirter?” I asked the darkness on the other side of the door leading to my bedroom. “I thought this was supposed to be a conversation.” I still had the broken beer bottle in my right hand, the hand festooned with paper towels.

  Still nothing.

  “You should do something about that B.O.,” I said, edging toward the door to the bedroom. “You smell like a diesel.” There were only the four rooms upstairs, the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom, and the bedroom. Both the bathroom and the bedroom were on the other side of the door I was facing. The door was ajar. “Downstairs,” was a euphemism I used for an empty room that could be reached only by going back outside and clambering down the hill on a suicidal goat path that led to its one and only door. I almost never used it.