by Gerald Elias
‘The Burkes must be having a bonfire,’ Jacobus said of his closest neighbors, whose house was located in the woods just before his own. His thoughts turned to Borlotti’s house as he continued to inhale the smoke.
‘A little late to be celebrating New Year’s, don’t you think?’ Nathaniel said. The levity in his voice was strained.
‘How often have they had bonfires?’ Yumi asked.
‘Never,’ Jacobus said.
‘Maybe they’re Druids or something,’ Yumi said, trying desperately to maintain the humor. ‘There’s a lot of smoke.’
‘Roasting a bullock,’ Jacobus said replied, but the joke fell flat. He began to fear the worst.
As they passed the Burke’s place, Yumi looked into the woods and saw Mr and Mrs Burke around a massive pile of burning leaves and brush. The cloud of smoke rose as high as the top of the hill and then the breeze blew it across Route 41. The Burkes waved in greeting. By the time Yumi’s car reached the bottom of Jacobus’s driveway, they had passed through any remaining smoke.
They sat in the car, shaken.
‘Well, I guess it wasn’t a bullock,’ Nathaniel finally said, and they all laughed more than the comment warranted. ‘But the thought of one gave me an appetite.’
‘What doesn’t?’ Jacobus said.
‘What do you have in the house?’
‘A selection of fine canned goods. Veg-All. Dinty Moore beef stew. Campbell bean with bacon soup. And a jar of sauerkraut.’
‘How about we get a pizza?’ Yumi suggested.
‘If we must,’ Jacobus replied.
TWENTY-FIVE
Thursday, January 5
There was a freshness in the air when Jacobus awoke. He couldn’t tell whether the sun had risen or not but judging from the quality of the quiet he guessed it hadn’t. Dressed in his flannel pajamas and new gloves, he went out to the woodshed, piled a load of logs into a big plastic bucket to which a rope was attached, and dragged it over the snow-packed driveway back to his house. Once inside, he fanned the embers of the woodstove and loaded it for the day. As he filled the stove he noticed some of the logs were icy with blown snow, but rather than let it melt and make puddles on the pine floor, he just threw them in the stove. He was in the process of making a pot of coffee when the phone rang.
‘Brooks here.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Frankie Falcone got back on Monday. We arranged for Sammy to “coincidentally” bump into him as he was leaving his condo. Sammy invited him to join him for a beer and they had an interesting conversation. I want you to hear it. I’ve already spoken to Benson. I don’t want you to have to drive all the way to Boston, so how about we meet halfway? There’s an inn in Sturbridge. Right off the Pike. The Publick House. I think you’ll like their lunch menu.’
Jacobus got dressed. He didn’t bother with breakfast. He decided not to wake Yumi or Nathaniel, but he couldn’t leave much of a note for them, either. He had given up trying to maintain his handwriting over the years after Nathaniel generously described his efforts as cuneiform-like. So Jacobus grabbed what he hoped was a blank piece of paper and a pen that still had ink, scrawled ‘BACK LATER,’ and hoped he hadn’t written half of the message on the table.
Jacobus waited outside for Benson so that he wouldn’t honk the horn and wake his friends. When the car pulled up he felt for the door handle and eased himself in.
‘Where were you yesterday evening?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean?’ Benson asked.
‘We looked for you on our way back from the city.’
‘Oh. We were putting out a fire.’
‘Arson?’ Jacobus asked, still skittish from the false alarm the day before.
‘Parson,’ Benson replied.
‘Larson?’
‘Who’s Larson?’
‘No one. Just a joke. What happened?’
‘The parson at the Congregational Church fell asleep on a pew and a candle he was holding started a fire on the cushion. We had it out in a minute.’
‘Just out of curiosity, what was the parson’s name?’
‘Carson,’ Benson said seriously.
Jacobus smiled. No one would ever accuse Benson of a sense of humor.
After a lunch of the Publick House’s open-faced, freshly roasted hot turkey sandwich with all the fixings, Jacobus, with Brooks and Benson, retired to a conference room in the restored eighteenth- century inn. They sat at a good imitation of a Chippendale table in imitation Chippendale chairs that made Jacobus’s back ache. At least imitation violins sound good, Jacobus thought.
‘We prepped Sammy before he went in,’ Brooks said, setting up the recorder. ‘Told him what to say and not say. I’ll skip the preliminaries on the tape, unless you want to hear the details of Falcone’s Cabo frolic, sipping piña coladas on the beach next to his hot wife in her white string bikini, giving his kids a hundred-fifty bucks each to get lost while they screw on the—’
‘As you said,’ Jacobus interrupted, ‘skip the preliminaries.’
Jacobus heard Brooks push some buttons, fast-forwarding the conversation.
‘… those fucking Patriots.’ It was Sammy’s voice. There were typical bar noises in the background. A low hum of conversation, beer being poured, a sporting event on television, an occasional cheer or moan. ‘I dropped a bundle on those bums.’
‘You can’t win them all,’ someone replied.
‘Falcone,’ Brooks whispered to Jacobus and Benson.
‘Yeah, our boy Grogan bit the big one,’ Rocchinelli said. ‘Three interceptions.’
‘I hadn’t heard.’ Falcone didn’t sound interested in football.
‘There was a big story in the Globe,’ Rocchinelli said.
Silence of several seconds.
‘Since when do you read the Globe?’ Falcone asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Most people who read the Globe graduated junior high.’
More silence.
‘Globe, Herald, whatever,’ Rocchinelli said. ‘How about another beer?’
Brooks stopped the tape.
‘What was that all about?’ Benson asked. ‘What did we need to hear that for?’
‘Because Rocchinelli already screwed up,’ Jacobus surmised. ‘Who knows if he’d ever read the Globe on his own? But he sounds nervous. It put Falcone on guard.’
‘That was my observation as well,’ Brooks said. He fast forwarded, stopping and starting until he found where the conversation resumed.
‘Speaking of news’ – it was Rocchinelli again – ‘did you read about that guy they found in Italy?’
‘There are a lot of guys in Italy.’
‘The one that got whacked. Said he made violins out in the Berkshires. Bullet between the eyes. Carved up nice, too. To look like a violin.’
Rocchinelli tried to laugh, but it evaporated before it even got started.
Yet another extended silence. Jacobus was getting uncomfortable listening to this.
‘Why should I be interested in that?’
‘Well, the guy’s house was burned down on Christmas Eve, and you said—’
‘What did I say?’ Falcone said, clearly irritated.
‘What’s your fuckin’ problem?’ Sammy wasn’t a happy camper, either.
‘What the fuck did I say?’ Falcone repeated.
‘Only that you had a job in the boondocks and you were fuckin’ cold. That’s all. Hey, you don’t wanna talk about it, we won’t talk about it.’
‘Talk about what?’
‘You know. It.’
‘I can talk about it,’ Falcone said. ‘Better than talking about fuckin’ football all day. So a guy gets shot and then gets carved? Who needs to kill someone twice?’
‘They said it might’ve been the violinmaker’s own knife.’
Falcone laughed without humor.
‘Carved to look like a violin?’ he asked, as if savoring the image. ‘That’s fuckin’ artistic. Wouldn’t you say?’
‘Picture this,’ Falcone said. ‘Picture a little prick trying to defend himself with a wood-carving knife against a guy with a gun. Let’s see: little knife, big gun. Hmm. Gun wins every time. Right?’
Both laugh now, Rocchinelli harder than Falcone.
‘OK, Sammy,’ Falcone continued. ‘Let’s say you whack someone with a bullet in the head. You gonna leave him lyin’ there or you gonna get rid of him?’
‘If I whack someone I gotta get rid of him.’
‘Even if you burn the place down?’
‘Shit, yeah. You don’t wanna leave a trace.’ Jacobus could hear the growing confidence in Rocchinelli’s voice. He clearly thinks he’s overcome his stumble out of the gate and has finally found common cause with Falcone. No doubt he is already counting the dollar signs from Brooks as a reward for his success.
‘So, maybe you ship him overseas, right?’ Falcone asked. ‘What better way?’
‘Makes sense!’
‘Let’s say you send the rube to an address that you’d found lying around the place before you torched it, right?’
‘Right.’
‘You wouldn’t expect someone here to find that body, ever. To ever connect the dots. And it would send a message to whom it may concern not to fuck with the boss. Right?’
‘Never. It’s fuckin’ genius.’
‘But then if someone did, somehow, find it, it wouldn’t be your fault, would it?’
‘Not in a million years.’
‘Yeah, you’ve covered your tracks. So would it be right for your boss to get on your case? Call you while you were celebrating the fucking holidays with your family and tell you you fucked up?’
‘Wouldn’t be fair.’
‘I don’t think so either. Sammy, did you celebrate the holidays?’
‘Sure.’
‘Did you celebrate the holidays with your family?’
‘My sister and her kids. Yeah. She made lasagna.’
‘So, Sammy, why you do it?’
‘Do what?’
‘Kill the prick and ship him to Italy.’
‘What are you talkin’ about?’ Rocchinelli asked, clearly confused.
‘You just told me you whacked him. Didn’t I hear you just say that? And that you got rid of the body because you didn’t wanna leave a trace? And your boss called you while you were celebrating the holidays with your family to tell you you fucked up?’
‘You know that’s not what I meant,’ Sammy said, sounding desperate.
‘I know what the fuck you meant, sports fan. Enjoy the game.’
Brooks stopped the tape.
‘End of conversation,’ he said.
‘I’m no cop,’ Jacobus said. ‘What can we prove from this?’
‘At this point, nothing,’ Brooks said.
‘I have to agree,’ Benson said.
‘So, what’s your next move, Sherlock?’ Jacobus asked.
‘Keep up the police work. Follow all the other leads. One step at a time.’
‘Well, good luck to you gentlemen,’ Jacobus said. ‘I’ve done my community service. From this moment on, I’m retired. Home, James!’
‘I smell smoke,’ Benson said as they climbed up the hill on Route 41.
‘Yeah, I smell it, too,’ Jacobus said. ‘Don’t worry. It’s the Burkes burning their brush.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Benson replied. ‘There are lights flashing from your property.’ He braked his car and slowly turned down Jacobus’s steep driveway.
Jacobus did not need to be told anything more. This smoke was different from the Burke’s. But it was the same gut-churning smell as the ruins of Borlotti’s house. And now the noises the woods around his house had blocked out were clearly audible. Above the churning of engines, men barked incomprehensible orders to one another, but the tone of defeat was as redolent as the smoke. Jacobus pressed his thumb and forefinger into his sightless eyes and tried not to think.
Benson wrenched his car into low gear so as not to skid on the sheet of ice created by water from the fire hoses, and slowly descended the driveway, coming to a stop a safe distance from the smoldering wreckage. He flung his door open and rushed out. Jacobus remained immobilized, half-hearing Miller yelling orders to the fire crew.
‘Jake, I have bad news.’ Miller placed his hand cautiously on Jacobus’s shoulder. ‘Real bad. I hate to tell you this. It was a chimney fire. It’s a total loss.’
‘But I put hardwood in the stove this morning,’ Jacobus said. ‘Not pine.’ Desperately wanting, by the simple force of reasoning, to undo what couldn’t, what shouldn’t, have happened.
‘Doesn’t matter, once the creosote’s built up in the chimney. There was years’ worth. It got so hot the chimney just exploded.’
Jacobus tried to stay calm.
‘Anything left?’
‘I’m sorry. Your books, your music, the whole house. I’m sorry. It was all tinder.’
‘All gone.’ Jacobus mouthed the words, but hardly a sound escaped. ‘The violin?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Jacobus was suddenly light-headed. He almost lost his balance, though he was still sitting in the car.
‘Where’s Yumi? Where’s Nathaniel?’ he cried out and tried not to picture them if they were still in the house.
‘No trace. They must have been out. That’s the good news.’
‘Grane!’ Jacobus cried. ‘Where’s Grane?’
‘What?’ Benson asked, jogging to the car. ‘Who’s that? Who’s Grane?’
‘My horse!’ Jacobus said, perplexed that Benson didn’t understand. Then he recovered himself. ‘I mean the dog. Where’s Trotsky? Where’s my damn dog? I left him in the house!’
Jacobus pushed himself out of the car and stumbled through snow and rubble.
‘Trotsky!’ he yelled, his voice hoarse. ‘Trotsky! Well the hell are you, you damn mongrel?’
Miller surrounded Jacobus, still shouting for his dog, with a bear hug to prevent him from slipping on the slickened ground, or tumbling into the simmering remains of his house, its stone walls, still sizzling hot, not yet finished collapsing upon themselves.
‘I haven’t seen the dog,’ Miller said, his voice tense.
Above the muted exertion of the fire crew, the hiss of steam as hoses discovered new hot pockets, and the groan of a building in its death throes, Jacobus heard Miller shouting for the dog, growing distant. ‘Here, Trotsky! Trotsky, come!’
But there was no response. His house, gone. His violin, gone. His dog, gone. It was the first time that Jacobus ever felt truly blind.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Jacobus,’ Benson said.
Jacobus had no idea how long he stood there, numbly, as a world he was no longer part of swirled around him.
‘C’mon, Jake,’ Nathaniel said.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Jacobus asked. Why hadn’t Nathaniel prevented it from happening? What kind of a friend was that?
‘Yumi and I have been here for the past half hour,’ he said. ‘Talking to you.’ Could that be? Jacobus asked himself. Through his fog he heard Nathaniel continue. ‘Roy called us to tell us what happened. C’mon, it’s getting cold. We best be going.’
Jacobus let himself be led by the arm somewhere. He supposed it was to the car, though it didn’t really matter. Sounds made no sense to him anymore. They came from the place that used to be his house, but they were foreign. Things bubbling. Things cracking. Things moaning. Things from hell.
Jacobus wiped his nose, which was running. He heard snow slough off a tree and thud to the ground in the woods, probably the effect of heat generated by the fire. Then off another tree, and another, sounding like distant mortar fire. Then he heard some rustling in the brush at the edge of the forest. Then, was it grunting? That familiar, offensive grunting?
Something crashing out of the woods barreled into Jacobus’s knees and knocked him over. Trotsky pinned Jacobus on his back, his whimpers so loud that no one could hear Jacobus’s
. Jacobus flailed with his arms, an unwilling snow angel.
‘Get the hell off me, you damn dog!’ Jacobus cried, pushing against its massive head. There was something hanging from the dog’s mouth flapping on Jacobus’s face.
‘Get that off my face!’ he shouted.
Jacobus pulled at it. Trotsky’s pulled back. A new game!
Trotsky gave up his trophy to Nathaniel, who passed it to Benson. Jacobus tried to stand up on his own but couldn’t. Yumi helped him to his feet. He pushed her away.
‘It’s a piece of cloth,’ Nathaniel said. ‘Torn. Looks like it’s from someone’s pants.’
‘More than that,’ Benson said. ‘There’s blood on it. A lot. It’s not even totally dried yet. Your dog got a little singed, Mr Jacobus, but he took a big chunk out of someone’s leg. I’d say he got the better of our arsonist.’
Arsonist? What arsonist? The fire wasn’t his own fault? It was too confusing. But that was no longer even on his mind. The only thought that occupied his mind was that for the first time in his life he hadn’t been able to stand up on his own.
Benson called Lieutenant Brooks on his cell phone, certain that whomever Trotsky had bitten would require medical attention. It was an opening.
‘Brooks wants to talk to you,’ Benson said to Jacobus, who was back in Yumi’s car.
‘Mr Jacobus, Officer Benson has informed me what has happened. I’m convinced this is Francis Falcone’s doing. He must have seen your name in the papers and, frankly, I’m sure Rocchinelli didn’t help. May I say I am sincerely sorry he got to you before we got to him. I have no doubt that not only your home, but your violin meant a great deal. I pledge to do everything I can to make it up to you.’
‘How the hell would you even pretend to know how much things mean to me?’
‘Mr Jacobus, I’m originally from South Carolina. When I was a child, the church my family attended was burned to the ground by people with no more conscience than Francis Falcone. And you can be assured the folks who perished in that fire were no less dear to me than your violin was to you. You could say that my mission in life was determined on that day.
‘This is a tragedy, Mr Jacobus, but out of that tragedy we may have just obtained our first solid evidence of Falcone’s involvement, the result of your dog’s tenacity, which no doubt is a reflection of his owner. I am immediately placing all my resources at G-BAT on full alert. We’re going to spread Francis Falcone’s photo at every hospital and every clinic and every gas station and at every rest stop between you and Boston. I’m also ordering extra patrols in the North End and a stakeout on his home. You flushed him out of his hole, Mr Jacobus, and now we’ve got him on the run. I vow to you that I’ll get him. I vow I’ll catch him and put him behind bars.’