Once Burned

by Gerry Boyle

  “I’m hoping you can help me.”

  “Trim? A little highlighting?”

  The women giggled, someone said, “Have a seat.”

  “Another time, thanks. Today I just have a question.”

  I took out my phone, scrolled through the photos. Then I held it up to the woman and said, “I need to ID a guy in a picture. Somebody said his name was Derek Mays, but I don’t know. I think he went to school here; he’d be about forty now.”

  “What are you? A cop?” the front-desk woman said.

  “A reporter,” I said. “Jack McMorrow. You know Derek?”

  “Do I look forty?” she said. She looked over at one of the older stylists and said, “Sorry.”

  Then she said to me, “Why don’t you just ask him?”

  “He left. I won’t be able to find him again if I don’t get his name right.”

  It sounded lame. I kept going.

  “The guy was at the scene of something I was covering. It was kind of hectic.”

  “What was it? A murder?” the receptionist said.

  “Karen,” a woman protested. “Please.”

  “Something like that,” I said. “Will you look?”

  Karen took the phone, looked at the photo, said, “I’d like to talk to him, too. Kinda cute.”

  “How cute?” one of the stylists said.

  Another said, “Let me see.”

  Karen got up from behind the desk and passed my phone over. It made the rounds, the women peering at the screen. I moved between the chairs, following the phone down the line, like the collection plate in a church. And then we were at the last chair. The hair stylist, fit and slim in jeans and cowboy boots and an undersized black T-shirt, was tying little ribbon sort of things in the woman’s hair. He paused, looked at the phone, then held it up for the woman in the chair.

  “My goodness,” she said. “Look at Derek Mays, all grown up.”

  31

  Her name was Susan, and Derek had been a friend of her older brother’s. She’d had a crush on Derek but he’d never noticed her. He wasn’t available anyway because he’d been dating Julie Barber since ninth grade, her sophomore year. Then Julie had gone to the University of Maine, and after a while they’d split up, so they could date other people. Derek had gone to the prom with another girl and Julie was seeing some guy she’d met waitressing in Orono.

  “And then they got back together,” Susan said. “Like, a week before she died.”

  “Oh, that’s so sad,” Karen said, and then Susan leaned toward me and confided, so that the whole room could hear: “I heard she got into drugs.”

  “Did the fire have to do with drugs?” I said.

  “That was what people were saying. That Julie got in with the wrong crowd.”

  “Did Derek?”

  “Oh, no. He was Mr. Clean. In high school he didn’t party at all. I mean, he could’ve, but he kinda kept to himself. When he wasn’t with Julie, I mean. One of those high school couples—it’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”

  “You know the guy who died with her?” I said.

  “No,” Susan said. “He was older. Wasn’t from here.”

  “Where’d Derek go afterwards?”

  “Moved away, I guess,” Susan said. “His parents split up just before all of it happened. I mean, he was an only child, too. So everything kind of fell apart for him. I thought he must have joined the service or something.”

  I held out the phone again.

  “You’re sure that’s him?”

  She took the phone and looked at the photo of Don Barbier at the fire scene, the crowd behind him. Karen and Jason leaned over and looked, too.

  “Yeah, well, pretty sure. He’s older and heavier and his hair is different and he has the beard. But I’m pretty sure that’s Derek. You don’t forget your first crush, right?”

  “I guess not,” I said, as she handed the phone back.

  “So what are they all looking at in the picture?” she said.

  “A fire,” I said. “A house was burning.”

  “Another one?” Jason said. “I mean, really. What are the chances of that?”

  I waited in the truck, small-town life flowing by me like I was a rock in the middle of a stream. Old people driving slow. A teenage girl on the phone, pushing a baby in a stroller.

  After twenty minutes Susan came out, hair done up, and started for the parking lot. I pulled ahead and behind her SUV. Got out and walked to the driver’s door.

  Susan looked up, buzzed the window down.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “More questions?”

  “Just one,” I said. “Anything else you remember about Derek? Maybe didn’t want to say in there?”

  Susan stared for a moment, said, “You don’t miss much.”

  I shrugged and smiled. She reached the key in, started the motor. I thought I’d lost her, but then she said, “He had his whole life figured out.”

  “How so?”

  “Eighteen years old. I mean, this friend of mine, she was at a party. This was after he’d split up with Julie. My friend, she decides she’s gonna hook up with him. Good-looking girl, too. I mean, wicked cute. Knockout figure. She comes on to him.”

  “And he says no?” I said.

  “Not just that. He said he was gonna marry Julie after they got back together. And he got all pissed off. Like she was trying to wreck his world or something. I mean, it was way extreme. Like he didn’t want anybody pushing him off this path. Had the blinders on. Marry the cheerleader, have kids, live in a nice house—the whole picket-fence thing.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “Yeah. I figured it was some reaction to his parents splitting up,” Susan said, pulling at the bow at the back of her head. “And I remember thinking, well, it better work out. Because you’re burning all your other bridges.”

  I called Davida Reynolds from the truck as I left Bucksport. She called me back as I reached the end of Main Street, turned with the Bar Harbor tourists to cross the small branch of the Penobscot. I told my story all the way to the Verona bridge, the cars slowing as everyone craned to see the view.

  “I don’t know, Mr. McMorrow,” Reynolds said. “Maybe Barbier just looks like this guy.”

  “The woman was pretty sure.”

  “Twenty years is a long time.”

  “Sure, but if it is him, don’t you think it’s odd? His girlfriend dies in an arson fire, and now there are all these arson fires happening around him?”

  “I don’t remember the details, but I don’t recall that Derek was a suspect.”

  “Who were the suspects?”

  “DEA had a couple of names,” she said. “Bad guys from Lawrence, Mass., I think. One from New York City, maybe. The Bronx? I’d have to look.”

  “But Ross Lucas, the guy Julie had been dating, died with her. Maybe Derek didn’t want to lose her,” I said. “This woman at the hair salon said she thought that Derek and Julie had decided to get back together just before she died.”

  I paused.

  “See,” Reynolds said, “that doesn’t make sense.”

  “Maybe she changed her mind,” I said, coming off the bridge, sliding into the shadows left by the sinking sun.

  “So he ties up the love of his life and her new beau and burns them alive?”

  “Crime of passion.”

  “One that took expert planning and preparation,” Reynolds said. “The perp would have to be absolutely cold-blooded, and Barbier seems like a perfectly normal guy.”

  “Don’t they all,” I said.

  “As a matter of fact, no,” she said. “Spend enough time with these people and you begin to see through the cracks.”

  “Not if he’s a true sociopath.”

  “Who’s burning down his own property?”

  We were quiet for a minute, still on the phone. I drove, the river somewhere to my left, the sun behind the ledges to my right, tourists driving at
a stately pace. I heard Reynolds start the Suburban.

  “Where are you?” I said.

  “Leaving the Sanctuary General Store,” she said. “Off the record?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “We’re going to interview a person of interest. And search his house and vehicles.”

  “Really. Who is it?”

  “Still off?

  “Yes.”

  “Louis.”

  “The vet? Why?”

  “We have this town totally saturated with law enforcement, especially if you count the citizen patrol. And this person can still navigate at will, set fires, disappear into thin air.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “You know where Louis went when he was in the military, for training?”

  “No.”

  “Sapper school. And you know what they teach them there?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Navigation. You know, like in the woods at night. Mountaineering. Reconnaissance. Raid and ambush operations. And, last but not least, demolition.”

  “Huh.”

  “And if you can blow stuff up, you can sure as heck set it on fire,” Reynolds said.

  “Sounds pretty circumstantial,” I said. “What rubber stamp gave you that search warrant?”

  “And your theory is based on rock-solid evidence?”

  “No, it’s based on the fact that I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “Go to the judge with that,” Reynolds said.

  “No, but I may go to Don Barbier with it,” I said.

  “And if you’re right, he’ll confess?”

  “No, but it’s like you said. You spend enough time with somebody, you see through the cracks.”

  “Huh,” Reynolds said.

  “Back on the record,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you close to an arrest?”

  “No comment.”

  “Is your investigation progressing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mind if I call you later tonight?”

  “No, I don’t mind. Maybe I’ll have something new to report.”

  “What if you can’t find Louis?” I said.

  “Oh, we know where he is,” Reynolds said. “Off the record, since yesterday, we’ve had somebody on him every minute.”

  “He’s a little touchy,” I said. Be careful.”

  “You, too, Mr. McMorrow,” she said. “You, too.”

  I was still in the driveway when Sophie hit me at a full run, leaping into my arms and wrapping her little legs around me. She clung there, telling me about her day—that she’d beaten Roxanne and Clair in checkers six times; that they’d made cupcakes and decorated them, and there were two just for me; that Pokey’d had a rest, but Clair said he’d be better in the morning; that she had macaroni and cheese out of the box for dinner as a special treat, and they were going to save me some but they forgot.

  Sophie waggled her legs happily as I carried her into the house. Clair, at the kitchen table, said hello. Roxanne, scrubbing a pan in the sink, said nothing.

  I put Sophie down and she ran to the refrigerator, yanked the big door open, and reached in for a can of Ballantine. She brought it to me and I took it and then she went to the counter, climbed her stepstool, and took a cupcake from the plate. She climbed down and brought it to me.

  Drawn on the cupcake in frosting was a rough facsimile of a pony’s head.

  “It has a picture of Pokey on it,” Sophie said. “Mommy helped me. You can have it with your beer.”

  “Thanks, honey,” I said. “You have a nice mommy.”

  Roxanne put the pan on the counter, kept her back to me.

  Sophie said, “Go ahead.”

  “Go ahead and what?” I said.

  “Eat it.”

  “Oh. I am hungry.”

  I removed the paper and took a bite. Sophie bounced up and down and waited for my reaction. I chewed, then smiled.

  “Aren’t they delicious?” she said.

  “Hmmm,” I said.

  “Clair needs another one,” she said.

  She went to the counter again. I stepped to Roxanne, put a hand on her shoulder.

  “How are you?” I said.

  “Okay, considering,” she said.

  Sophie bounced back, skipping across the kitchen.

  “Honey, you know the pictures you did? Why don’t you get them and show them to Daddy,” Roxanne said.

  Sophie whirled and dashed for the stairs.

  “Considering what?” I said. “Did they find Beth?”

  Roxanne turned to me.

  “They found the car. An hour ago in Searsmont. But they think she took another one.”

  “Great,” I said.

  “But they don’t know what kind of car it is. Or truck.” Clair said. “Can’t find the owners of the house to ask them.”

  We paused. Roxanne folded a towel and put it on the counter.

  “So she’s still out there,” I said.

  “That much is certain,” Roxanne said, her voice cool but at the same time on edge.

  “You’d think they’d be able to find her.”

  “Erratic folks,” Clair said. “Sometimes they’re the hardest to find because there’s no pattern. You can’t predict what they’ll do next.”

  “No more texts to the TV station?”

  They both shrugged.

  “I just know that I feel like a prisoner in my own home,” Roxanne said.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” I said.

  “I’ll head back out,” Clair said, finishing his cupcake in two bites. Roxanne walked to him and handed him a napkin. He wiped his mouth, took a sip of coffee, and put the mug on the counter. I put the beer down beside it, unopened.

  “Thank you, Clair,” Roxanne said, squeezing his arm. “Thanks for everything.”

  “No thanks necessary,” he said, and turned to the sliding glass door, open to the screen. Froze for a millisecond, and then had his Glock out, raised, ready.

  I looked. Beth stood on the deck, six feet from the door.

  32

  She had a revolver in her right hand, hanging down along her thigh. She started to raise it and Clair barked, “Drop it.”

  Roxanne backpedaled into the kitchen.

  “No, Beth,” Clair shouted.

  “Daddy,” Sophie called from the hallway. “Wait ’til you see.”

  I lunged, ran into the hall, scooped her up, the papers flying. Roxanne had circled through the dining room, met us at the bottom of the stairs. I handed Sophie to her and she bolted up the steps, saying, “I’ll call 911.”

  Sophie said “Mommy,” and started to cry.

  I turned, moved down the hallway until I could see them, Clair’s back to me, two hands on the gun. Beth stood beyond him, wearing a black sweatshirt. The revolver was pressed to her temple through the hood.

  “No, honey,” Clair was saying. “Don’t do that. I can help you. Come in and have a cup of coffee and we’ll talk.”

  Beth smiled, shook her head.

  “No, I’m really sorry,” she said, her voice slurred and vague. “It’s just that it’s, like, time for somebody to pay, even if it’s me.”

  She lowered the gun from her head, held it in front of her, pointed sideways.

  “That’s right,” Clair said. “Now just toss it.”

  But Beth put it back to her head.

  “I’ll talk,” she said. “Where’s Roxanne? I’ll talk to her.”

  I backed down the hallway, out the front door. I ran to the truck, yanked the passenger door open, the glove box. I took out the Glock, the clip. Jammed the clip in and ran along the side of the garage. At the end of the building, I stopped. Listened.

  “Honey, we can sort this out,” Clair was saying. “But the first thing you have to do is get rid of the gun so I can get rid of mine. Can’t talk with all these guns around.”

  I stepped around the corner. There were dead lilacs, and I eased past them, the withered blossoms sprinkl
ing down like snow.

  I heard Beth saying, “Talk, talk, talk. All we ever fucking do is talk.”

  I moved closer, alongside the last bush.

  “Then we can just sit,” Clair said. “Sit and have a beer and figure out what to do next.”

  “What to do, what to do,” Beth said, her voice singsong now, like Sophie humming to herself. “The important thing is to fucking do something, right? If we don’t, it’s just more of the same bullshit. I’m drowning in bullshit.”

  “No,” Clair said. “Please don’t.”

  I could see her now. The gun against her head. She was wavering on her feet, drunk or drugged, or both.

  “Where is she?” Beth said. “Where’s Roxanne? I want to talk to her. I want to talk to her so she can tell me all the things I’m doing wrong.”

  “You’re fine, honey,” Clair said. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “I’m not fine,” Beth said. “I fucked up. You ask Roxanne. She’ll tell you.”

  I was crouched at the corner, the gun low, my finger on the trigger. And then I heard Roxanne’s voice from inside, saying, “Beth. This isn’t the way.

  You know that. I know you do.”

  I heard Clair say something unintelligible, maybe warning Roxanne to stay back. And then Beth lowered the gun from her head, looked at it, raised it again, pointed it at the door.

  “No, Beth,” Roxanne said. “Do the right thing. Drop the gun. You can do it. Do it for Ratchet. Do it for him.”

  Beth took a step toward the house. I eased out, raised the gun. Beth took another step and I followed, keeping her in sight. And then I heard the screen slide open, Clair saying, “No, don’t.” And then he stepped through the door and onto the deck, the Glock in front of him, ready.

  Beth raised the revolver, pointed it at his face. She was trembling, the barrel making small circles. From the distance came the sound of a siren.

  “Go ahead,” she said, beginning to cry. “Finish it. Go ahead.”

  And Clair lowered his gun. I could see that he was smiling.

  “I’ll do it,” Beth screamed, stepping toward him, the gun leveled at his face. I stepped out, the Glock raised. Started to squeeze the trigger.

  “No, Jack,” Clair said. “Don’t.”

  I eased off, barely. He slipped the Glock into the holster at the back of his waist. And then he stepped to Beth, took the gun from her hands, and put it down on the table.