Once Burned

by Gerry Boyle

  “Okay, Jack,” he said. “We’ll talk. But not today. Give me a day or two, to gather my thoughts. It’s been a long time since I’ve been Derek Mays. I’m gonna have to get to know myself again.”

  I held out my hand and he shook it, a strong, long grasp.

  “Musta been meant to be,” he said, looking to the fire. “All this was digging him up anyway.”

  He started to walk away and I stayed with him.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” I said, “what made you come back? To Maine, I mean? You’re only twenty-five miles from Bucksport. Eventually somebody was going to recognize you.”

  “You know, that’s a good question, Jack,” he said. “A very good question.”

  But he didn’t answer it, just said, “Should find my partners.”

  I walked with him, both of us searching the dwindling crowd. The cops were conferring by Derosby’s Suburban.

  Tory was nowhere to be seen.

  “Must’ve left,” I said. “Hard to watch, I’m sure.”

  “I’ll just have to catch up with him later,” Don said.

  We turned to the women, Rita red-eyed, the women holding her on both sides. She clenched a tissue, looked at Don.

  “Hang in there, Rita,” he said. “We’ll build it back like new.”

  She nodded, pursed her lips, then said, “Oh, Don, it’s so awful.”

  She hugged him and he patted her back.

  “It’s just a house. You still have each other, right?” Don said.

  She nodded. He stepped away and I moved in.

  I told Rita I was sorry, gave her arm a squeeze, guided her a few feet away from the other women. She sniffed and took a deep breath and I asked her if I could talk to her for my story. She looked back at the charred rubble that had been her home. Blackened beams, broken windows, furniture burned down to metal frames.

  “I don’t know what there is to say.”

  “What will you do next?” I said.

  “I don’t know. We haven’t talked. Do you know where Tory went?”

  “No. Will you rebuild?”

  “Sure. I mean, I think so. We like it here, and even if we didn’t, we’ve got so much invested. I mean, my God, we’re in so deep.”

  She shook her head, fought back tears. I waited, pen and notebook ready.

  “We put everything we had into this town, the business. I mean, the Hidden Treasure angle and everything.”

  “But someone is doing this, Rita. One house you had listed. One you owned. Your office. Are you beginning to think—”

  “That someone’s out to get us? But why? No. I mean, what have we done? We’re good people. Everybody likes us. I mean, Tory’s the president of the Sanctuary Business Alliance; I’m secretary. We’re putting this place on the map, for God’s sake.”

  “Maybe some people don’t want to be on the map,” I said.

  “We haven’t even told people how we were working on the magazine angle—I don’t know how many phone calls we’ve made, e-mails sent—so they would connect it with us, with this town. And anyway, we like everybody. There’s no reason.”

  “Do you like everybody still? How do you feel about the Hidden Treasure thing now?”

  “Well, Jack, I don’t know. Maybe it’s somebody from outside of town. Maybe it’s just one crazy person, somebody who’s sick. In the head, I mean. Why else . . .”

  The words trailed off. Rita looked thin, and worn, and haggard.

  “Are you afraid?” I said.

  She looked at me, started to answer. Stopped. Started again.

  “Should I be? I don’t know. I mean, what can he do now? Our house is gone.”

  Rita paused. Looked at the house and said, her voice lowered, “I feel like I don’t know anyone. I don’t know who people really are.”

  And you don’t, I thought. Not even good old Don.

  I wished her luck. She thanked me, gave me a washed-out version of the Rita smile, a reflex she couldn’t control. I turned away and left her standing alone, until the women closed ranks and, like bridesmaids surrounding a reluctant bride, propped her up again.

  I was in the truck, headed back to the center of town, when the maroon Suburban pulled up behind me, flashed blue grille lights. I eased over, saw Davida Reynolds, grim-faced at the wheel, as the truck passed.

  And then an Impala, State Police unmarked, on the Suburban’s bumper. I glanced left, saw a detective driving, Louis hunched in the backseat. He was staring straight ahead.

  I swung back onto the road, reached for the phone. Punched in the number as I shifted through the gears.

  “It’s me,” I said.

  “McMorrow,” Reynolds said.

  “What’s going on?”

  “No comment.”

  “What’s with Louis Longfellow?”

  “No comment.”

  “Off the record.”

  No reply. The Impala was gaining on me.

  “Way off the record, then.”

  “You don’t write anything until there’s a disposition?”

  “Until there’s a conviction? No way.”

  “No,” she said. “A decision. Charged or not charged.”

  “Deal,” I said.

  “Louis Longfellow is a person of interest.”

  “Enough interest to take him in?”

  “He was uncooperative.”

  “That doesn’t make him an arsonist. Or a murderer.”

  “I can’t tell you what it makes him,” Reynolds said. “It’s just another variable in the problem set. We’ll chat with him today and probably end up driving him home. If it’s him, he’ll at least slow down.”

  “Want another one?”

  She said she did. I gave it to her. Linwood. Don Barbier. Julie Barber. Derek Mays.

  “I don’t remember him. From the file,” Reynolds said, over the sound of the truck accelerating.

  “Ex-boyfriend,” I said. “A year younger. Split up when she went off to college. May be pretty far down in the weeds.”

  “Huh,” Reynolds said.

  “That’s all you got? Huh?”

  “Weird coincidence. Weird that he changed his name. But it was a long time ago, Mr. McMorrow.”

  “Disappeared for twenty years, too.”

  “You’re right,” Reynolds said. “Three weird things. But I’ve got a disturbed military vet with explosives and reconnaissance training and gasoline on his boots. Who, when he was asked about his whereabouts on the nights of any of the arson fires, pulled a loaded Beretta M9 handgun from under his shirt and told us to get off his land.”

  “Huh,” I said.

  “Right.”

  “Looks bad, but I don’t think he’s the one,” I said.

  “He’s trained to kill,” she said. “Strong as an ox. Could have taken Woodrow out with a couple of swings. The kid comes along, sees him about to torch that truck. Reflex. Boom, boom, and done. Moves through the woods like a Navy SEAL.”

  “I still don’t buy it,” I said.

  “Do you have a reason, or is it just reflex for you to disagree?” Reynolds said. She was testy, amped up after having a gun stuck in her face.

  “Because Louis doesn’t really know Tory Stevens. Or Rita. He just doesn’t like outsiders in general. Or people, for that matter.”

  “So?”

  “So he’d be more random.” I said. “Fires all over the place.”

  “After the first three abandoned buildings, we’ve had a barn and a house.”

  “And an office door,” I said. “And the hay in Clair Varney’s barn.”

  “Right.”

  “Three out of those four had some connection to Don, aka Derek, or to Tory and Rita.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “It’s a small town,” I said. “There’s gonna be some overlap.”

  “I know, but still.”

  I paused, plunged ahead.

  “You know what Louis told me?”

  “Nope
.”

  “He said he watches people in town. At night. And this was really interesting:

  He said he watches people watching people.”

  Reynolds said “Huh.”

  “So he’s not the only one out there,” I said.

  “Christ,” she said. “Somebody could be following him.”

  I thought of Louis, the way he moved through the woods like a shadow, appeared like a ghost.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  Lasha’s Jeep was parked by her house. I sat for a minute, waited. Finally I got out of the truck and, mindful of Lasha’s shotgun, called out. “Hey. You home?”

  I waited for a reply, some sign of life.

  Nothing.

  I walked to the side door, the one in the ell that led to the kitchen. I listened for a moment—for the sound of bacon frying, NPR. Nothing.

  I knocked. Waited. Knocked again. I turned the knob and the door opened. I stepped inside.

  The kitchen was still. “Hey, Lasha,” I said.

  I walked into the kitchen, called, “It’s Jack. You home?”

  Nothing.

  I went to the door to the dining room, looked in. The table was covered with magazines and newspapers, empty beer bottles. I turned back to the kitchen, crossed to the door that led to the studio. I lifted the latch, called again. Looked for a trip wire, a crossbow—this being Lasha.

  Nothing.

  I walked down the short passageway, knocked on the next door, opened it and called, “Lasha. You out here?”

  I heard a sound.

  A woman’s moan.

  I crossed the studio, past the menagerie of wooden animals and their keepers. Looked to the right, the corner, the big easy chair. Saw Lasha’s bare foot. Her leg. She moaned again.

  I came around the corner of the cabinet. Lasha was in the chair, her head splayed back. She opened her eyes and looked at me, tried to focus. I moved to her, took the shotgun off her lap. I placed it carefully on the table, facing away. Screwed the top back on the nearly empty bottle of Glenlivet.

  “Jack,” Lasha said.

  “Morning,” I said.

  She pulled herself up, tugged her shorts down where they’d hiked up.

  “So much for your security plan,” I said.

  She looked at me blankly, then said, “Oh, that. I decided that was no way to live.”

  “An army could have marched in here,” I said.

  Lasha ran a hand over her hair. Smiled blearily.

  “But they didn’t,” she said. “You did. Change your mind, McMorrow? Succumb to my feminine charms?”

  I smiled back.

  “Almost,” I said.

  “Well, forget it,” Lasha said. “I’m not a home wrecker. May be a lot of things . . .”

  “I went to the fire.”

  Another blank look.

  “Tory and Rita’s. You called me.”

  “Really.”

  “You’re drinking way too much, Lasha,” I said.

  “Spare me the lecture, Jack. It’s all coming back to me now. I could see the flames.”

  “Right.”

  “Burned flat?”

  “Will be after they bulldoze it.”

  “Arson?”

  “What else?”

  “This town is screwed-up,” Lasha said.

  “They think it’s Louis Longfellow.”

  “Huh. The nut-case army guy? Too easy. Life’s not easy, Jack. If you think it is, you’re kidding yourself.”

  She looked at the bottle.

  “If we can’t have morning sex, how ’bout a drink.”

  “I’m driving,” I said. “And I have a question for you.”

  “You’re no fun at all, McMorrow.”

  “So I’ve been told,” I said. “Don Barbier.”

  She looked at me, made a sour face.

  “What’s this, a contest? Name all the guys who refuse to sleep with me. You forming a club, or what?”

  I smiled.

  “Hey, did I tell you he called me? Said he wants to try again. I said I’d think about it. He said he’d stop by. Said he isn’t used to alcohol, sorry he got so drunk. He even wanted to know what he said. I said, Oh, you just told me your whole life story. For his sake, I hope he doesn’t remember wee little winky.”

  I waited, said, “I found out some things about him. I’m wondering if he is what he seems.”

  “You and me both,” she said.

  “Tell me about your date.”

  She reached for the bottle, opened it and sniffed. Her head jerked back like it was smelling salts.

  “Let’s just say, guys like you and him, they could do a number on a woman’s self-esteem.”

  “You’re very attractive,” I said. “But I’m happily married.”

  “Total non sequitur, in some circles. But thanks.”

  “Tell me about when you were with Don—”

  “Don the Monk? Let me see, we were—how should I put this for your delicate ears, Jack?—on our second date, me having asked him out both times. And we’re, how to put this, getting ready to do the deed.”

  The animals and wizards were poised to listen.

  “And he says he can’t. I say, ‘Were you injured in the war or something?’ He says no. I mean, just my luck, you know? Big macho carpenter guy and he’s gay, or he’s saving himself for marriage.”

  I waited.

  “So he says he isn’t ready for love. I’m thinking, love? Who said anything about love? I’m looking for a roll in the hay.”

  “He wasn’t?”

  “Not that night. He’d had a few drinks. I mean, I do have a tendency to drink guys under the table. But anyway, he starts going on about the love of his life. I’m like, ‘What am I? Chopped liver?’ But he’s off down Memory Lane, you know? He found the perfect woman, they met in high school. Sweet, huh? By the way, as he’s telling this story, I’m not entirely clothed.”

  “Huh.”

  “And get this. I had his jeans down. I know this is too much information, but when I start to get his boxers off, I see this tattoo.”

  “Okay.”

  “On his thigh. ‘Julie and Derek. Forever.’ ”

  “Huh,” I said.

  “I said to him, ‘Who the hell is Derek?’ He says it’s his middle name. Used to go by it.”

  She paused.

  “You don’t seem surprised,” she said.

  “He changed his name,” I said. “Entirely. What did he say about Julie?”

  “All this stuff about how she died when they were young and he’s been grieving ever since.”

  “Twenty years?”

  “Right,” Lasha said. “I mean, ever heard of counseling?”

  “Huh.”

  “She was perfect. She was an angel. They were so in love, blah, blah, blah. As soon as she finished that year at college, they were gonna elope.”

  “Really.”

  “Oh, yeah. I got the whole long story. I mean, talk about a buzz kill. I had time to put all of my clothes back on, tie my shoes, tighten up my corset.”

  She reached for the bottle, took another sniff. A small sip. She grimaced.

  “And then?”

  “And then she up and died.”

  “He say how?” I said.

  “No. I figure it was some sort of sickness, you know. A rare form of cancer. Like in a movie you see on a plane.”

  “Huh. Anything else?”

  “No, just that he kind of cracked up, left Maine, wherever it was, just traveled around the country. Had to keep moving or else she got back into his head.”

  “Really.”

  “I’m gonna go online, see if I can find out about her. I mean, who would’ve thought he was a total head case?”

  “So where’d he go?” I said.

  Lasha looked at me.

  “Tell me again why you want to know all this?”

  “Just need to know that I really know him. For my story.”

  “Derek, huh,” she said. “Der
ek what?”

  “I don’t know if I can—”

  “Gotta give to receive, Jack,” Lasha said. She looked at the ceiling. The beasts and wizards waited.

  “Okay. Mays. Derek Mays,” I said. “So where did he say he went? Georgia, right?” I said.

  “Yeah. That was most recent. Let’s see. Talked about Massachusetts. He did work on condos down there, in one of the mills. I don’t remember all the details. I was half listening as I looked for my underwear.”

  “And anywhere else?”

  “Oh, let me think. Texas. He said he liked Austin. And Arizona; he said he had business there, but I don’t think he stayed long. And California. Not LA. I asked him if he’d been to the Getty. He’d never been south. Said he lived in Humboldt County. Said everybody there was in the marijuana business.”

  “Was he?” I said.

  “No, he’s a straight arrow,” she said. “At least, I think he’s straight.” Lasha raised an eyebrow.

  “Where was he in California?” I asked.

  “Oh, jeez. Eureka, maybe. I think they called it that because of the gold rush. You know, ‘Eureka!’ I remember him talking about a place called McKinleyville, named for Mr. McKinley. I said, Who? Sometimes we were on different wavelengths.”

  “You’ll see him again?” I said.

  “Sure. But he’s gotta come to me. Like on his knees. In the meantime, I’ll check him out.”

  I smiled. Lasha got herself up out of the chair and stretched, her hands behind her head, her back arched, breasts pointed toward me.

  If Don wasn’t gay he was crazy, I thought, and Lasha caught it, smiled.

  “We could be having a hell of a time, Jack,” she said, brushing against me as she passed. “While Rome burns.”

  34

  I called from the parking lot of the general store, sitting in the truck, facing the door.

  “Yeah,” Roxanne said, her voice flat and cold.

  Hi,” I said. “How goes it?”

  “It goes,” she said, then away from the phone, “Honey, I think he’s had enough carrots. We’ll save the rest for tomorrow.”

  “I’m in Sanctuary,” I said. “You at the barn?”

  “She had to see the pony.”

  “I’m sure. How is he?”

  “Pokey? He’s full.”

  “How’s Sophie?”

  “Okay. I’m trying to keep her busy.”

  “Anything from the cops about Beth?”