Once Burned

by Gerry Boyle

  “Just shut up and drive,” I said.

  From a ridgetop near Lake St. George, I called Clair. Voice mail again.

  Tried Roxanne, straight to voice mail.

  Tory drove on, his face tense and pallid. Miles passed as we descended into a valley and I called Roxanne from the next ridge, juggling phone and gun. Voice mail.

  In Knox we slowed and stopped. I switched the gun back.

  “Left,” I said, and we pulled out and climbed and saw the valley laid out below, pasture in rectangles, cows ambling, stone walls creeping up the hillsides.

  Five miles.

  Tory sensed something, said, “We could team up, take him together.”

  “Shut up,” I said, and I fingered the phone, one eye on him, the gun wavering. Tapped Roxanne’s number. It buzzed.

  “Yessir.”

  Don’s voice, menacingly cheerful.

  “Five miles,” I said. “Top of Knox Ridge, Route 137.”

  “You got him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have him say something.”

  I held the phone up, said, “Talk.”

  Tory hesitated, then said, “This is nuts, Don. Are you crazy? I never killed that girl. Those three guys did it. So it’s all over. You’re taking this too far, man. Really, just get a grip. We can talk. We can talk this out.”

  He was still going when I put the phone to my ear.

  “How’s that?” I said.

  “Pathetic,” Don said. “He’s a piece of shit. Call from the end of your road.”

  He was gone. I told Tory to keep driving west. Tapped Clair’s number again. He answered.

  “Where are you?” I said.

  “On the way back. The girls went shopping. Followed them out. Nobody in sight up to the main road. Stayed with them for a couple of miles beyond that.”

  “They went back home. Sophie felt sick. Now Don’s there. He has them. He’s the arsonist.”

  “Shit,” Clair said. “Twenty minutes.”

  “He’s calling the shots,” I said. “No cops.”

  “Gotcha. You armed?”

  I heard the roar of the big Ford.

  “Your Glock. One clip.”

  “Torso,” Clair said. “Bursts of three.”

  Tory looked at me, his eyes starting to fill.

  “You know you’re bringing me to my own execution,” he said.

  “If you run, I’ll do it myself,” I said. “I’ll shoot you in the back. Don’t think I won’t.”

  We drove the last miles in silence, then I motioned with the gun for Tory to go right. He pulled off the main road, onto the gravel, and we continued a mile in. At the end of the Dump Road, we slowed and stopped.

  I called. He answered.

  “Yup.”

  “We’re here,” I said.

  Tory’s left hand dropped from the wheel to his lap, started to move toward the door handle. I put the muzzle of the gun hard against his cheekbone. He moved his hand back.

  “Drive up in front of your house,” Don said. “Call when you’re there.”

  He was gone.

  “Drive,” I said, and Tory slowly reached for the gearshift, then swung his arm right, caught me under the chin. I gasped and he was rolling out, the door half open. I got him by the neck of his shirt, yanked him back. The shirt tore, and he spun and started to pull it over his head, falling out the door. On my knees I crawled after him. He backed away and I fell headfirst out of the truck, caught his knee, tripped him up, and as he fell, the shirt over his face, I slammed him across the head with the gun.

  He grunted and I hit him again and he swayed on his hands and knees, blood seeping through the Sanctuary Brokers blue.

  “Up,” I said, and I yanked the shirt down and him to his feet. I reached into the truck cab and got my phone, then grabbed him by the shirt collar again, and pushed him along. Blood ran from his hair down his neck. He stumbled and I held him up, said, “I don’t care if I have to carry you, I’m getting you there.”

  It was a long quarter-mile. Tory walked in front of me, weaving his way, his shirt balled up in my fist at the back of his neck. He dabbed at his head, looked at his hand covered with blood.

  “Oh, my God,” he said.

  When he slowed, I prodded him with the gun and he lurched forward. I looked at my watch, counting down the time until Clair would get back. Seventeen minutes to go.

  We marched like Tory was a prisoner of war, which he was. Barbier’s war. Roxanne and Sophie caught in the crossfire. God, they’d be terrified. If he’d hurt them . . .

  Even if he hadn’t.

  We walked in the shade of the woods, birds flittering in the undergrowth, chipmunks skittering into the stone walls. Tory stumbled, put his hands to his knees, said, “I’m gonna be sick.” I pulled him back upright and he retched but kept walking. And then the house showed through the trees. We trudged past the end of the stone wall, out from under the trees, stood in the road in front of the house.

  Eleven minutes.

  I called.

  “Yeah,” Barbier said.

  “We’re here. Out front.”

  “I see you.”

  I looked at the windows, couldn’t see anyone. Looked to the woods; nothing.

  “So you can send them out,” I said. “We’ll do the swap.”

  “Not here,” Barbier said. “Come down to the big barn. We’ll do it there. Two minutes. You’re not here, I have to start hurting people.”

  I heard Sophie crying and then he was gone.

  “What?” Tory said.

  “Move,” I said, and we did.

  I pushed him up the driveway, into the backyard, down the garden path toward Clair’s. As I approached the barn, I saw movement in the loft window. Barbier’s vantage point, a clear sight line to the road.

  We walked through the trees, up to the front of the building.

  I called Clair, said, “Upstairs in your barn. Don’t come up the road from the east side.”

  “Ten minutes,” Clair said over the roar of the motor, then hung up.

  My phone buzzed.

  “Up the stairs, then up the ladder,” Don said. “Keep him in front of you. One minute.”

  We stepped through the barn door into the shadows. I had the gun out, Tory in front of me. We crossed the workshop to the wooden stairs. Tory hesitated and I put the gun to his head. He started up, his boat shoes scuffing on the treads, his khakis smeared with blood. The stairs led to the main loft, hay bales and hand tools, empty chicken cages. At the far end of the loft, a ladder led to the third floor. We paused at the base and Tory looked up.

  I checked my watch. Eight minutes.

  “Up,” I said.

  He climbed slowly, like it was the gallows. I was two rungs below him, the gun pointed up. When he poked his head through the floor he said, “Oh, God.”

  And let go.

  He fell against me, almost knocked me off the ladder. I hung by one leg, one arm, strained to hold him up. I pressed him against the ladder in front of me, jammed the gun into his spine, and said, “Climb, damn it. Climb.”

  Tory gathered himself up, put a boat shoe on the rung, and heaved himself upward. Four rungs to the top. I pushed him up and onto the floor, tucked the Glock in the back of my jeans, and pulled my T-shirt over it.

  And there they were.

  Roxanne was sitting on a hay bale, Sophie on her lap. Barbier was standing ten feet away from them, a sawed-off shotgun in his arms, red plastic gasoline can at his feet. He smiled, like it was a picnic and we were late.

  “You son of a bitch,” I said.

  “Easy, Jack. Everything’s going according to plan.”

  Roxanne was drawn and pale. Sophie’s face was pressed to her mother’s shoulder. Roxanne looked at me, at Tory, the blood. She clenched her lips to keep from crying. Sophie turned to me, her face red and streaked with tears. “Daddy,” she said. “I want to go home.”

  “We’re going home now, honey,” Roxanne said, pressing Sophie close
. Tory, sprawled on the floor, looked up and said, “I didn’t kill her. I swear.”

  Barbier looked at him, said, “This is a special day.”

  And then he looked at me. “A deal is a deal. And nobody can ever say that Derek Mays isn’t a man of his word. I promised Julie I’d finish this, and I will. I promised we’d trade, and we’ll do that, too.”

  He looked at Roxanne and said, “You can go now. I’m very sorry I upset your daughter. It really was the only way.”

  Roxanne got up from the bale, walked quickly to the ladder. She handed Sophie to me and turned and started down. I bent and lowered Sophie to Roxanne, felt my shirt ride up.

  They started down. I watched them until they were on the loft floor, heard their footsteps on the floorboards, then on the stairs. I turned back.

  Barbier had the shotgun pointed at me.

  “Drop the gun onto the floor with two fingers and kick it away. Just a little extra precaution. We’ve come this far—don’t want to trip up at the finish line. It’s been too long, man, too hard.”

  “So you killed Lasha?”

  “Hey, I had no choice. She was figuring things out too quick. That woman with Tory at the store—I suppose it was only a matter of time. Then Lasha jumps on freakin’ Google, you know? And she got me off track a couple of times, talking too much. I said to her, ‘Just give me a couple of days and then I’ll be long gone.’ But no. She was gonna run right to you, McMorrow. ‘I gotta talk to Jack.’ ”

  I sagged inside, then pushed it away. Not the time.

  “And Eve Johnson? The woman in the car?”

  “Oh, jeez,” Don said. “That was unfortunate. Really. Wrong place, wrong time, you know? Once she knew, I couldn’t let her go. Not then. Not now.”

  He raised the shotgun.

  “The gun,” he said.

  I slipped the Glock out with my thumb and forefinger, crouched to put it on the floor. Gave it a scuff and it slid away.

  Don moved and stood over Tory, who was still on his hands and knees.

  “How’s it feel, Tommy boy?” he said. “I’d tape your mouth, but I want to hear you scream.”

  He lifted the gun, slammed the butt down on Tory’s back. Tory grunted, dropped to his belly. His face was against the floor and he started to sob.

  Don moved to the gas can and, still watching me, bent and picked it up. The gun in one hand, the can in the other, he moved to Tory and began to pour.

  Tory screamed, said, “No. Please, no.” Barbier circled him, then sloshed gas over his back. Tory screamed again. The barn filled with fumes.

  “This is nuts,” I said.

  “No,” Don said. “It’s justice. That’s all. You don’t understand because you didn’t know her. Her smile. I mean, the way she looked at you. Her eyes. The most beautiful eyes. Just the way she was, this gift to the world. Julie was the most—”

  “I didn’t kill her,” Tory bellowed.

  I got a glimpse of my watch. Two minutes.

  “We have a pony downstairs,” I said.

  “You’ll have time to get it out. Fire moves upward. I should know. It’ll take a long time to get all the way down there.”

  “It’s an awful nice old building. Belongs to a friend of mine.”

  “I heard. Some retired guy, your wife said. I’m sorry about this, but it’s a little risky doing it in plain view. Be glad I didn’t burn your house down. Or his. Barn’s insured, right?”

  “Jesus, Don,” Tory said, raising himself to his hands and knees. “Please don’t do this.”

  “You killed her,” Don said.

  “I had nothing to do with it. I was a victim, too, for God’s sake. Those guys, they were fucking crazy.”

  “Oh, I know that,” Don said. “Though it was funny to see one of them going through his prayers at the end. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven.’ Well, God may be up there, I said, but you’ll never see him, you piece of shit.”

  He put the gas can down. Reached to his back pocket and took out a lighter.

  “No,” Tory screamed. “Jack, don’t let him do this.”

  I heard the faintest sound, a scrape below me. The ladder.

  Clair.

  “You sure you can’t just do this outside, Don,” I said. “I mean, I have no sympathy, none, for this guy. But this barn. And what if the smoke gets to the pony. Hay fires, they’re really smoky.”

  “Jack, no,” Tory screamed.

  “Oh, don’t I know it,” Barbier said. “Wet hay? Smokes like hell. Learned a few things about fire over the years. Had to, get the job done. Really wanted to do this right, not just go around shooting people. That wouldn’t do at all, not at—”

  Tory lunged, got halfway to his feet. The shotgun boomed and Tory fell, his foot mangled, boat shoe shredded into bits of bloody leather and flesh. He fell back in the circle of gasoline, shrieking. Don lowered the gun, flicked the lighter. The click was loud, the flame bright in the dim light.

  He moved around the circle toward me and the ladder, readying for his exit.

  “Take it easy, Don,” I said. “What if he’s telling the truth? What if he was just a witness?”

  “He sold them out,” Don said. “Julie died. The coward traded her life for his.”

  He bent to the floor, held the lighter out to the puddle of gas. There was movement on the ladder and I said, “I don’t know, Don. Seems like you’ve become just like them. Cheech and Bear and Kiko. They probably thought they had some justification for what they were doing, too. Business, sending a message, some twisted drug-dealer creed. You killed an innocent old man. A troubled kid. A woman with little kids. Lasha.”

  “Collateral damage,” Barbier said, flicking the lighter again. It was the kind that stayed lit until you snapped the lid on it. “Like drone strikes in Afghanistan, as Russell used to say. Sometimes people are in the wrong place.”

  He leaned back down.

  And Louis Longfellow came up out of the ladder hole, snapped four quick shots from a rifle. Barbier was still standing when the last shot hit him in the buttocks. He tried to get the lighter down but fell forward instead.

  There was a whoosh and the flames shot sideways and I started to move, then stopped. Tory was screaming, his khakis starting to burn. Barbier’s hands and arms were in the fire. I stood and watched as Louis popped out of the ladder way, the rifle in one hand, the .22. He started to move to the fire but I put my arm in front of him.

  “Wait,” I said.

  They were both screaming now, swatting at the flames. The smoke was acrid, cloth burning, Tory’s hair smoking. He was writhing now, rolling right into Don, who was trying to get up but couldn’t. I watched, stood stock still. Their skin was blistering, hands slapping at the flames like they were swarms of biting bugs. As I watched I thought of Woodrow and Lasha. Eve and the old doctor. I thought of Julie, too.

  I stood. Don was grunting. Tory shrieked. They both writhed.

  “This is wrong,” Louis said, and tried to move by me. I blocked him again, said, “No.”

  “Come on, McMorrow.”

  We were chest to chest, face-to-face, Louis moving right and left. I held his arms, pushed him back. Screams filled the loft, the smoke thick, curling to the peak of the roof.

  “Enough, McMorrow,” Louis shouted. “Enough.”

  He tried to shove me aside but I held him back, saw the panic in his wild eyes, heard the screams.

  I held on.

  I still held him.

  Longer. Longer. Longer.

  And then I let go.

  We stomped the fire with our boots, snuffed the fire out, the blue flames flickering around our feet.

  When there were no more flames, just the smell of gasoline and singed hair and burned flesh, we stopped.

  I picked up the shotgun, its wooden stock charred, and tossed it to the side. Tory and Don were side by side on the plank floor, gasping and moaning. Don took a feeble swing at Tory and Tory held his arm up to block him. Both arms were blistered, hair burned of
f.

  They fell back, Tory saying, “Oh, God help me—God help me.”

  Don said, “I’ll still get you. I’ll find you and kill you, I swear to God.”

  We stood, Louis was trembling. I reached for my phone just as Clair’s head popped through the opening. He clambered up, surveyed the scene, said, “Log truck flipped; stanchion let go and spilled the load in the road. Had to take the long way around.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “The Marines showed up.”

  We put the fire out with fire extinguishers from the shop, the gas burning but only singing the floorboards. And then a clamor of people, up and down the ladder.

  The Prosperity Volunteer Fire Department in their boots and helmets, spraying the floor with extinguishers where the fire had been. Cops, state and county. Ambulances. Paramedics going up and down the ladder, IV bottles and tubes, stretchers hefted down the stairs. A helicopter to transport Don to the hospital in Portland, the gunshot wound and the burns a bad combination. Tory kept on screaming all the way out. Don was silent, staring straight ahead as they hoisted him aboard.

  Scalabrini was there. Davida Reynolds. Even Trooper Foley.

  Jack McMorrow: This is your life.

  We sat in police cruisers and told the story. Me and Roxanne. Louis and Clair. Mary had Sophie in the house, making cookies, as Mary put it, “for all the nice policemen.” Pokey got a bucket of oats for his troubles and calmly munched as the helicopter landed outside his paddock.

  Skittish he was not.

  Cops took notes, asked a lot of questions. Then they left, one by one.

  Four murders solved, a bunch of arson cases. In that way, and only that way, it was a good day.

  After my formal interviews, Davida Reynolds still wanted to talk.

  We moved away from the group and stopped and leaned on the paddock fence. Pokey looked up from his stall at us, then bent back to his feed. On the far side of the paddock, Clair and Louis leaned and talked.

  “It was clear Louis hadn’t done anything,” Reynolds said. “He said he never wanted to see fire again. After twenty minutes I brought him home.”

  “He told me he’d been watching Don because he knew Don had been watching Tory. At night,” I said. “Then today he saw Don leave his house with the shotgun wrapped in a towel. He thought Don was gonna kill Tory someplace.”