Burn All Alike

by Nene Adams

  Debbie Lou’s sucker punch came flying directly at her when she started to turn her head. She caught the movement in her peripheral vision and flinched, but the woman’s fist smacked into the palm of someone’s hastily outthrust hand.

  Mackenzie jerked her gaze to the right. Veronica. The sight drained her anger so quickly, she felt light-headed. “Ronnie,” she heard herself say as if from a distance.

  “Mac,” Veronica responded. Her gaze shifted to Debbie Lou. “Ms. Erskine.”

  “Oh, Vera, honey, call me Deborah Louise like you did before,” Debbie Lou purred, smiling and stretching to make her cropped T-shirt ride up even further, showing off her belly button piercing. “You know, like when we were dating.”

  Mackenzie boiled to say something. As far as she knew, Veronica had only been on one date with Debbie Lou and hadn’t liked it any better than getting a tetanus shot.

  Veronica’s eyebrow rose. “Ms. Erskine,” she repeated with clearly deliberate patience. “We received a call from the store manager about a disturbance. Is there a problem here?”

  “No,” Mackenzie blurted, staring hard at Debbie Lou and trying to beam a telepathic message directly into the woman’s tiny pea brain: Shut up, don’t get me in trouble with my girlfriend, or I’ll excavate your guts with a grapefruit spoon.

  Debbie Lou grinned, not at all intimidated.

  Mackenzie snarled, ready to slap the woman upside the head and damn the consequences, when an idea occurred to her. “We were just discussing the arson case against Turnip and how the DA might bring charges against Debbie Lou for accessory before the fact. How many years will Ms. Erskine get to enjoy the women’s prison if she’s convicted, Ronnie?”

  “Could be as much as ten years if the judge is in a lesson teaching mood at sentencing,” Veronica replied in her politest and most dangerous tone while continuing to watch Debbie Lou steadily. “Would Ms. Erskine like to add another fifteen to twenty years for aggravated assault?”

  “What?” Debbie Lou’s smile faltered.

  Veronica forced open Debbie Lou’s fist to reveal a roll of quarters.

  Mackenzie controlled the impulse to shriek, jump on Debbie Lou and give her a whuppin’ like Hell come a-walking. If that punch had landed…but Veronica had saved her from a broken nose or worse. She swallowed her ire, though she nearly choked.

  “For the laundromat, I assume,” Veronica murmured, plucking the roll of coins from Debbie Lou. “You should be more careful, Ms. Erskine. Somebody might get hurt.”

  Debbie Lou tossed her head. “That lyin’ little beanpole started it.”

  Veronica’s mild expression didn’t change. She let Debbie Lou take the quarters before she lashed out, quick as a snake, and took hold of the woman’s wrist. Her eyes held the sharp glitter of broken glass. “Ms. Erskine, you’re an adult. This is not third-grade recess. In the adult world, ‘she started it’ isn’t an acceptable excuse for violent behavior. Grown-ups discuss their problems. Don’t you agree?” She squeezed harder, waiting until Debbie Lou’s complexion took on a sickly gray pallor to add, “Don’t do it again.”

  Debbie Lou shivered.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Ms. Erskine?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Veronica released her grip.

  “Jesus Christ!” Debbie Lou whimpered, cherishing her wrist. The quarters fell on the floor and rolled under a pallet stacked with onions.

  Mackenzie blinked. A feminine flutter shot through her. She’d sooner jump off a six-foot ladder into a bucket of razor blades than mess with Veronica in full-blown sheriff’s deputy mode, but the woman had used that sexy authority on her behalf. Her knees went weak. She suddenly felt the urge to squeeze Veronica’s biceps and coo.

  Veronica didn’t appear anything other than calm and unruffled, but her color was high, more cream-and-crimson than milk-and-roses. “Ms. Erskine, are you aware there’s a warrant out for your arrest? You need to come with me to the station. I can trust you to cooperate and not give me any trouble, can’t I?”

  “I guess.” Debbie Lou eyed Veronica with new respect and wariness.

  “Then please wait for me over there.” Veronica pointed toward the front of the produce section next to net bags of oranges, lemons and limes. Once Debbie Lou trotted off out of earshot, she bent a frown on Mackenzie. “Mac, this fighting has got to stop.”

  “Huh?” Mackenzie’s good mood screeched to a crashing halt. “Oh, c’mon, Ronnie, Debbie Lou could’ve seriously broken my face!”

  “And she wouldn’t have had the opportunity if you didn’t goad her into it.” Veronica pushed her hat back from her forehead. “You’ve been spoiling for a fight for days.”

  The accusation couldn’t be denied. Instead, Mackenzie tried to derail the conversational train. “Spaghetti tonight?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “Fine. Don’t you have a suspect to arrest?”

  Veronica walked away without another word.

  Mackenzie lifted a hand, but Veronica didn’t glance back at her.

  A half hour later, when she finished shopping and headed out to the parking lot, the storm clouds overhead burst, drenching the world in warm, ozone-scented rain.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  That night while eating supper with Veronica at the kitchen table—spaghetti topped with homemade meat sauce—Mackenzie confessed her sins. “I’m really sorry, Ronnie. The waiting and the weather are making me kind of crazy.”

  Veronica took a drink of iced sweet tea, set down the glass and nodded. “We’re both on pins and needles with the threat of Osame hanging over our heads, but you can’t go around inciting fights with Deborah Louise. Or anybody else,” she added with a pointed look.

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Mackenzie wondered how the hell Veronica managed to make her feel so guilty she was on the verge of squirming in her seat. She rose and went to the refrigerator for Parmesan cheese. “What’s going on with the case?” she asked, returning to the table. “All the criminals locked up in the hoosegow?”

  “Deborah Louise is under arrest, as are her brother, Turner, and Rosalyn Parker for the warehouse arson,” Veronica replied between neat bites of spaghetti. “Chief Irvine and Bob McCarty are trying to find evidence linking them to the other fires. The current theory is that Turner has been torching locations all over town to distract attention from the warehouse.”

  Mackenzie grated cheese over her pasta. “We know better.” She played the list of names in her head and came up one short. “Where’s Purvis? Y’all ain’t collared him yet?”

  “Purvis is MIA. Nobody’s seen him around lately, but nothing appears missing from his house and office, and his bank account hasn’t been touched.”

  “Bet he’ll turn up sooner or later. He’s like a turd that won’t flush.”

  “Mac, please…not while we’re at the table.”

  “Sorry.”

  Several minutes passed in silence while she and Veronica ate.

  Rain continued tapping on the windowpanes. Occasional flashes of lightning tore through the gloom outside. Mackenzie squinted against a particularly brilliant blue-white strobe. What the hell? Her surprised jerk flung a forkful of spaghetti on the floor. For a split second, she could’ve sworn she’d seen a woman’s face floating in the air outside the window. Osame? She struggled to recall the brief image to her mind’s eye.

  “Need a paper towel?” Veronica asked, breaking into her thoughts.

  “What?” More than half of Mackenzie’s attention was fixed on the window.

  Veronica used her chin to indicate the spilled pasta and sauce on the floor. “Want me to get that?” She seemed amused. “You’re thinking so hard, I swear I smell smoke.”

  “Ho, ho, ho. Very funny. See me laughing?”

  Mackenzie fetched a roll of paper towels and wiped up the mess. When she straightened from her crouch, another lightning fork lit the sky. This time, she didn’t see a woman’s face, or much of anything else for tha
t matter. Putting the previous vision down as a hallucination brought on by stress and nerves, she moved to the trash can in the corner and tossed the soiled paper towels inside.

  She heard Veronica’s fork clatter on the floor, followed by a distant counterpoint of thunder and sighed to herself. She turned. “Talk about me throwing spaghetti on the floor, huh? Pot, meet ket—” The words died in her throat.

  No mistake this time: Osame’s pale oval face pressed against the windowpane.

  “Mac, get out of the kitchen,” Veronica rasped over the screech of her chair scraping back from the table. “Get out right now.”

  Mackenzie didn’t move. Osame’s malice struck her like a physical blow, a spear point burrowing deep in her viscera. Her heartbeat clamored in her ears. Why did the ghost seem to harbor such anger toward her?

  She heard rustling from the ofuda she’d brought home from Kyoko-ji temple. As a precaution against fire, she had used low-tack tape to fasten several talismans in places around the apartment. Now the ofuda in the kitchen began rippling and fluttering wildly, twisting to and fro as if caught in a ferocious wind, yet the fragile paper didn’t tear.

  Movement at the window caught Mackenzie’s eye. Something worming through the cracks, a darkness showing against the white painted trim: long, thin fibers growing longer and thicker by the moment. Black hair, she realized, a chill sinking into her bones. Osame’s black hair. Not a spirit manifestation but impossibly real.

  Crack!

  The gunshot sound of the wooden casing splitting almost made her jump out of her skin. Not good, not good, not good… A surge of bile seared her throat. The spaghetti had tasted better going in than coming up.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Veronica urged. “We can sleep at my house tonight.”

  Mackenzie looked at the windowpane. Osame’s face was no longer visible, but she sensed malevolence in the air and an increasing pressure like an elastic band stretched over her skin. “I don’t think so! That bitch is not going to drive me out of my own house,” she snarled, turning and stomping out of the kitchen.

  She didn’t need to go far, just to the entryway by the front door and the small ebony side table where she usually dumped her keys and wallet. After quickly rummaging around in the drawer, she returned to the kitchen with Abbot Imamura’s brocade omamori in hand.

  Osame’s hair had continued its unnatural growth in her absence. Coarse black tresses hung at the window like curtains. More tendrils heaped on the table, spilled over the edge and slithered across the floor, reaching for Veronica.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Without really knowing if this would work, Mackenzie bent over, jamming the omamori wrist deep into a pile of hair.

  The strands of hair touching the omamori recoiled disturbingly before going up in a whoosh—not unlike the time Aunt Ida Love’s bouffant ’do came a touch too close to a lit barbeque. Yellow flame flared. Mackenzie smelled the reek of burning hair and a whiff of corruption when the strands shriveled and turned to ash. Triumph swelled in her chest.

  “Got any more of those?” Veronica asked from her position in the corner near the sink, where she’d been boxed in.

  “Just the one,” Mackenzie answered, waving a hand in front of her face as the smoky smell grew stronger. “Phew! What a stink.”

  She used the omamori on another clump of hair. Within a few moments, she established a rhythm: bend, apply, burn. The black hair quivered and coiled away from the talisman, but she was quicker.

  The window rattled.

  “Looks like the abbot’s ofuda are working, too. No fire,” Mackenzie reported.

  The window rattled louder.

  “Must be a hell of a storm outside—”

  With a final ominous creak, the window shattered and blew inward.

  Mackenzie ducked against a hail of broken glass. Stinging debris peppered her skin. Rain rushed in on a heated gust. She suffered a momentary panic from the dark blob obscuring the vision in one eye, but realizing the blob was blood, she swiped a hand over her face. A hot wind plucked at the front of her T-shirt. The suction forced her to stagger.

  She stared at the mounds of black hair piled in the kitchen. A crazy thought flitted through her mind: Damn, I’d swear Elvira’s wig closet exploded in here. Her diaphragm convulsed. She clenched her teeth over a surge of hysteria, but a titter burst from her lips.

  As though the involuntary sound was a trigger, Osame’s hair began to creep over the linoleum, making a soft whispering sound. Mackenzie leaped, the omamori in hand to prevent some of the more animated strands from grabbing Veronica’s ankle.

  At that moment, a thick lock of hair wrapped around her neck and squeezed.

  She struggled, clawing at the prickly noose tightening around her throat and closing off her airway. Oxygen. She needed oxygen. Her chest spasmed. Nothing came in. Her lungs were filled with thick black tar. Burning. She couldn’t breathe.

  Intolerable pressure in her head blurred her vision crimson, then black, and finally a twilight gray. Her pulse roared in her ears. The drumbeats slowed and faltered. Strength drained from her muscles. A dying light winked one last time.

  She floated in soft darkness…

  …And suddenly, she fell forward against something solid and warm, something that patted her back and cradled her close. Her first instinctive whoop for breath burned like liquid fire going down her throat. She gagged, choking on air.

  Her ears popped in time for her to hear, “—easy, easy, Mac, it’ll be okay.”

  Ronnie.

  Taking a less painful breath, Mackenzie dragged a hand over her watering eyes. Her throat hurt, but not as much as when she’d inhaled smoke at the Get-R-Done Roadhouse fire.

  Veronica held the omamori between two fingers. The brocade rectangle missing its tassel, but seemed otherwise intact. “You dropped it. Are you good?”

  Mackenzie nodded. She saw no sign of Osame or the black hair, and raised her eyebrows in a silent question since she didn’t think her voice box worked yet and the pain left her reluctant to try. What the hell happened?

  “The hair disappeared, like we’re going to do.” Veronica sounded as stern as she looked. “And I’m not going to the hardware store now to get plywood to cover up the missing window. It’s stopped raining, so everything will stay dry until morning when you can tell your landlord. We’re spending what’s left of the night at my house. No arguments.”

  Mackenzie studied Veronica—the brunette hair loosened from its pins, the slight tremors in the hands pressed against her back, the ashes streaking through the sweat dappling the woman’s brow—and surrendered without a fight. Later, she’d ask for an unabbreviated version of what must have been an epic spiritual ass kicking. “Okay.”

  Veronica’s shoulders sagged. “Okay.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Mackenzie woke alone in the bed, drifting upward past layers of fogged sleep to finally blink at the sunshine spilling inside through the bedroom window. The light reflected on the walls, turning the neutral beige to near-white and making the primary red, blue and yellow colors in a framed Basquiat poster glow like pop art jewels.

  Ronnie’s place. Satisfaction tugged her mouth into a smile.

  Veronica had undressed her last night, taking time to kiss every inch of her exposed skin before loving her with such deep, slow intensity, she’d lost all sense of herself. Now she stretched, curling her toes in the sheets, only to stiffen when the radio alarm clock blared Foreigner’s “Feels Like the First Time.” She slapped the snooze button and snorted. Not even close. The first time she’d had sex with another girl, she’d been so nervous she nearly puked, and the ensuing awkwardness had made her wonder if she was defective.

  She threw off the sheets and got up to take a quick shower.

  Washed and dressed in a clean outfit of jeans and tank top—thank God she kept a few things here in case of an unexpected sleepover—she walked through the kitchen and out the back door to find Veronica puttering around in the vegetabl
e garden. For a moment, she stood admiring the view of Veronica’s shapely backside rounding out a pair of denim shorts.

  “Maybe Mrs. Tripple next door can use these for tomato soup,” Veronica said, straightening while juggling an armload of late tomatoes.

  Mackenzie walked over the lawn to the garden, grass and earth cool on the soles of her bare feet. She put her arms around Veronica and pulled the woman’s head down for a kiss, heedless of the muted thudding made by tomatoes cascading down on the dirt.

  After a long, delightful moment, Veronica pulled free. “Good morning, Mac,” she murmured, her expression soft, open and affectionate.

  “Great morning, Ronnie.” Mackenzie grinned and helped Veronica gather the fallen tomatoes. “Breakfast?”

  “Sorry, I’ve got to head in to work.” Veronica started toward the house. “We still haven’t arrested Purvis.”

  Mackenzie followed her into the house. “Cousin Jimmy won’t mind.”

  Veronica gave her a look. “‘Cousin Jimmy’ is my boss,” she said, enunciating each word with care, “and I’m sure he would mind…a lot. We’re supposed to go over to Trinity today to follow up on some leads.” Rolling the tomatoes from her arms to the kitchen counter, she brightened. “Hey, I could get off work early this afternoon and make supper. I cut a recipe out of the newspaper for biscuits and gravy with—”

  “No!” Mackenzie blurted, recalling the disaster last time Veronica tried to cook a meal. They still hadn’t scraped all the exploded eggs off her apartment’s ceiling. She tempered her tone at the hurt brimming in Veronica’s eyes. “I mean, uh, no need to go to any trouble on my account, Ronnie. Besides, I’m in the mood for Cherry Bomb’s tonight. Cheeseburgers and chili fries,” she wheedled, “and we’ll order the Rub-a-Dub-Tub monster ice cream sundae.” She held her breath until Veronica finally smiled.