Everything Burns

by Vincent Zandri

  I don’t wait for them.

  I jump off the deck, run over the spot where Olga burned to death, and make my way through the darkness to the fence. I know that if I can somehow make it over the fence, I will have a good chance of disappearing into the wooded lot beyond it. From there I can make my way across the adjoining hundred-acre state park under the cover of night. In theory.

  When I come to the fence, though, I realize there is no practical way of climbing over it. I certainly can’t jump it. But the fence hasn’t been painted in years. It’s practically rotted out from neglect. Raising up my boot heel, I kick. An entire two-by-two section of wood slat disintegrates before my eyes. I kick again and again, until a hole appears that is large enough for me to crawl through.

  Dropping down onto my knees, I snake my way through the opening just as the police enter the backyard through the fence gate. One of them screams, “Stop! Stop now!”

  Down on all fours, I crab my way through the thick brush, briars scratching at my face and exposed hands, catching on my bush jacket. Coming from behind me, the screaming intensifies.

  “Go around,” someone shouts. “He’s going for the park.”

  I feel for my 9mm, where I tucked it into my pants. It’s no longer there. I feel all around my waist, reach into both bottom pockets on my jacket. It’s not there either. Christ, I must have dropped the piece when I was crawling through the hole in the fence. That unlicensed pistol will be enough to convict me of illegal possession of a firearm once the cops locate it. And they will locate it.

  There’s a gravel road on the opposite side of this brush. If I can get to it before the cops do, I can make my way into the park and find a place to hide.

  I burst through the bush on my hands and knees. Looking left I see a pair of headlights poking holes through the darkness. It’s an APD blue and white cruiser, speeding down the road in my direction. I bound up and, turning to my right, make an all-out sprint for the end of the dirt road.

  “Down on your stomach,” bellows a bullhorned voice from the cruiser. “Down on your stomach, arms spread!”

  The end of the road is no more than a hundred feet in front of me. It’s hidden in the darkness, but it’s there all right. I’ve climbed the fence dozens of times before as a shortcut to the lake.

  I hear a pop, and then something whizzing past my head. It’s like a bee flying by my left ear. It’s a bullet. Motherfuckers are shooting at me. I’m wondering if that single round constitutes a warning or if they’re actually trying to drop me.

  I pick up my speed. If that’s even possible.

  Fifty feet to go until I come to the chain-link fence that separates the suburb from the park.

  Another pop. Another bullet. The round ricochets off the hard gravel road only inches before me, sending up sparks. I can almost feel the heat from the engine on my backside as I lunge for the chain-link fence, grabbing onto it with all fours. I’m like a desperate spider monkey climbing a tree as the cop cruiser speeds toward the fence as if the driver intends to smash through it.

  The cruiser is coming to a gravel-skidding stop as I reach the top of the fence and, swinging my injured leg around, drop down onto the other side and throw myself into brush as thick, if not thicker, than the stuff behind Lisa’s fence. Three more pops come from the direction of the cruiser. The leaves and branches above my head explode from the rounds, but I keep on churning in a crouch through the woods and the darkness, deep into the parkland in the direction of the lake.

  I take it double-time through the woods, the branches of the trees slapping me in the chest and face, stinging so badly my eyes begin to water. I feel the little cuts opening up on exposed skin and I feel the wound in my right knee throb like I’ve reopened it. In the near distance I can make out the lake and its calm, flat surface reflecting the light of the full moon.

  Seconds later I bust out of the woods and come upon the picnic area where I started the fire in the garbage can this morning. To my right is a swamp that’s filled with snapping turtles, frogs, and snakes. To my left is the small beach. But it’s not empty. From this distance I’m able to make out the round white light that can only come from a police-issued Maglite. The cops are already combing the place for me.

  Choices: I can try and make the one-mile swim across the lake to the other side and, from there, disappear into the city. Or, I can try and make it through the swamp, which is bordered on its opposite side by yet another gravel road. If I can make it to that road, I can find a dark place to hide out long enough for the cops to disperse and start looking somewhere else. Then I’ll make my way out of the park and maybe, if I’m lucky, make the one-mile trek back to Lisa’s parents’ house, where David is sure to show up sooner or later. That is, if Alex lets me in to begin with. That’s a chance I’ll just have to take.

  I need time.

  Time to heal and time to figure a way out of this mess. Time to figure out why David Bourenhem would go to such lengths to set me up to take a fall I don’t deserve.

  The little round speck of light moves and shifts rapidly in the hand of the cop who’s holding the Maglite. In a darkness lit on occasion by a moonlight that shines through breaks in the clouds, I take one last glance at the lake and I come to the realization that swimming its length with a wounded leg is an impossibility.

  No choice but to head into the swamp.

  Chapter 45

  I move as quickly as possible along the narrow strip of sandy beach to the edge of the swamp and I don’t hesitate for a second. I step into it and sink immediately past the tops of my boots in the muck. My progress is slowed almost to a crawl as I battle the suction created by the layer of swamp water over the muddy silt. I fully expect to leave my boot behind every time I yank my foot out.

  My gashed knee stinging with every step, it takes me almost a full minute to move only ten feet from the shore. At this rate it will take me a full ten minutes to get to the opposite side. Ten minutes I do not have.

  I shoot a glance over my shoulder. I see that what only a couple of minutes ago was a speck of round halogen flashlight has now become a large never-still circle. Soon the light will shine on me in the swamp and it will be all over.

  I turn away from the light and keep on moving, trying my best to pick up my pace in the foul-smelling bog. For a brief moment, it seems like I’m speeding up, like I just might make it to the other side without being spotted. That’s when I see the reflection of the flotilla of heavy, ovular shells cruising toward me on the water’s surface.

  Snapping turtles.

  Turtles are supposed to be gentle creatures. Docile, slow-moving, noble prehistoric animals that can live for a hundred or more years and that feed only on aquatic life. But here’s the dangerous truth about the snapping turtles that live in this in-city park: at least one or two people per year lose a toe or a finger when making the mistake of swimming in the lake. Signs are posted all along the swampy area warning swimmers of the dangers of both snakes and snapping turtles, the latter of which can achieve a weight of more than one hundred pounds from a protective shell that can measure two feet by three feet. Their jaws are like powerful vise-grip clamps outfitted with razor-sharp teeth. Just for good measure, their feet are equipped with claws that can open up the flesh on a human being with the ease of a steak knife slicing through semimelted butter. Snapping turtles might be slow on land, but in the water they are speedy swimmers, and they are coming after me now.

  I stop where I am. If I make like a tree, maybe they’ll leave me alone. What I wouldn’t give right now for my gun.

  The turtles come closer.

  I force myself to go as rigid as possible while they close in on me. By the time they are within inches of my waist, the pounding of my heart in my head is competing with the noise of the insects swarming me. Mosquitos sting my neck and face. What feels like a spider is climbing up my right forearm. Still, I have no choice bu
t to remain perfectly still and composed. I want to scream and thrash and barrel my way out of the swamp, police or no police, but I can’t.

  The first turtle comes within a half-inch of me.

  In the dull moon glow, I focus on its hairless head while imagining a dinosaur-like jaw opening wide, exposing sharp, jagged teeth. I’m sure it’s about to take a bite out of my stomach and then proceed to disembowel me with a single well-placed swipe of its claws.

  But it does something else instead.

  It proceeds to swim on by me. I can only assume he must be the alpha turtle, because as he moves past me, so too do the others, following him in perfect formation. When the final one is at a safe-enough distance behind me, I allow myself a breath and then resume my fight for the far shore.

  I’m thinking I might just make it when the bright white beam of a Maglite flashes on the swamp’s surface to my right and begins sliding my way.

  Chapter 46

  No choice but to drop.

  Crouching down, I submerse myself entirely in the approximately four feet of swamp water, hold my breath. As I go down, I feel the cold, soupy water envelop my head. The water is murky and the night dark, but with the moonlight breaking through the clouds once more, I can make out the faint silhouettes of ferns, reeds, and other vegetation floating and dancing before me. On occasion I can catch a glimpse of the round white Maglite that scans the water’s surface.

  My oxygen-starved lungs begin to tighten, fill with pain. My need for air becomes desperate. I have no alternative but to wait for the light to pass by me before I position my mouth up over the water’s surface so that I can suck in much-needed oxygen.

  I do it.

  I manage a quick, watery breath before dropping back under. Keeping an eye on the ever-searching flashlight, I wonder how long it’s going to take for the cops to figure out that searching the swamp is a dead end for them and that they should move on to another area of the park.

  That’s when I see the snake swimming toward me, the moonlight illuminating its smooth, scaly skin like the memory of a vivid nightmare.

  Chapter 47

  Some of the snakes that live in the lakes of upstate New York are a version of the same rattlesnakes that can be found out West and south of the border. They are just as deadly. A long time ago, someone who migrated from the Wild West had the bright idea of getting rid of his pet rattlers by tossing them in a lake way up in the Adirondack Mountains. Since then, the snakes have multiplied and spread throughout the state like wildfire.

  The snake swimming toward me must be a half-dozen feet long, its girth maybe four or five inches. Most definitely a rattlesnake. It’s not always visible in the dark, silt-colored water, nor is the rattle in its tail audible, but I can feel it when it swims past, running the entire length of its long, sleek body over the skin on my exposed neck. The feel of the snake sends an electric charge throughout my body. It freezes me, makes me catatonic. Paralyzes me down in the swamp with no air to breathe.

  But then, just like that, the snake is gone. But not gone for good. It’s swimming somewhere behind me. I have no idea if it’s coming back or not. No idea if the next thing I feel will be two sets of fangs burying themselves in my neck.

  The cop aims his Maglite directly ahead of my position. My lungs are about to burst. I can’t hold my breath for one second longer.

  The battery-powered light skirts away.

  I lift my face up and out of the water, suck in the damp air, then drop back down into a crouch. I try and hobble my way across the slimy bottom. It’s nearly impossible to move with almost no breath in my lungs and my boots stuck in the mud and my right knee sending electric pulses of pain up and down the length of my leg. I inch my way forward despite the difficulty.

  Again I’m making some tortured headway when the snake returns, wrapping itself around my neck like a fucking boa constrictor. Instinct takes over and I grab its head with my left hand while trying to pull its coiled body off my neck with my right. The snake is squeezing me, choking me. The more forcefully I pull on it, the more strength it gains, squeezing me even harder. Its head in my hand is thrusting at me, aching to bury its fangs into the flesh of my neck. I’m swallowing rancid swamp water, fighting and drowning at the same time.

  With eyes wide open, I see the small round beam of Maglite cutting through the silty haze, moving rapidly along the swamp surface toward me. The commotion I’m making in the shallow water is giving me away. I can’t stay down in the water for much longer, the snake choking me. If I do, I’ll drown.

  I lurch up out of the water, shout, “Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot.”

  I’m still wrestling with the snake, barely managing to keep it from biting me.

  The Maglites hit me. Out the corner of my eye, I see the cops come to the edge of the swamp, clearly not sure what to do.

  “Don’t just stand there,” comes a voice I recognize as Detective Miller’s. “Help the poor bastard before we have to rush him to the hospital for a snakebite.”

  A few more seconds pass before I hear the sound of someone sloshing through the swamp in my direction. It takes him only a minute to get to me, but it feels like an hour. It’s the same tall, burly cop who seems attached to Miller at the hip.

  “Hang on,” he says while pulling a pocketknife from his utility belt, opening the blade.

  He proceeds to press the sharp edge of the blade onto the snake’s neck, out a ways from where I’ve grabbed hold of it, before cutting off the head in one swift, downward slice. The effect of the beheading is immediate. All strength bleeds out of the snake and its long body releases from my neck, drops down into the water, making a small splash.

  “Dinner for the snapping turtles,” Burly Cop says. Then, pocketing his blade, he pulls out his automatic. “Oh, and this time you really are under arrest, Mr. Johnston.”

  Chapter 48

  Here’s what goes down after that: I’m once again transported to the Albany Police Department South Pearl Street headquarters inside Burly Cop’s blue and white cruiser. Detective Miller rides shotgun. He remains silent for the entire five-minute ride, as if to engage me in conversation, no matter how unimportant and trivial, would be a breach of protocol.

  Once accompanied inside the century-old stone building, I’m processed for the second time in a single day in the general booking room. I’m relieved of my personals, including shoes and belt, and then escorted by Burly Cop not to a basement jail cell, but to an interview room on the first floor, not far down the facility’s main corridor. Since they already have my prints on record from this afternoon’s unpleasantness, they need not print me a second time.

  Throughout the entire legal procedure, a grisly slideshow rolls in my head, the image of the battered David Bourenhem replaced by the torched body of Olga, to be replaced in turn by a bloody and bruised Bourenhem. Rinse and repeat. I know I could demand a lawyer, but then, I haven’t yet been informed of the charge or charges.

  The interview room is four-sided by cinder-block walls painted hospital white. There are no windows, but a long two-way mirror has been installed on the wall opposite a steel door containing a thick wire-reinforced glass pane. The institutional, black-and-white clock on the wall reads 7:07 p.m.

  The day was long but the night has only begun.

  I’ve been seated at a metal table containing a metal ring that’s welded to its underside and to which the chain on my handcuffs has been attached by means of a second, shorter chain and padlock. I’ve been waiting here alone for someone or something for about twenty minutes, but it feels like an eternity in my filthy, swamp-soaked jeans, boots, and bush jacket. On the bright side, my knee no longer throbs so long as I keep it still.

  The wait has not been without its entertainment.

  For nearly ten out of the twenty minutes, I’ve been listening to Miller arguing with someone. Arguing and shouting. I can’t always make o
ut what’s being said with the heavy metal door closed, but I do make out the words “service weapon” and “illegally discharged,” and “not following fucking standard operating procedure,” and my favorite, “Johnston is a public figure. A popular author. I can have your badge for that shit and I will have your badge if he decides to sue our asses for unlawful use of excessive force.”

  No wonder Miller has conveniently avoided the subject of my calling a lawyer.

  Finally the door opens.

  In walks Miller and, of course, his burly, clean-shaven sidekick.

  “Unlock him,” Miller says, slapping a manila file down on the desk, sitting down hard in the metal chair directly across the table from me.

  Burly Cop comes around, pulls a key ring from his belt. He unlocks the small chain and then the cuffs, making my wrists feel a whole lot better. He stuffs the cuffs back into his utility belt while hanging on to the chain and padlock in his beefy hand.

  “You want I should stay in here with you, Detective?” he says while turning back to Miller.

  Miller glances at his watch, shakes his head. “It’s late,” he says. “Go get a coffee.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” says Burly Cop. He opens the metal door and leaves, slamming it closed behind him, giving Miller a start.

  “That boy doesn’t know his own strength,” he says, clearly nervous and agitated.

  “Likes his free weights,” I say. “Me too.”

  “He’s got youth on his side.”

  Miller might not be young anymore, but even at this late hour in the working day he’s still looking put together in his pressed white button-down oxford, perfectly tied necktie, and neatly groomed gray-and-white hair. Not a hint of five o’clock shadow has risen on his narrow, if not concave face. But then, I’m not sure it’s physically possible for him to grow a beard in the first place.