Everything Burns

by Vincent Zandri

  More nausea followed by a searing liquid that shoots from my stomach into my mouth. I force the hot bile back down and shake my head, once more feeling the weight of the pistol in my hand.

  “You want me to help you out with anything,” Blood adds, “you just say the word.”

  “Thanks, Blood, but you’ve done enough. I’m going to take you home.”

  Pulling forward, I turn the car around and head back to South Sherman Street.

  Chapter 54

  I drop Blood off at the same corner where I found him half an hour before. I steal a moment to watch him disappear into the night.

  My new five-hundred-dollar revolver rests in my lap. As I drive back through the war zone that is Arbor Hill, I’m not sure what it is I’m feeling inside. More secure, maybe. More empowered. A part of me wants to hook a sharp right, head east, cross the river into Troy, and once more confront Bourenhem in his apartment. Maybe, with the .38 aimed directly at his face, he might get the message loud and crystal clear: stop fucking with me and my family or else face the consequences.

  But I can’t do that.

  Pointing a gun at him will only land me in jail for a third time in a single day. Three strikes and you’re out.

  So then, what do I do now? First things first. Make a flyby past the Reynoldses’ place. Sure, Miller promised he’d watch out for them. Sure, he warned me about taking matters into my own hands. But can I really trust the Albany cops when I know how little they trust me?

  Up ahead, a small bonfire is burning on the street corner. A gang of red bandana–wearing young black men surround the fire. Bloods. Some of them are talking on their cell phones. They wear baggy hoodies and blue jeans that aren’t buckled around narrow waists but instead around their thighs, so that their underwear is entirely exposed, as if shouting a very loud “Fuck you!” to the viewing public. Over their bandanas are extra-wide-brimmed Yankees baseball caps with the gold tag still stuck to the bottom of the brim.

  As I pull up to the red light next to them on the corner of Clinton and Henry Johnson Boulevard, the entire gang turns to gaze upon me. Their glares say it all. I’m just another piece of meat to them. I am the enemy. My sudden death by gunshot would be considered their entertainment for the evening.

  From behind the wheel, I can see that they’re burning some wooden chairs and a couple of empty pallets right on the sidewalk. The stone stairs that lead up to the entrance on the brownstone behind them are occupied with young women, not a single one of whom appears to be over eighteen. There are a couple of toddlers running around in diapers. It’s nine o’clock on a chilly October night. A school night. The women are drinking some kind of alcohol from bottles covered in brown paper sacks. A single cigarette is being passed around. Something tells me there’s more between the cigarette paper than just tobacco.

  Back in the late nineteenth century, men dressed in tuxedos and women in gowns would be arriving home from a night on the town in their horse and buggy, the gaslights on Clinton illuminating the peaceful neighborhood street in a yellow glow. Now, a scrap fire burns while the present-day occupants of this neighborhood get high and plot out crimes. One of the Bloods tosses some wood scraps onto the fire, causing bright sparks to fly up into the night.

  As the light turns green, one of the gangbangers lifts up his shirt, exposes the grip on a 9mm automatic. I’m guessing the cock between his legs isn’t big enough. He issues me a menacing smile full of gold crowns. I reach down into my lap, raise the .38, aim it directly at the smile that glistens in the firelight. The smile dissolves as he lowers his shirt, once more concealing his weapon.

  A sudden honk from the horn on the car directly behind the Escape startles me. The driver is also white and because he’s white, he’s in a hurry to exit this neighborhood. This lowest level of the inferno. Can’t say I blame him one bit.

  I hit the gas and pull on through the traffic light, on my way out of the war zone.

  Chapter 55

  Once inside North Albany I drive the largely wooded road that will lead me back to the Reynoldses’ estate. It’s just a few minutes past nine o’clock. By now, everyone must be fast asleep, but just making certain that their situation is secure will help me calm down.

  I hook a left onto Alexander and Victoria’s sleepy suburban road and slowly make the drive past their mansion. The exterior lights are on as usual. The downstairs looks closed up for the night, as does the upstairs. All looks normal, considering this is a family that likes to pack it in on the early side.

  But then I catch a flicker that I initially take for firelight coming from the far right-hand, second-floor master bedroom. My stomach tightens and my pulse picks up before I realize that the flickering light is coming from a television. Victoria, allowing cable TV to lull her to sleep. Again, situation normal.

  I pull the cell phone from the pocket on my bush jacket, check to see if Lisa has called and if I somehow didn’t hear it. Nothing. For a brief instant, I consider texting her. But it will only go ignored. Lisa is sleeping, healing, our daughter curled up beside her. Tapping the gas, I pull ahead, my eyes looking out for a place to turn the SUV around.

  A wave of adrenaline shoots up and down my backbone when the Escape interior fills with bright, flashing red, white, and blue light.

  I pull over, throw the Escape in park.

  The cop cruiser pulls right up on my tail. So close I not only make out the face of Burly Cop sitting behind the wheel, but I can make out his five o’clock shadow in the rearview reflection. Does the man ever take any time off? Maybe he’s a cyborg.

  Miller is being good to his word. As promised, he’s ordered Burly Cop to make a flyby to the Reynoldses’ place in order to keep an eye out for suspicious activity. Activity like, say, his number one suspect lurking around outside.

  A number one suspect with a .38-caliber snub-nose revolver set on his lap.

  I place my right hand on top of it as the cop opens the door to the cruiser and steps on out. Remaining as still as possible, I slide the revolver to the edge of the seat, allow it to drop to the floor. Then I use the boot heel on my right foot to start pushing it back under the seat and, hopefully, out of view.

  But there’s an obstruction between the foot well and the carpeted area directly beneath the seat. The obstruction rises up maybe three or four inches, and it houses the mechanical device that raises and lowers the seat. No way I’m pushing the gun under the seat unless I do it by hand. But that would mean bending over. A move Burly Cop could potentially interpret as threatening.

  A knuckle tap on the driver’s-side window.

  Slowly, I set the sole of my right boot on top of the snubby and silently pray that Burly Cop hasn’t yet taken notice of it. I thumb the switch that makes the window go down.

  “Was I speeding, Officer?” I say, trying for humor.

  “I thought Miller told you to stay away from here, Johnston,” he says. “The safety and well-being of the family inside there is a police matter.”

  “The safety and well-being of the people in that home, which includes my daughter, rests with me first.” For a split second I think about adding “you big, dumb asshole” to the end of my statement, but quickly discount the idea.

  He nods like I have a point, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

  Both my hands grip the wheel the way I was taught in driver’s education all those years ago should I happen to get pulled over by a great big officer of the law.

  “Go home,” he says. “Try and get some rest. In the morning, Detective Miller will have a few more questions for you.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  He places both meaty hands on the door frame and sticks his head inside. He comes so close to me I can smell his cheap cologne. Aqua Velva. He looks right and left, up and down. As his eyes continue to peer down at my feet, I feel a nauseating wave of coldness fill my veins.

 
“What’s that under your foot?” he asks.

  The ice cold in my veins turns immediately hot. My brain begins to buzz, mouth goes dry. I’m about to be arrested right out in front of my out-laws’ house. If he busts me for being in the possession of yet another unlicensed, unregistered weapon, I won’t have a chance in hell of convincing Miller that I’m not the lying, psychopathic, paranoid pyromaniac that he already thinks I am. He might even assume that I’m on a quest to kill my ex-wife’s former lover out of pure raw jealousy.

  Something erupts on Burly Cop’s chest.

  His radio. A tinny but insistent dispatcher voice bursts forth. “We have a positive ID on Caucasian female pulled from Hudson River two hours ago. Detective Miller requests your immediate presence back at precinct.”

  I feel my stomach drop.

  Burly Cop raises his right hand, thumbs the chest-mounted mic.

  “Car one niner en route,” he says into the mic. Then, looking back at me, “Things heating up, Johnston. I haven’t passed my detective’s test yet, but something tells me that badly burned stiff and you have something very much in common. And to think, all you been burning on that back lawn is leaf piles. That is, when you’re not busy lighting garbage cans on fire.”

  He smiles like he’s on to something. And he is.

  “Roger that, Officer Burly,” I say under my breath.

  “Excuse me?” he says, his eyes going slanty, lips tight.

  “Nothing.”

  “The thing is, Mr. Johnston, nothing always turns out to be something in the end, now doesn’t it?”

  Turning, he jogs back to his cruiser. When he gets back in, he’s not even finished with closing his door before he peels out, making an abrupt three-point turn in the road. The sleepy suburban neighborhood erupts in a second explosion of bright rooftop flashers and a piercing siren.

  I don’t breathe until Burly Cop is completely out of sight.

  Chapter 56

  As I’ve said, Alex is a light sleeper. He will have noticed the flashing cop cruiser lights by now as they shine against his bedroom walls. He will have heard the sound of the cruiser’s siren in his dreams. There’s a real good chance he will get out of bed, throw on some pants, and head down to the street to investigate. Which means I don’t waste any time making my own three-point turn and getting out of the neighborhood as fast as the speed limit will allow.

  I head back in the direction of downtown Albany and my studio apartment, knowing full well that I have just dodged a speeding bullet. The pistol still sits on the floor of the Escape. Every now and then my boot heel comes into contact with it. What did John Lennon sing? “Happiness is a warm gun”?

  Driving down toward the east end of the downtown, not far from where I dumped Olga’s body in the river, I turn onto Broadway and make my way to the old brick building that houses my studio. I pull up to the curb and throw the transmission into park. But I don’t kill the engine. I feel the revolver barrel resting against my boot heel and in my head I see the narrow face of David Bourenhem, see his black eyes hidden behind his thick black-framed eyeglasses and his painfully wide smile. I see my books on his bookshelf and the many unsold manuscripts set on the floor of his Troy apartment. I can’t help but see him laying out Lisa’s underwear, can’t help seeing him drawing my head-blasted image on the chalkboard wall, can’t help seeing him sitting in the bathtub accusing me of beating and binding him. Worst of all, I can’t help but see Olga’s body burning in the backyard.

  Reaching into my bush jacket pocket, I pull out the Bic lighter and fire it up. I let the flame go out and light it again, and again. The flame feels hot on my hand and it warms my soul like mother’s milk.

  “Fire! Fire!” says the Town Crier. “Burn! Burn!” says Goody Stern. “Burn her! Burn him!”

  When Miller finds out that Olga lived down the road from Lisa, he’ll put two and two together. He will order forensic pathologists to examine her body, and the duct tape I wrapped around her, for prints and anything else that will link her directly to the spot in which she was burned. He will also order an emergency autopsy. Once the forensic exam and autopsy are complete, all evidence will lead not only to Lisa’s house, but directly to me. The forensic unit he’ll send to the house to scour the backyard will find all the evidence they need to prove I am the killer. Once the work of the forensic experts is complete, he will arrest me for murder one. Bourenhem’s setup will be finished, his revenge complete.

  Or will it?

  What if I were to have one more face-to-face with him at his apartment? Maybe with that .38 aimed for the sweet spot between his eyes, I can get him to admit the truth: That he has been setting me up all along. That he himself is the killer. And if I can record the confession on my smartphone, I can at least get started on clearing my name. I know the confession won’t stand up in court, but at the very least it’ll convince Miller that I’m not a bad guy bent on acting out scenes from my own novel. That the real bad guy has been David Bourenhem all along.

  Throwing the tranny back in drive, I fire up a cigarette and then pull away from the curb, headed for the steel bridge that will take me across the Hudson River back into downtown Troy.

  Chapter 57

  First Street is quiet on this Monday night as I drive slowly, keeping an eye out not only for Bourenhem but also the police, both Troy and Albany divisions. I’m not sure why I feel so surprised when I see that his toy-like Honda 4x4 is parked outside the front door to his building. But I am. Pulling to a stop behind it, I peer up through the passenger-side window at the second-floor window of his apartment.

  The lights are on.

  The shade is partially drawn, but it isn’t long before I see the figure of a tall, thin man walking past it. I can’t make out the face from down inside the Escape, but I know it’s got to be Bourenhem. He’s pacing back and forth past the window, moving his hands up and down rapidly, like he might be upset about something. For a moment I think he might be on the phone. But then, how can that be when he’s waving both hands around like that?

  That’s when I see he’s not alone.

  I make out the figure of another person now positioned in front of the window. The person is shorter than Bourenhem, but also slim. I’m seeing his or her backside, which looks to be packed into a tight pair of blue jeans. It tells me the person is a woman. She too is waving her hands in the air like they’re arguing about something. Maybe he’s got a new girlfriend, or perhaps that’s just wishful thinking. But then, Lisa never mentioned his having a new girlfriend. Or maybe that’s something she doesn’t want to think about. But even if he did have a new woman in his life, it wouldn’t negate the fact that he’s still in love and obsessed with my significant other.

  Reaching down, I pick up the revolver, set it between my legs.

  I feel the cold, hard metal and its heaviness. I feel the essence of its killing power. If Bourenhem were all alone right now, I might stick to my original plan. I might head up to his apartment, gun in one hand, smartphone in the other, its voice-recording app engaged. I’d demand a little face time with him in which I would extract a full confession. Once the confession was recorded, I’d contact Miller and demand that he listen to it. He’d have no choice but to haul David in for questioning. Maybe he’d even arrest him. Maybe I’d be off the hook, once and for all.

  But now that I can see he’s not alone, there’s no way I can follow through with any of it.

  My cell phone vibrates and chimes. A new text has arrived. My spirits lift a little at the thought of Lisa returning my earlier text. I pull out the phone and glance at the text. My spirit crashes. The text is from Blood. I open it. It says, Meant what I said. One call, I’m there.

  The plot thickens, but I’m OK, I thumb-tap in reply. Chill out and take a na—

  I’ll be dipped. Instead of thumbing in the “p” at the end of “nap,” I stupidly hit “Send.” I might be a writer,
but I’ll never amount to much of a texter. I’m about to retype the complete word “nap” when suddenly, twin headlights appear in my rearview mirror. Bright white halogens, half a block back. Even with the ceiling-mounted flashers not lit up like a Christmas tree, I can still make out their colorful reflection in the light that spills down from the streetlamps.

  Stuffing the cell phone back in my jacket pocket, I lean over the center console, open the glove box, shove the revolver inside, then pull away from the curb. Keeping one eye on the rearview, I watch as the cop comes to a stop in the same spot I just occupied with my Escape. Maybe he suspects me of littering. Or maybe he thinks I’m a creepy Peeping Tom. Whatever the case, I’m not about to wait around to find out just what the hell he’s thinking.

  As I approach the street corner where I spotted Rachael earlier today, I can’t help but wonder if she’s presently at home, occupying an apartment located just mere yards away. I wonder what she’s doing and who she might be doing it with. But then I quickly remind myself that it would be better just to erase her from my memory. Keep the past in the past.

  Our breakup was that bad.

  For Rachael, when it comes to our shattered relationship, a cauldron of hatred is surely brewing. As I tap the gas on the Escape and hook a right, I once more see the figure of a woman standing before Bourenhem’s street-side window. I feel a cold chill fill my body. Because what if the woman standing in front of David’s window is named Rachael, and if she is my former lover?

  “You’re making shit up again, Reece,” I say aloud. “Making crazy shit up.”

  Chapter 58

  I breathe a sigh of relief when I pull onto Lisa’s street and see that, so far, anyway, the APD forensics pros are staying away from the house. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t on their way. Parking at the top of the driveway, I retrieve the revolver from the glove box and head inside. Frankie comes running immediately up to me. I wonder if she’s eaten yet. Before I look into it, I go about the business of giving the entire interior, up and down, the once-over. Despite the threat of cop intrusion, I’m slow and meticulous with my search.