One Day You'll Burn

by Joseph Schneider

  “No…” His phone vibrated. He had it at his side, and Brayden wouldn’t be able to see the screen. But he might be able to hear it. Jarsdel muffled it against his leg in case it buzzed again, then glanced down. It was from Morales.

  When you get here just park behind me in the driveway. Shit’s all permit around here and they’ll tow your ass.

  “Better not be lying to me,” said Brayden. “That’s a sincere threat. You better not be lying.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then get in, but toss that phone away first. I know all about that tracking shit.”

  Jarsdel shivered. He was getting soaked. “How do I know she’s still alive?”

  Brayden pulled the .38 from the glove box. “I’ll give you the count of three,” said Brayden. “Then I think I’ll put one in your guts just for fun before I take off.”

  Jarsdel touched the button behind his tie, activating the microphone. “Can you at least tell me where we’re going?”

  “One.”

  “The museum?”

  “Two.”

  Jarsdel touched the button again, stopping the recording. His phone chimed, letting him know he had a new audio file. Without looking, he tapped the reply bar on Morales’s text. He knew that made an options menu appear, but he had to look at the screen to do the next part; he couldn’t do it blind.

  Brayden steadied the gun with his free hand and closed one eye, like someone aiming in a cartoon. “Center mass, right?”

  “All right. I’m doing it.” As Jarsdel raised the phone to throw it, he thumbed the attachment icon. A list of file names filled the screen. Only one of them was untitled. He clicked on it and turned to Brayden one last time as the file began uploading to the message. “Where do you want me to throw it?”

  “I will blow your fuckin’ skull apart if you don’t throw that phone.”

  Jarsdel wasn’t sure if the MP3 had uploaded or not, but it didn’t matter. Brayden would kill him before he could send it. Jarsdel tossed the phone away, and it vanished into the night.

  * * *

  There were no seats inside, just straps, furniture blankets, and eyebolts set at intervals along the floor. As he’d climbed inside, Jarsdel had clipped his knee on one of them but barely registered the pain.

  The bite of adrenaline in his blood made him feel sick, and his heart pounded in anticipation of what would happen when they got to where they were going. His inability to act, to help himself or Aleena, to do anything but wait, made the trip feel endless.

  The van took a corner too sharply, and Jarsdel slid across the floor and into a pile of blankets. He scrambled to his hands and knees and crawled back toward the front of the van so he could see out. They’d just turned onto Hollywood and were heading east, toward the museum. He glanced at the back of Brayden’s head, where a roll of flesh bulged at the base of his skull.

  “Is she hurt?” asked Jarsdel.

  “Huh? Speak up.”

  “I said did you hurt her?”

  “Who, your girlfriend? Just enough to get her in the van. Feisty little bitch, isn’t she? Look.” Brayden held out his right arm, where Jarsdel could make out some teeth marks. “Hope she’s had her shots. She was drunk as shit, by the way.”

  Jarsdel thought he might vomit up the dregs of his late lunch and had to close his eyes until the feeling passed. It eventually did, but reluctantly.

  Brayden snorted. “But if you’re asking if I was, shall we say, less than a gentleman, I’m here to tell you I don’t roll like that. Not that I’m not into girls—I am—but I got two rules. Never pay for it, and always respect it if she says no. That’s why God gave us our hand, right?” He made a fist and jerked it up and down a few times.

  Jarsdel didn’t think he could stand to listen to any more and changed the subject. “Why’d you pick us up?”

  “I told ya. Mr. Stevens told me to.”

  “I know, but why?”

  “Oh, you gotta give me a little credit. The way your eyes bugged out when you saw the van, back at the museum. You didn’t even look at the hat, the one you said you went back there to see. Shithead. I was out back for a while there, trying to figure what got you so hinky. I told the boss about that, and boom, you should have seen his face. None too pleased. I got in a little hot water myself over that, considering I told him no one saw me dump the body. Guess there must’ve been a witness, though, huh? ID’d the van?”

  “And Aleena? Why her? She’s got nothing to do with this.”

  “Boss figured you’d come easier that way. And he was right, wasn’t he? You’d’ve put up a big fight if we didn’t already have her.”

  “How’d you know where we live? Where we’d be?”

  “Wish I could take credit, but again, that was Mr. Stevens. You by any chance remember a hang-up phone call today?”

  At first, he didn’t, but then it came to him. At his desk in the station. “Yeah.”

  “That told us where you were without having to ask anybody. Then I just sat on the station until you left, followed you, and…boom. Your girlfriend had your address. Gave it up fast, you should know. Kind of a cunty move, you ask me.”

  “What happens now?”

  “Whatever the boss wants. He is kind of a scorched-earth guy, though, gotta say. Went through all kinds of shit back home. I always forget the name. One of those weird European places that went to hell in the ’90s.”

  As Brayden spoke, Jarsdel looked around the van for something that could work as a weapon. A screwdriver, pencil, anything he could hide in his pocket until he had the chance to use it. He crawled over to the blankets and began rifling through them, hoping to find something small and sharp.

  Brayden glanced in the rearview. “Don’t know what you’re hopin’ to find back there, but good luck. Checked it over pretty good before I picked up your fuck buddy.”

  They came to a sudden stop. Jarsdel slid forward and slammed against the back of the passenger’s seat. Brayden cursed the traffic, and a moment later, they were moving again. “Almost there,” he said.

  “Listen,” said Jarsdel. “You realize what you’re doing, right? I’m LAPD. Anything happens to me, and they won’t stop until they nail you guys. And they will. They know what I was doing today. They’ll put it together. But if you end it now, help us out of this, it’ll make a big difference. It’ll change everything for you. Don’t let Stevens destroy your life.”

  “Dude. Dude.” Brayden shook his head. “I’m touched, but it ain’t my life you need to worry about.” He made another turn, quickly followed by another, then put the van in park and cut the engine. Brayden turned around in his seat and regarded Jarsdel gravely. “Okay. This is it. I’m gonna come ’round and open the door, and you’re gonna get out of the van.” He opened the glove compartment again and took out the snub nose. “You fuck with me, I’ll give you one in the knee. But you won’t fuck with me, will you? Because then the girl goes, and she goes hard. Questions?” He waited, eyebrows raised, until Jarsdel shook his head. “Cool,” said Brayden. He got out of the van and appeared a moment later as the sliding door swept open. He trained the gun lazily on Jarsdel. “Now.”

  Jarsdel stepped out into the rain. He glanced around and saw they were in the alley behind the museum. The back door was propped open with the brick again. Brayden closed the van door, then jabbed him in the back with the muzzle of the gun.

  “Can you be careful with that, please?” said Jarsdel.

  Brayden prodded him again, harder this time. Jarsdel went inside the museum. The lights were off, and it was cold, the air-conditioning blasting, even though it already had to be in the mid-60s.

  “Couple more yards,” said Brayden. “And to your left.”

  Jarsdel continued on until he came to the staircase leading to Stevens’s quarters. The rope and the sign asking visitors to keep out had been moved to the side.<
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  “Down,” said Brayden.

  Jarsdel started down the stairs into total darkness. He stumbled when he came to a turn and descended farther. He could soon make out faint light, and when he made it to level ground, he saw that its source was a small lamp perched upon a table. He was in an anteroom of some kind, cramped and dim. Ahead stood a stout wooden door.

  Brayden slapped him on the back of the head with the gun, a swift, glancing blow that made Jarsdel’s eyes water. “Go ’head. Knock.”

  Jarsdel knocked. Before long, there was the click of a heavy dead bolt unlocking, and the door swung inward. It was dark in the hallway beyond, and Stevens’s face floated ghostlike before them. He looked deeply sad.

  “Hello, Detective. Come in, please.”

  When Jarsdel didn’t move right away, another blow landed, this time on his crown. His surroundings blurred with tears; faint colored dots popped and danced at the corners of his vision. He staggered to the side, bracing himself on the doorjamb.

  “Brayden,” said Stevens, his voice chiding.

  And now Jarsdel did vomit, his body’s last, desperate protest against the terror and the pain. The two men on either side of him stepped away, disgusted.

  “Guess who’ll be cleaning that up,” said Stevens.

  “Got any sawdust?” Brayden asked.

  “Why would I have sawdust? This is not a saloon.”

  “I dunno.” He sounded stung. “Some people have sawdust.”

  “Is that—no, you wouldn’t. Is that Gene Hackman’s hat?”

  “So? I was just borrowing it for this mission.”

  “Give it here.”

  Jarsdel heaved again and again, though by now, there was nothing left in him, while Brayden and Stevens continued to argue. He strained through the shudders that racked him, through the dizziness that threatened to spill him to the ground, and tried to think of something to do. If he could somehow overpower Brayden and get hold of the gun, he’d be free. Stevens appeared to be unarmed, and Jarsdel could force him to let Aleena go while he called for backup. He exhaled shakily, sending a thick strand of saliva to the floor, and looked over his shoulder at his captors. They were both staring back at him.

  Brayden pointed the gun at Jarsdel’s leg. “Go.”

  Stevens held out a hand, directing him down the hallway. “The very last door.” To Brayden, he said, “As soon as this is done, you’re taking that hat upstairs and putting it away. I have to say I’m feeling very frustrated with you.”

  Jarsdel pushed off from the doorjamb and stumbled forward. The strength had gone out of his knees. They felt jellylike, insubstantial. Behind him, Stevens ordered Brayden to leave the door to the anteroom open so it wouldn’t swing shut on the puddle of vomit.

  It was a short hallway, with only a single door on either side and one straight ahead. There was nothing differentiating it from the others, but if it led to what Jarsdel feared it did, it was the doorway to hell itself. He nearly turned and ran the other way then, Aleena’s fate and Brayden’s threat to kneecap him notwithstanding.

  He reached the door and stopped, breathing as rapidly as if he’d just sprinted there.

  “It’s open. Go ahead,” said Stevens.

  Jarsdel turned the knob and entered.

  * * *

  The floor was bare cement, the walls naked drywall, huge patches of it missing to reveal faded pink tufts of insulation. A single caged construction light lay on the ground, plugged into an orange extension cord. The bulb cast a murky glow over the room and lit from below the obscenity crouched at its center. Something in Jarsdel broke at seeing it—an ordered and reasoned mind faced with an anachronism, a nightmare made real.

  It was a gleaming, red-gold structure of polished brass—a life-sized replica of a bull, face twisted in a snarl, head topped with imperious, curved horns. Its eyes stared emptily into space. On the side facing Jarsdel was a hatch, now locked by a heavy-duty surface bolt, big enough to admit a person into its hollow body. The legs of the beast were thick and solid to support its immense weight and ended in wide hooves. Beneath the belly of the bull was an enormous burner system. A ribbed yellow connector hose snaked away from the apparatus, fed by a nozzle that jutted from the wall. Suspended from the low ceiling above the bull was what looked like an industrial exhaust hood.

  Stevens strode past him into the room. “You’ve surely read the script, so I’m assuming this isn’t much of a surprise. But still, as an historian, you must agree it’s impressive. The Brazen Bull. As close a replica as possible to the original, with just a few modern upgrades. Wood fires are romantic but impractical.” He tapped the yellow hose with his foot. “These burners run on natural gas, not propane, so it can get up to well near 50,000 BTUs per hour. The brass, of course, conducts the heat marvelously.”

  Jarsdel turned and saw Brayden pointing the gun at him. The security guard seemed to know that if he were going to make a move, it would be now. Brayden jutted his chin in Stevens’s direction, as if encouraging him to put his attention back on the man speaking. Jarsdel obeyed.

  “I can control the temperature very effectively with the gas,” Stevens went on. “Phalaris would’ve been impressed. The one thing that bothers me is that you can see the welding joints. I wanted it cast all in one piece, like the original, but it couldn’t be done. I can say, however, that it is completely lightproof inside. Utter darkness, so that’s good.”

  “Where’s Aleena?” asked Jarsdel. His voice didn’t tremble, as he’d expected it to.

  “In a moment,” said Stevens. He patted the bull, then fixed Jarsdel with the same woeful look he’d given him in the hallway. “I’m very sorry about this, Detective. And you enjoyed the movie I screened. I do believe you were being genuine when you said that. Tell me now, honestly, what did you think of the script?”

  Jarsdel wasn’t sure he’d heard the question correctly. “What?”

  “Jeff’s screenplay. I presume you read it all the way through?”

  Jarsdel’s eyes flicked to the torture device in front of him, then back to Stevens. Stall him. That’s all you can do. “I…uh…thought it was a hell of a read.”

  “You mean it was entertaining? Or…”

  “Yeah, very entertaining. And I really appreciated the attention to detail. To historical detail. The research really showed.”

  Stevens made a face. “But it’s a little overwritten, right? The dialogue in particular. It was my idea, you know, for a movie. I don’t want to self-aggrandize, but I’m very much an historian as well. The story of Phalaris is one I’d always been fascinated by, but I have the humility to recognize I’m not a writer. Jeff liked the concept, so I told him to run with it. If he sold it, I’d be attached to direct. But of course, as we all know, that didn’t happen.”

  “Is that why you killed him?”

  “Because his dialogue is lousy? Don’t be ridiculous. No, his mistake was getting in trouble with you. He told me all about it when he called. He got in some stupid fight with the dirt salesman, and you were investigating. That’s when I knew it was only a matter of time before you read the script, and then, of course, he would tell you the whole thing came from me, and…” He made a flicking gesture with his fingers. “Had to go. Anyway,” he went on, “the way the studio system is today, I think it would’ve been a tough sell even if the names Goldman or Kasdan were up there where it says ‘Written By.’ There’s just pathetic little interest in projects of real substance. I mean, say what you will about those old Jews who ran Hollywood, they knew story. There was a care, a real care, and love of the art of storytelling. You know, it taps into something in us, something so special when we’re challenged and moved by a story. It’s essential to our souls. You know what I’m saying?”

  “Yes.”

  “As important to us as food. I really do mean that. And what they’re doing today is giving us empty calori
es. Just a light show and some sound effects. It’s not merely that it’s bad art, but I think it’s really harming us, depriving us of what we need as human beings.”

  “It’s awful.”

  “It’s beyond awful, and who knows what the consequences will be, on a broader level, for the generations to come?”

  “I agree.”

  “So you see what happens. You read the script. Historically accurate, entertaining, if perhaps a bit sensational, but with a real message. Something to say. And yet no one wants it because, you know, it’s not 3-D and it doesn’t have a built-in brand. No tent-pole movie, right? What do you think?”

  Jarsdel nodded, perhaps a bit too eagerly, but he wanted to keep the conversation going. The more they spoke, the more Stevens would think of him as a human being, and the more he’d hesitate in torturing him to death. At least in theory. “You’re probably right. They’re always playing it safe. Sequels and remakes, right?”

  “Exactly. But even so, it’s hard to let it go. My little baby, you know? What do you think? Is it worth revisiting? Give it another pass?”

  “You could try. I guess it might be a little long. Maybe—”

  “I know. I know. That occurred to me too. I could make some trims…” Stevens waved a hand and allowed himself a rueful little smile. “Fuck it. They’ll never buy it anyway. And I’ve gotten way off the point. What I want you to know is I’m not happy with the way things turned out. Between us, I mean. And mostly, I just don’t understand you. Why invest so much effort into someone like Grant Wolin? He was a nothing, less than a nobody.”

  “You tell me,” said Jarsdel. “You’re the one who took the time to torture him to death. He obviously wasn’t a nobody to you.”

  “Show some respect,” said Brayden from behind him.

  Stevens raised a palm. “It’s all right. The detective is entitled to his opinion. But I should tell you, Tully, that I had very good reason to do what I did. That Wolin character did work for me, that much is true, and was very effective in roping in Chinese tourists for my Hollywood Experience. And I was fair with him. His commissions were substantial. But his disloyalty was shocking. Shocking. Am I right, Brayden?”