One Day You'll Burn

by Joseph Schneider

  “Yup,” said the security guard. “Big-time asshole.”

  “He goes to this other company, this Punyawong company that does these trash tours. Action stars’ homes mostly, if you can imagine. I’m providing something that’s equal parts entertainment and edification. Punyawong is all snap and flash. But he wants to expand, add some class. What does Wolin do? For a bit of money, he gives up my route, even the exact, exact script my tour guides use. All of a sudden, these places that were exclusively mine are crammed with these other buses. What was it called, Brayden? Some Fantasy something?”

  “Fantasy Tours.”

  “God. Right.” Stevens shook his head. “Fantasy Tours. Even the name offends, don’t you agree? And Wolin starts working for him, telling customers this new company is better—actually better—than mine. Advertises right in front of my storefront, handing out flyers. So now he’s costing me money. And I don’t need to tell you, do I, how competitive this town is. Men far more patient than me would’ve broken under the weight of such treatment. But even all that isn’t enough for him. He then gets this incredible idea, and I’m using the word ‘incredible’ not in a good way, to start selling dirt to tourists. Genuine Hollywood Dirt, he calls it. It’s insulting, disgusting, emblematic of everything that’s wrong with this city. A malignancy. The Wolins, the Punyawongs, the street characters, and the raving derelicts, all just sucking at Hollywood’s teats. So unworthy of this place.”

  So that’s what happened to them all, Jarsdel thought. The Riddler and Ghost Rider and Batman. And the vagrant in the doorway probably, and who knows how many others.

  “I’m trying to restore this town to what it once was,” said Stevens. “Inject it with a new passion for the arts, for history, and along comes this nothing man peddling dirt. It was more than I could bear. So then Brayden tells me, how did you put it?”

  “Two birds with one stone,” said Brayden.

  “I love that expression. Yes. Two birds with one stone. Get rid of my Wolin problem and fold up Fantasy Tours all in one go. And this Punyawong has a son, Brayden tells me. Wonderful. So I decide to send a strong message, just like we used to do during the war. Put on a real show. I thought the red quarter was a particularly nice touch.” Stevens smiled broadly. “I made a call to Punyawong, letting him know his son was next. And it worked! No more Fantasy Tours! No more Punyawong!” His smile faded back into his expression of sadness. “But then you.” He turned back to the bull. “The hardest thing to get right was the head. Said Perillos, the sculptor, ‘His screams will come to you through the pipes as the tenderest, most pathetic, most melodious of bellowings.’ The tubing in the bull’s head had to be specially calibrated to produce that effect but resilient enough to stand up to the tremendous heat. Here, I’ll show you.”

  Stevens bent down and picked up a stainless-steel box affixed with a large black dial. A cord ran from the box into the side of the burner apparatus. He gave the dial the smallest of turns, and there was the clicking sound of an ignitor, followed by a soft whump! as the gas jets caught. Low blue flames sprouted upward, and Jarsdel could already feel their heat.

  “I’ll keep it on low for now,” said Stephens. “But I can have those flames up and licking the bull’s body if I like. When that happens, make sure you stand far back. It can get quite hot in here. Really, it was made for outdoor use. The fan helps a little, but it’s mostly there for the smoke. You see,” he continued, “Wolin was an unusual case. I needed a body to scare off Punyawong, but most times, I get it really cranked up so there’s nothing left at all, just bits of bone that I throw into the greens bin. Contemporaries of Phalaris said they ‘shone like jewels.’” He fingered his milky white pendant. “See? Remarkable. All that’s left of a Bosnian sniper who killed an officer in my unit. His death was a big favorite in Foča. We all drank rakia and sang while he burned.”

  Thinly at first, but growing in volume, the bull began to moan.

  “Sounds just like the lowing of cattle,” said Stevens, marveling. “Man or woman inside, it always comes out the same on this end.”

  There was the faint sound of something scrabbling inside the bull, the slap of feet and hands against the increasingly hot metal. And over it all, the screams of pain and fear transformed into that terrible moaning. Despite the room’s increasing temperature, Jarsdel experienced a violent chill. It began somewhere in his chest and spread outward, sapping the strength from his muscles and making his limbs tremble.

  “You know what I find interesting?” said Stevens. “Human nature. Specifically, the mechanism of choice. It’s a powerful thing, watching people make choices under pressure. You can’t guess or imagine what people will do when faced with those grand life choices.”

  Jarsdel started toward Stevens, then felt an arm clamp around his throat. “Easy,” whispered Brayden, jamming the gun’s muzzle into his lower back.

  The bull’s moans increased in volume and urgency.

  “You can make one of those choices now if you like,” said Stevens. “My bull is going to sing for me today, but it doesn’t have to be her in there. You could take her place.”

  The banging inside the bull sped up as Aleena struggled to get away from the heat. Stevens touched a finger to the side of the bull, held it there for a moment, then snatched it away, grimacing. “Could almost cook an egg on it.”

  “Turn it off.”

  “So you’ll go in, eh?”

  Jarsdel didn’t know what he was going to do. He just had to have it stop. “Turn it off,” he said again.

  The bull wailed. Stevens regarded Jarsdel for a moment, smiling faintly, then turned the dial on the box to the off position. The blue flames sputtered and vanished. Stevens slid back the heavy bolt and pulled the hatch open. Aleena’s screams filled the room as she tried to fling herself from the bull. Her hips caught on the lip of the hatch, and she hung there, clothes soaked through with sweat, her skin a high scarlet. Sobbing, she clambered out the rest of the way, swatting Stevens’s hand when he held it out to her, and spilled in a heap to the cement floor. Jarsdel tried to go to her, but Brayden held him fast.

  “She holds quite a distinction,” said Stevens to no one in particular. “The first person to emerge from my Brazen Bull alive.” He turned to Jarsdel, then gestured to the open hatch, which yawned into blackness. “Your half of the bargain, yes?”

  “And Aleena?”

  Stevens gave a sorrowful shrug. “No happy endings, I’m afraid. Not tonight. But at least it won’t be this.” He knocked the bull’s flank, which gonged sonorously.

  Jarsdel felt Brayden’s arm around him loosen, and the gun’s muzzle prodded him forward. His legs gave out, and he stumbled and fell flat. The concrete was cool against his palms, and he thought about what it would be like inside. What would kill him first? Would the heated air burn him from the inside out, cooking his lungs with each breath? Or would it be even slower, his nerve endings shrieking under his skin as he tried in vain to get away from the metal?

  Brayden pulled him roughly to his feet. “Hey.” Brayden’s whisper was hot in his ear. “You wanna piss him off? Don’t scream when you’re in there. No matter what. No one’s been able to do that before. I wanna see his face.”

  There was a squeak of suppressed laughter, and Jarsdel was pushed forward again. Now he did go to Aleena, kneeling beside her. She was still facing the ground, weeping at the sight of her hands, which were swollen and misshapen with blisters.

  “Aleena, it’s me. It’s me.” He reached out to touch her but stopped himself, afraid of frightening her further. “You’re gonna get out of here.” It was all he could think to say, and he knew it wasn’t true.

  She looked up at him then, through the damp, stringy hair that had spilled across her face. Jarsdel saw vivid purple bruises below her left eye and along her jaw. Her lip was split, and a smear of dried blood ran from her mouth to her chin.

  It s
eemed to take her a moment to recognize him. When she did, a strangled sound escaped her, and she seized him in an embrace, wailing as she clung to him.

  Jarsdel looked up at Stevens, who made another gesture toward the bull. “You know,” said Jarsdel, rubbing Aleena’s back gently. “Your hero Phalaris didn’t make it.”

  Stevens cocked his head. “Hmm? How do you mean?”

  “Overthrown. Cooked in his own bull, as I remember. Very poetic.”

  Stevens nodded. “At least so says the prevailing theory. What’s your point? You think I too am destined to spend my final moments in there?”

  “It’ll catch you one way or another. One day. This isn’t gonna end with me. My partner knows you lied about Wolin working for you, and he knows you’re the last person Dinan called before he disappeared. And when I don’t show up to work tomorrow morning, he’s gonna get a warrant to tear this place down to the studs.”

  Stevens stiffened. “Thank you for the warning. An acetylene torch can take the bull apart, and I can always put it back together some other time. That’s how I got it into this country, you know. It’s a bit of a hassle, but it doesn’t seem I have a choice. Oh well. Better get inside, then. I’ll turn the heat on full for you. Much quicker that way. Up.”

  “No.”

  “We made a deal. Honor it, or I’ll have Brayden persuade you.”

  “Let Aleena go.”

  “Up.”

  “Not until you let her go.”

  A new voice broke in, full of authority and, it sounded to Jarsdel, barely checked fury. “Freeze. Nobody moves. I will put bullets in the first of you motherfuckers so much as twitches.”

  Jarsdel wasn’t sure if that warning included him and decided to play it safe. He stayed still, his hands resting on Aleena’s back. Even she’d become quiet. Jarsdel snuck a look up at Stevens and saw the man staring in surprise in the direction of the doorway.

  “Partner,” said the voice. “You hurt?”

  Jarsdel got to his feet, pulling Aleena up with him. Morales was standing behind Brayden, who’d been disarmed and now had his hands in the air. Jarsdel led Aleena to the corner so she could rest, her back supported. He then turned his attention to Stevens and moved toward him, reaching for his handcuffs before remembering he didn’t have them. He didn’t care. He’d pin him to the ground until backup arrived if he had to.

  It was just as Jarsdel was crossing in front of the bull that it happened. The burners came to sudden, roaring life, shooting blue-and-yellow flames as high as his elbows. He instinctively dove away as the terrific heat hit him, but not before losing the hair on the left side of his body. Jarsdel landed hard, rolling in case his clothes had caught.

  Stevens dropped the burner control and darted toward the open door as Brayden spun on Morales, clouting him with the back of his hand. The detective, who held both his own gun and the one he’d taken from Brayden, stumbled back against the doorjamb, striking his head. Brayden pressed his advantage, grabbing one of Morales’s wrists in each hand and wrenching them toward the ceiling. Morales was strong and fought back, and Brayden hurled a clumsy but powerful kick that caught him on the knee. Morales’s eyes bulged as the fight went out of him. He sagged to a sitting position as Brayden grabbed one of the guns and stumbled away, twisting it free. He quickly regained his balance and began leveling the weapon at Morales. But the detective, though wheezing in pain, brought his own weapon up faster. Morales fired six rapid shots. The first two were wild, one of them clipping the bull with the sound of a bell being struck. The remaining four rounds lifted Brayden off his feet, carrying him backward, his blood arcing in bright crimson streams. His body slammed against the bull and slumped sideways into the flames, and the Popeye Doyle hat caught as if it had been dipped in gasoline. The room began to fill with the smell of burning hair and clothing.

  Jarsdel scrambled to his feet and looked at Aleena, who sat frozen in shock. He picked up the burner control and snapped the dial to Off. The flames guttered out, but Brayden’s body continued to smolder.

  Jarsdel went quickly to Aleena. “You okay?”

  She blinked but didn’t answer.

  “Aleena!”

  She turned toward him, eyes wide and haunted. Jarsdel glanced at Morales, who remained on the ground. He still held the gun and, with his other hand, gripped his knee. The pain had drained the color from his face. “Can you walk?” Jarsdel asked.

  Morales shook his head, then held out his weapon. “Go. Get him. I’ll take care of her. Backup’s coming.”

  Jarsdel took the gun, threw one last look at Aleena, then raced from the room.

  * * *

  As he bolted up the stairs, Jarsdel realized he’d been burned worse than he thought. The left side of his face throbbed painfully, and the back of his hand felt as if it were on fire. His pant leg on that side hung in charred ribbons, the skin underneath taut and shiny. A feverish shiver ran through him, and he was almost sick again. He stumbled when he reached the top of the stairs, and that probably saved his life.

  The spear point that had been aimed at Jarsdel’s throat instead took him just above the ear, glancing off bone and opening up the flesh in a long, jagged line. His glasses snapped off and scattered across the floor. He clamped his free hand to the wound and turned toward his attacker, raising the Kimber, but Stevens charged forward again. The spear flashed, its dull tip punching through Jarsdel’s right bicep, and the gun dropped from his hand. He gasped. There wasn’t much pain, not yet, and he watched with remote fascination as Stevens wrenched the spear free.

  I’m going to be killed with a movie prop, Jarsdel thought. Only in Hollywood.

  It was hard to see with only the light from the streetlamps outside coming through the museum’s display windows, and the spear was practically invisible. Stevens lunged, aiming at his chest. Jarsdel ducked to the side, and Stevens followed up with a vicious swipe toward his face. Jarsdel flailed out his hands and seized the shaft of the spear, keeping the point away from his body, and threw a kick at Stevens’s groin. The other man dodged it easily, alternately shoving and yanking the spear to try to get it free. He didn’t look angry; instead, his expression was one of deep concentration, as if he were trying to solve a troublesome problem.

  “It’s over. Let it go,” said Jarsdel. The order lacked confidence. He was overmatched, fighting for his life. Even his most frenzied struggles with suspects had never progressed beyond the simple arrangement between criminal and cop, one trying to get away and the other trying to stop that from happening. But this man wanted to kill him. He’d first wanted to kill him slowly, torturously, and now that had failed, he was trying to skewer him like a fish. It was unbelievable that he could die today, and die like this, right now, the blade taking him in the windpipe or the lung or the heart. It could happen easily. He didn’t think he’d be able to fight Stevens much longer. His neck and shirt were sticky with blood from the head wound, and more had run down from the puncture in his arm, making his grip begin to slip. He was weakening, while his opponent remained strong and unharmed.

  Stevens gave an especially hard push, then let go of his end of the spear. Jarsdel, suddenly finding himself without any resistance, nearly fell backward. As he regained his balance, Stevens bent down to pick up the gun.

  Jarsdel swung the spear two-handed in a sharp downward arc. It whistled through the air, and the base of it caught Stevens on the shoulder. There was a crack, and Stevens let out a loud, mournful sigh as he sank to his knees. Jarsdel turned the spear around so the shank was pointed at Stevens, who reached for the gun again, this time with his left hand.

  “Don’t.” Jarsdel prodded the blood-slick blade at Stevens. “Back away from the weapon.”

  Stevens shook his head. It was a slow, weary gesture. Then he smiled, wiggling his fingers in the direction of the gun. Dare I? the move seemed to say.

  Jarsdel took a step forward, i
ntending to kick it away, but Stevens was faster. Stevens rolled forward and grabbed the gun, then spun around as he rose to one knee, already firing.

  Jarsdel ran at him, squinting at the loud reports, and something thrummed past his ear. He shut his eyes then and felt the spear meet a brief resistance before bursting forward again. Then he hit something hard and unyielding and came to a sudden halt.

  The gunfire had ceased. Jarsdel opened his eyes and was startled to see Stevens looking back at him. He was frowning, his forehead creased in concern. His unnaturally black hair had come loose from its meticulous part and now lay crazily across his brow.

  Jarsdel had run Stevens into the wall, just to the left of a poster for a movie called The Stranglers of Bombay. The head of the spear was sunk into his body just above Stevens’s pelvis, and Jarsdel could feel the point scraping against the wall where it exited out the other side. Jarsdel let go of the shaft, and Stevens sank slowly to the floor, the long wooden pole bobbing a little as he went.

  The smell of blood was heavy in the air, along with something else, foul and sharp, the smell of shit, and Jarsdel wondered if it was coming from him, if he’d soiled himself. Then he saw something brown and syrupy seep from around the blade buried in Stevens’s belly and realized he’d punctured the man’s intestine. He stepped forward and took the gun from Stevens, who didn’t seem to notice or care. He debated whether or not to try to remove the spear but decided it would be better to wait for the EMTs. He could hear sirens now. His backup. In a moment, the officers would be inside, and then later the Force Investigation Division, and he’d have to explain how he’d ended up impaling another man with a prop from Spartacus. A wild laugh bubbled inside him. He tried stopping it, and what came out was choked and strange, like a suppressed sneeze. Stevens raised his head.

  “It is funny. Yes.”