Burntown

by Jennifer McMahon

  Fred

  James was out. Fred wasn’t sure where—James enjoyed being mysterious, often saying that he was “out on business” when, in actuality, he was probably at the gym. He never really exercised, just flirted with the girl who made smoothies with kale and whey powder and chia seeds, and occasionally floated around in the pool or went in the sauna. James got a lot of business from the sauna. There was something intimate about sitting around sweating together wrapped in a towel, something that made people share their problems: I think my wife’s cheating on me; I wonder if my son has a drug problem. And there was James to smile his knight-in-shining-armor smile and say, “You know, I can help you find out.”

  Fred didn’t care where his brother was this time. He was just glad he was gone.

  He chewed on an antacid. The coffee and donuts Pru had given him sat in his belly like a cannonball. He’d blown it with Pru. He should have been more gentle with his questioning. He should have taken his time. Now she was furious; she’d practically thrown him out of her apartment. Any chances he had to get answers from her were officially blown. And it had been so nice, to be with her there in her apartment. To be sipping coffee and sharing donuts, knowing that at any minute she was going to show him her circus. He’s imagined the circus for so long, tried to picture it from the stories she told, but he’s always longed to see it. And he’d blown his chance at that, too. Idiot. He pops another antacid into his mouth.

  Fred has the notes on that old murder out in front of him. One witness. A ten-year-old boy. Which would make the kid fifty now. He looks back through the notes and newspaper articles until he finds the boy’s name: Miles Sandeski. He types it into the search engine on his brother’s computer.

  “Holy shit,” he says when he follows the link to the first hit: Professor Miles Sandeski sought for questioning in the disappearance of his wife and daughter. Foul play suspected.

  Fred reads on, one article and news story after another. Sandeski grew up to be a sociologist who’d written a popular book called The Princess and the Elephant. Then the poor professor turned up dead, remains found washed up on the riverbank, an apparent suicide, a couple of weeks after his wife and daughter disappeared.

  But then, something truly interesting pops up, a small news story, hardly front-page material, from April 7, this year:

  INDIGENT DROWNING VICTIM IDENTIFIED

  The body of a woman authorities recovered from the Lacroix River last Wednesday has been identified as 49-year-old Lily Sandeski, who has been missing and presumed dead for the past four years. Investigators learned that Mrs. Sandeski had been living on the street, with a group of transient women known as the Fire Eaters. Her death has been ruled a suicide. A police spokesperson has confirmed that the whereabouts of Lily Sandeski’s daughter, Eva, who also disappeared four years ago, are still unknown.

  “Eva,” Fred says out loud.

  Eva was the name of the girl living in the parking lot, the girl wanted for the murder of the governor’s son. The governor’s son who had the brass elephant. And somehow or other, Eva is connected with Theodora, the girl Pru’s been driving around with and calling her niece. Eva had Theodora’s bag, according to the guy he’d followed to the Koffee Kup.

  Fred types Eva Sandeski into the search engine and finds only news stories about the disappearance of Eva and her mother, how Miles was wanted for questioning. He rereads the quotes from Lily’s sister-in-law, Judith Tanner, who showed up at the house after receiving a distressed call from Lily, and found Dr. Sandeski covered in blood and the house a wreck.

  He does a search for Judith Tanner; there are hundreds of hits, but at last, he finds the right one. Fred’s always amazed by the things you can learn online, even without all his brother’s fancy connections. Within ten minutes, he’s learned this much about Judith Tanner: her husband, Lloyd, had been killed in a fire at the garage he owned fourteen years ago; the fire was apparently set by the couple’s son, Edward, who was six at the time. The son was sent to live in a facility for disturbed children, but eventually ran away.

  Fred does the math. The son, Edward, would be twenty now. Fred can find no records of the right Edward Tanner online. It is as if the kid had truly disappeared.

  He comes up with a current address for Judith Tanner. It’s in a quiet suburban neighborhood about half an hour away. He looks at his watch: a little after 8:00. Not too late to pay her a visit.

  Necco

  The footpath that takes them down under the Blachly Bridge to the camp of the Fire Eaters is rough, and Pru is having a hard time; she’s going slow, her breath loud and whistling. Necco is in the lead and keeps stopping to look back. Theo is trying to help Pru, but Pru won’t have it. “I’m fine,” she scolds.

  “How do you know this Abigail will have Devil’s Snuff?” Theo asks. “I wasn’t even sure it was real.”

  “It’s real,” Necco says. “Miss Abigail and the other Fire Eaters are the ones who make it. It’s how they do what they do. The snuff shows them things. Gives them the power to eat fire. To see the future.”

  “Have you ever taken it?” Theo asks.

  Necco seems shocked at the idea. “No, never.”

  “But you’ve seen it? You’ve seen people take it?” Theo asks.

  “Many times. My mother was a Fire Eater. We lived in their camp for a long time.”

  “No shit?” Theodora says.

  “So it’s a drug?” Pru wheezes.

  “Yeah,” Theodora says. “But not like anything else out there. Word is that once you do it, you’re never the same. There are kids at school who would do anything for a taste. If I could get some, I could name my price. If I got enough, I could pay Jeremy back.”

  “Forget it,” Necco says flatly. “The Fire Eaters don’t sell it. It’s a spiritual thing to them.”

  “Well, do they ever give it away?” Theo asks.

  “They only give it to the people chosen by the snuff.”

  “Oh, of course,” Theo says, rolling her eyes. “The drug chooses who takes it. Makes sense.”

  Pebbles slide out from under their feet like marbles. They slip and slide down in the darkness, and Necco is starting to wonder if it was the best idea, bringing them here like this. The Fire Eaters are leery of outsiders, especially ones that don’t respect the ways of the Devil’s Snuff.

  “It’s late,” Theo says. “Are you sure they’ll be up?”

  Necco hears the water now, can see the gentle glow of a campfire down under the bridge. “Moon’s full. They’ll be awake.” These women live by the cycles of the moon, the turning of the seasons. There is a time for everything. For picking the berries, laying them on racks in the sun to dry, grinding them into powder, for inhaling the snuff and having visions. A time for eating fire. You do things in the wrong order, or when the time is not right, and it all falls apart. The snuff is no good. You get burned.

  “Almost there,” Necco calls back, her heart pounding hard, not from exertion, but from the idea of going back to the camp, to a place so full of memories. They pass the old shack where she and Mama used to live. The dented yellow road sign is still nailed to the left of the front door: SHARP CURVE AHEAD.

  Necco’s eyes are fixed on the sign, and she’s thinking about all the curves life had in store for her and Mama, sharp curves with terrible drop-offs below.

  Dead Man’s Curve.

  She takes her eyes off the sign, and there are the four Fire Eaters, hunched around the fire in a circle like points of the compass. Only something’s missing. Miss Abigail always said the Fire Eaters were whole only when there were five, like the points of a star.

  Mama. That’s what’s missing.

  Necco’s heart feels like a hollowed-out thing.

  “Miss Abigail, Miss Stella, Miss Coral, Miss F,” Necco calls. “It’s me, Necco.”

  The women look their way. Their pupils are huge, and they have red stains from the snuff under their noses. This means it’s a powerful night for visions if all four women have
indulged.

  “We’ve been waiting,” Miss Abigail says. “And I’m so glad you’ve brought your friends. Come join us. Sit by the fire. I think we can help you with some of the questions you’ve come with.”

  Necco does as she’s told, and Pru and Theo follow. Necco sits between Miss Abigail and Miss Stella, who smiles and gives Necco a bone-crushing hug. “Welcome home,” Miss Stella whispers. “I’ve missed you.”

  Pru settles herself down on a large rock near the fire and tries to manage the hair that’s stuck to her glistening face. Theo sits down between Necco and Miss Abigail, legs crossed, and studies the faces of the women. Miss Stella gives her a smile, her brown eyes warm. To the left of Stella is Miss Coral, who has her gaze focused on the fire and does not seem to notice when Pru leans forward, taps her on the shoulder, and says, “Nice to meet you, I’m Pru Small.” Apparently undeterred, Pru turns to her right, where Miss F sits, with her short, dirty-blond hair and circles like bruises under her eyes.

  “I’m Pru,” Pru says, and Miss F turns away from her in disgust, spits into the dirt, then speaks harshly.

  “I sense that there is one here who does not belong. One whose intentions are not pure.” Her eyes stay locked on the fire in front of her. It spits and pops as if in agreement. Theo throws a worried glance to Necco.

  “But I was just saying hello,” Pru says defensively. “Being polite.”

  “The Great Mother welcomes all,” Miss Abigail says. “She told us to expect you. We’ve learned other things, too. Things that will help you. It’s important that you listen. That you all pay close attention.”

  “Once upon a time, the Great Mother laid an egg,” calls out Miss Stella in her singsong story-talk voice.

  “And that egg became our world,” adds Miss Coral in a near whisper.

  Miss Stella leans forward, picks up a fire stick: a fuel-soaked ball of gauze on the end of a metal wire. She dips it into the fire, and the tiny ball of gauze catches. “A bright and blazing orb, spinning through space.” Miss Stella waves the flaming orb through the air in great arcs. Her face is lit up behind it, jewelry glinting and flashing, making her all the more beautiful.

  Pru leans forward, makes a little “ohhh” sound.

  Theo is mesmerized despite herself. No eye rolling now.

  As she sits with these women, Necco misses her mother with the pressing weight of a building coming down on top of her, crushing everything else out.

  “Fire is life,” Miss Stella calls out, voice loud, untamed.

  “Fire is life,” the other three women chant back.

  “Fire is breath,” Miss Stella says.

  “Fire is breath,” the others echo.

  “Fire, sustain me,” Miss Stella says. “Fire, show me visions of what will come.” She opens her mouth and puts the flaming torch inside, closing her lips, swallowing the flames down, letting the smoke curl out of her nostrils as her eyes roll back in her head.

  Pru makes another astonished gasping sound, then claps like you would do for a fire eater at the circus. But this is no circus. And this is only the prelude of what’s to come.

  “Tell me, my Necco girl, what is it you need to know?” Miss Abigail says.

  “I want to know about what really happened on the day of the flood. I want to know who Snake Eyes is; if I saw him that day. I want my memories back. I was hoping I could take the snuff, that it would show me what I need to know.”

  Miss Abigail looks at Necco, then closes her eyes. “The snuff is not for you, child. It never has been. Especially not now.” She opens her eyes, gives Necco a meaningful look, her eyes moving from Necco’s face to her belly, where the little baby grows. “You need to search your own memories.”

  “But I don’t remember,” Necco says, frustrated. “And whenever I asked Mama about it, she made up stories. Told me there was a flood that destroyed the house, killed Daddy and Errol. But that’s not what happened.”

  Miss Abigail nods, closes her eyes. “Sometimes the people who love us most make huge sacrifices for us. They’ll do anything to protect us.”

  “I know she thought she was protecting me,” Necco says. “But now I need to know the truth.”

  “I can tell you what I know. It’s not everything you need, but it’s enough to get you started. You’re sure you’re ready? You’re ready to hear it now?”

  “Yes,” Necco says. “I’m ready.”

  “Then let’s begin,” Miss Abigail says, and, perfectly on cue, all four women pick up their torches and light them, the fire illuminating their faces, making long, dancing shadows behind them as the women stand and begin to sway.

  And just now, at this moment, Necco understands that her mother isn’t gone. Not truly. She feels her presence here with these women. She’s the ghost in the shadows. The popping shower of sparks that jumps out of the fire and startles them all.

  Fred

  Fred pulls up at a little blue bungalow with garden gnomes, gazing globes, and colorful whirligigs decorating the front yard. Though it’s full dark, there are two lights above the front steps and a lamp on a post by the driveway blazing. Two cars are parked in the driveway—an old Corolla and, behind it, a car Fred recognizes from earlier this afternoon: the vintage black MG. Even from this distance, Fred can see the shadow of the Virgin Mary on the dashboard. The man with the dice tattoo from the diner must be inside. Maybe the kid’s in there, too.

  Now things are getting interesting.

  He texts his brother again: Can you look up this plate: VCS 314. Owner somehow involved with our kid.

  Fred looks around the neighborhood. The houses are fairly close together, and Judith Tanner’s house, all lit up like a Christmas tree, is in full view of at least six of her neighbors’. The last thing Fred wants is to go sneaking around and have some neighborhood watch type call the cops on him. The backyard looks promising, though—fairly dark, at least what he can see of it. He’s concocting a plan to circle around in the car and approach from the back when the front door opens, and the man with the dice tattoo steps out. He hesitates a moment on the steps before turning back to embrace a woman who has appeared in the door behind him. She’s tall, wearing a blue dress. They hug, then kiss. It’s a long, messy kiss that tells Fred they’re lovers. Fred ducks his head down, pretends to be intently focused on his cell phone as the man goes down the steps, gets in his car, and backs out. He takes off down the street, his taillights fading like two dim red eyes in the distance.

  Fred hops out of the car and darts up the walkway that cuts through the middle of her yard, passing the gnomes, which seem to glare at him like guards standing at attention. He knocks on the door. It opens quickly, the woman in the dress smiling, asking, “What’d you forget?” Then she sees him, and takes a step back.

  “Judith?” Fred asks. He’d put her in her mid-fifties. Feathery, heavily highlighted hair. Her layers of makeup don’t quite hide the fact that she’s got one hell of a black eye.

  “Who are you?” she demands.

  “My name is James Marcelle,” he says, simply because his brother’s name pops into his head before anything else. He instantly regrets his choice.

  She squints at him. “Do I know you?”

  “No, you don’t. But I think we might be able to help each other.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Can I come in?” he asks, thinking he is pushing his luck, but willing to risk it.

  She seems to consider for a second, but keeps her hand on the door, ready to swing it closed in his face at any second. “No. What is it you want?”

  “Your niece, Eva Sandeski,” he says.

  “What about her?”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  She shakes her head. “Probably dead. Poor thing. Never had a chance.”

  “What if I told you she wasn’t? What if I told you I might know how to find her?”

  “What did you say your name is?”

  “James Marcelle. I’m a private investigator. And I think I can
help you find your niece.”

  “Come in,” she says, holding the door open. “Let’s talk inside.”

  As he walks by her, he smells whiskey on her breath. As if she is reading his mind, the first thing she says as she leads him into the living room is “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Sure,” he says, even though he’s not much of a drinker, just the occasional beer on Sundays with his brother. He doesn’t want to be rude. He wants to win her trust. His brother once told him, “I never trust a man who won’t have a drink with me.” He’s also hoping that she’ll refill her glass, lubricate the tongue. Though, as he watches her weave and sway across the living room, he wonders how much more lubrication she really needs.

  “What’s your poison?” she asks.

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  There’s a bar set up in the corner. She pours two glasses of Jim Beam, carries them back. When she hands him the drink, she stands a little too close. “A private investigator, huh?”

  “Yeah. Do you mind me asking what happened to your eye? It looks pretty painful.”

  “I fell,” she says.

  Like hell, he thinks. “You know, if you didn’t fall, if someone hurt you like that, there are—”

  “So what do you know about Eva?” she interrupts.

  “I know she and her mother disappeared four years ago. That you were the one who reported them missing.”

  “I was,” she says. She takes a seat on the couch, so he goes to sit in a chair across the glass coffee table.

  “Can you tell me about that?”

  “My sister-in-law, Lily, she called me that afternoon. Really upset. I could hardly understand her. She asked if I could take Eva for a while. There was some trouble with her and Miles.”

  “Did she say what kind of trouble?”

  “No. She asked if I could come right away, and I said, ‘Sure,’ and told her I’d be there in an hour. Well, it took me nearly two hours. It was bad weather that day, the river had flooded, was up over the road in places, so I had to take a few detours. So I finally got there, and the door was wide open. The living room was trashed, furniture tipped over, lamps and vases broken. I knew something terrible had happened. I called out, but no one answered. I was scared. I drove home and called the police.”