Burntown

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Burntown Page 21

by Jennifer McMahon


  “What about Miles?” Fred asks.

  “Miles?”

  “Didn’t you see him that day? Didn’t he answer the door?”

  She freezes a minute, then nods. “Yes, of course! He was there. That’s what scared me off. Seeing him like that. He had blood on him. Looked half-crazy.”

  Fred does not need any of his brother’s private investigator skills to know this woman is lying.

  “He had blood on him?” Fred asks.

  She nods. “All over his shirt, his pants. It was ghastly.” She takes a long sip from her drink. More of a glug, really. He fakes a sip from his own glass.

  “So you got back in your car and went home?”

  “Yes. I called the police and told them what I’d seen. Told them I was worried Miles had done something terrible.”

  “But he wasn’t there when the police arrived?” Fred asks.

  “No. He’d run off. Gone without a trace. No sign of Lily and Eva either.”

  “Then a few weeks later, Miles shows up, drowned,” he says.

  She nods. “Suicide.” She takes another sip from her glass—it’s nearly finished. “Cowardly bastard.”

  “How, exactly, are you related?” he asks, though he knows the answer. “Was he your brother?”

  She shakes her head vehemently. “No, thank God! My husband, Lloyd, he was Lily’s brother.”

  “I see,” Fred says, still not wanting to show her how much he knows. “He must have taken it hard—his sister and niece going missing like that? Foul play suspected.”

  She doesn’t meet his eye. “My husband passed away years before this ever happened.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he says.

  “Don’t be. In all honesty, it wasn’t the most solid marriage. And his death, it was just shit luck. He was killed in a car accident.” She keeps her eyes on the floor, takes the last sip of her drink. “Are you ready for a refill?”

  “No,” he tells her. “I’m still working on mine, but thank you.”

  A car accident? His research had told him that Lloyd Tanner died in a fire. Why would she lie? Because the fire was set by their son, maybe. Fred understood that some things were just too painful to discuss, and it was easier to make up another story, to tell it so many times that you yourself started to believe it.

  Judith goes to pour herself another drink, staggering a little.

  Good. Drink more.

  “And of course, you know what became of Lily?” she asks.

  “I know she drowned this past April.”

  “Poor thing.”

  “So you never heard from her? Not in all that time?”

  She turns back with her drink. “No. I believed she and Eva were dead. That Miles had killed them and hid the bodies somewhere they’d never be found.”

  “Did Miles seem like the sort of person who might be capable of something like that?” Fred asks.

  She plunks down hard on the couch, some of her drink spilling. “You never know what someone is capable of,” she says. “You never know what they carry inside them.”

  “But it turns out he didn’t kill them,” Fred says.

  “No. Apparently not. And poor Lily, living on the streets, panhandling, eating out of dumpsters, doing drugs…What did Miles do to her?”

  Fred nods. “And Eva? You never heard from her either?”

  “No. I was sure she was dead. Until you showed up here today. Now it’s your turn. Tell me what you know.”

  “I don’t have much to tell you, because most of what I’ve learned is part of a confidential ongoing investigation.” He’s doing his best to sound like his brother. “But I have good reason to believe that your niece is very much alive. Alive and in the city.”

  Judith leans forward, sloshing her drink. “I can’t believe it! Where is she?”

  “I can’t say exactly, but I have a few leads.”

  “Will you call me? The second you find her?”

  “Of course.”

  Judith gets up off the couch and comes toward him, staggering across the living room floor, banging her knee against the coffee table and losing her balance. He stands in time to catch her, and she throws her arms around him, hugs him hard. “Thank you,” she says. “Thank you, James. You don’t know what this means to me.”

  He gives her back a gentle pat, and she releases her grip. He guides her back to the couch.

  “Easy now,” he says. Standing there, he has a better view of the framed pictures on the mantel. Two show a much younger Judith, albeit one with dated hairstyles—in one she’s in a rocking chair, cradling an infant; in the other, she’s standing side by side in front of a Christmas tree with a little boy in striped footie pajamas, maybe three or four years old. And then there’s one that’s just of the boy, a little older. He’s standing in front of a lake or pond, green mountains in the distance. It’s a good photo—his face well lit and in perfect focus. He’s grinning at the photographer, nose wrinkled a bit, wearing baggy red swim trunks, hands on his hips. He has brown hair, ruffled in the breeze, blue eyes. And a jagged scar over his left eye.

  It’s the kid he’s been following. No question about it. The kid is a man now, but he’d recognize that face anywhere.

  “You have an adorable son,” he tells her, thinking this is just what all mothers love to hear.

  She nods, reaches for her drink on the coffee table. “Edward. He’s gone, too.”

  “Gone?” Fred echoes.

  “He was killed in the car crash with his father. Not long after that last picture was taken.”

  Theo

  The three women are all eating fire now. Theo watches as they trip their faces off thinking this is nuts, and that they aren’t going to be any help at all. The oldest woman, Miss Abigail, she takes a sip of something, whiskey maybe, holds a torch in front of her, and sprays a steady stream of fire out of her mouth like a dragon. She sets the torch down and begins to speak, still swaying, moving like her own flame.

  “The day we found you and your mother by the riverbank, your mother told me you and she were in terrible danger. There was a man, a man she called Snake Eyes, who had tried to kill your whole family.”

  “Did she know who he was? Did she ever give you an actual name?” Necco asks.

  The old woman shakes her head. “Nothing like that. But she did say he wanted revenge.”

  “Revenge for what?” Necco asks.

  “Your father had tried to kill this man. In fact, he believed that Snake Eyes was dead.”

  “My father? Try to kill someone? No.” Necco shakes her head.

  Miss Abigail smiles. “As your father was famous for saying, every one of us is capable of doing something terrible.”

  “But my father—you don’t understand. He never even yelled. He didn’t have a violent bone in his body.”

  “This man your father tried to kill—he was the man who had murdered your father’s own mother before his very eyes. A man he called the Chicken Man.”

  “Whoa!” Theo says, suddenly paying attention as she begins to grasp the relevance of what they’re saying. “So this Chicken Man and Snake Eyes are the same dude? And he’s the one who killed Necco’s grandma, her parents, and Hermes?”

  The old woman nods.

  “And my mother knew?” Necco asked. “She knew that my father had found the Chicken Man and thought he’d killed him?”

  “Not until the day of the flood. When the man came back. But there was another reason he came back, beyond revenge. The reason he’s after you, still, I believe.”

  “He wants the machine,” Necco says quietly.

  “What machine?” Theo asks.

  Necco closes her eyes. “Something my father built. It was a special sort of telephone. One that would let you speak to the dead.”

  Theo makes a little guffawing chuckle. She can’t help it. It’s absurd. She’s gotta be hearing things. Maybe just being in the presence of the Devil’s Snuff gives everyone a little contact high, she and Necco included. “A machi
ne that can talk to the dead?” she says. “That’s impossible.”

  “But it worked,” Necco says.

  “Oh, come on,” Theo argues.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but I swear I saw it work,” Necco insists. “I heard the voices that came out of it. I spoke to my grandmother. She tried to tell me the truth. That she hadn’t died in an accident, but I didn’t understand. And that last day, the machine was on. My grandmother was warning us. I can’t remember what she said, but I remember her voice, the word danger.”

  Miss Abigail nods. “It was your father’s greatest creation, put together from old plans stolen from one of the greatest inventors of all time—Thomas Edison.”

  “The lightbulb guy?” Theo says. “No way!”

  “Shh,” Pru tells her.

  “But I still don’t think it’s possible—” Theo says, and Pru cuts her off.

  “Let Miss Abigail finish,” Pru snaps with a reprimanding look.

  “Did my father steal the plans?” Necco asks.

  “No. He was given them by his father. It is unknown how he acquired them. But Snake Eyes learned that your father had built the machine, that that’s how Miles had found out he was the killer. Snake Eyes wanted the machine very badly. There is someone he wanted to talk to, someone who has passed. Someone he once loved very much.”

  “So who is this Snake Eyes guy?” Theo pipes in.

  “A bad, bad man,” Miss Coral says, looking frightened. “A man poisoned by the things he’s done.”

  “And he’s getting close,” Miss Stella says, eyes full of concern. “Close to finding you.”

  “And he’s not alone,” Miss F says. “He has helpers.”

  “Great,” Theo says. “So how do we stop him?”

  Miss F shakes her head. “You don’t. He won’t stop until he gets what he wants. He’s sure Necco has it.”

  “That’s ridiculous—I don’t have the machine! I don’t even think it exists anymore!”

  “But the plans still exist,” Miss Abigail says. “Your father hid them. He understood their importance. Just as he understood that they mustn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

  “What do you mean, wrong hands?” Theo says.

  “Imagine it really is possible to speak to those who have passed. Imagine you could call up anyone you like, ask questions, get instructions.”

  “So what?” Theo says. “You’re saying some lunatic could call up Hitler or Jack the Ripper and follow their orders? This just gets better and better.” She can’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

  “What I’m saying,” Miss Abigail tells her, “is that the world could easily be thrown out of balance. This device could do terrible harm.”

  Necco nods. “It’s not just the people you call who can come through. I heard other voices, too.”

  Miss Abigail nods. “It’s a powerful machine. We must not underestimate it.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, because my father didn’t tell me where he hid any plans,” Necco says.

  “Perhaps not,” Miss Abigail says. “But I believe he left you clues.”

  “Clues? What clues? Maybe he didn’t leave them for me. Maybe it was Errol.”

  Miss Abigail shakes her head. “It was you.”

  “Miss Abigail,” Necco says, her voice low. “My brother, Errol, is alive. He’s been alive this whole time. And Mama knew.”

  “How do you know this?” Miss Abigail asks.

  “I saw him.”

  “When?” Miss Abigail asks.

  “Today. When I went to the Winter House to look for Theo’s bag.”

  “Wait!” Theo interrupts. “Your brother was there?”

  Necco nods.

  “But you said you were alone.” Theo tries to stifle the anger in her voice. “Jesus! Maybe he took the bag. Maybe he’s the one who tore your place apart. And he’s got to be the one Pru’s strongman followed out there, right? The guy who is somehow connected to what happened to your boyfriend. Holy shit! What if he killed Hermes?”

  Necco shakes her head. “It wasn’t him.”

  “But how can you be sure? I mean, you haven’t seen him for years, right? You thought he was dead. How well can you say you really know him now?”

  “He’s my brother!”

  “That’s another thing that’s been bugging me,” Theo says. “If he’s really your brother, why isn’t he mentioned in any of the articles about your family? Or your father’s obituary. Didn’t you notice that at all? It’s like he doesn’t exist. Like an imaginary friend. Or a ghost.”

  “He does exist,” Necco says. “He’s no ghost.” She looks to Miss Abigail. “Tell her. Tell her Errol is real. That he’s my brother.”

  Miss Abigail relights her torch, takes another sip of firewater, and breathes fire, spitting the flames out in a careful spray.

  Pru is delighted. “Wonderful,” she calls, clapping. Miss Abigail turns to her, and Theo is thinking that she’s going to be scolded—this is like some kind of spiritual ceremony, not a sideshow. But Abigail smiles wide at Pru, showing teeth stained red. The old woman stands, takes a worn leather pouch from around her neck, holds it by the string, and walks over to the smiling cafeteria lady. She holds the pouch over Pru’s head, and it spins in a slow, clockwise circle.

  “You have been chosen,” Miss Abigail says. “Chosen by the snuff.”

  “Her?” Theo says, incredulous. “Why her?” These women are supposed to be clairvoyant, so can’t they see she’s the one who needs it? The one who could actually have her ass saved by the stuff?

  “Pru was brought here for a reason,” Miss Abigail says.

  “Yeah—and the reason is she was the one with the car,” Theo snipes.

  “What will happen if I take it?” Pru asks. “What will it do?”

  “It will get inside you and change your life forever,” Miss Abigail promises.

  “Yes,” Pru says, no trace of hesitation. “I’ll take it.”

  Miss Abigail carefully opens the drawstring pouch, takes out a pinch of bright red powder, and places it in the palm of Pru’s hand.

  “Like this,” Miss Abigail says, putting a second pinch into her own palm. She blocks one nostril with her thumb, brings the snuff to her face, and inhales it quickly, with one long sniff.

  She watches now as Pru closes her left nostril with her thumb, brings her hand up to her nose, and inhales. “Ooh,” she says, closing her eyes, smiling. “Oh, my.”

  Pru

  The warmth hits her sinus passages first, then runs all the way through her, down her throat, into her chest, through her lungs and heart, then radiates its way out. It’s a warm, glowing feeling, a strange tingling, like she can feel every molecule of air. She can taste the smoke, the breath of all these women, the river. Everything is alive, a woven-together tapestry of scents, sounds, color, and taste. And she is a part of it, oh, is she ever a part of it.

  All the pain is gone from her body.

  She has never felt more alive than she does right now, right here in this moment.

  She stands, her legs two sure tree trunks beneath her, and begins to dance, staring into the fire in front of her, its flames leaping up in great colorful trails that connect with the stars above. She does her circus routine—a dainty pirouette, a dip, a leap. She’s light on her feet. The river rushes behind her, within her, the fire blazes before her, inside her. She is nothing and she is everything. She is the Circus Fat Woman. She is the Great Mother. She has given birth to the world, big and round and beautiful, and now she dances.

  The women are eating fire around her, cooing and humming a song with the most wonderful melody, breathing smoke out of their noses. Miss Abigail hands Pru a torch, and Pru dips it into the flame, waving it through the air: a burning marshmallow, a small comet streaking across the sky, her love for Mr. Marcelle, her circus dreams.

  “Take the fire in quickly and close your mouth around it,” Miss Abigail instructs. “Do not inhale. Just be one with the flames.”

&nb
sp; Pru does not hesitate. She is a woman who knows hunger, and she has never been truly satisfied. She knows what to do, how to open her mouth wide, invite the fire, in, close her mouth around it, and for once, for once in her life, she is full, she is satiated, she is so much more than herself.

  She is a Fire Eater.

  The smoke drifts from her nose and mouth, and she has a vision just then as she sways in front of the campfire flames. She watches the flames, sees a house inside them, a blue house, and Mr. Marcelle is inside, but he doesn’t know the house is burning, doesn’t understand the danger he is in. She’s calling to him, trying to warn him.

  “Stay where you are,” he says to Pru.

  Then, she sees Mr. Marcelle sitting on a couch with a woman with bleached hair. She has whiskey on her breath and she’s telling him lies, but it doesn’t matter because he sees through them. He’s getting close, so close to finding out the truth. Then, he’s the miniature version of himself—the little wire man in her circus, arms raised above his head, hoisting an impossibly large barbell.

  Pru keeps her eye on the flames, and in them, she sees the circus, her own small circus, only, as she watches, it grows, expands. It’s brought to life, made big and real and true, right here under the bridge. She sees a big ring, all the Fire Eaters dancing, twirling wands of flame. They are wearing colorful circus costumes of red and orange, fire colors, with sequins and beads that catch the light and flicker and burn. She sees a ticket seller with a line going all the way up the hill to the top of the bridge. And she sees an elephant. A great, golden elephant, all strung with lights, and she herself is riding on top, blowing kisses to the crowd because it’s her they’ve come to see. And she opens her mouth to tell them all the secret, the secret they’ve traveled all this way to understand.

  “Fire is life. And we are all fire. Each and every one of us has a flame burning inside. Rekindle your fire,” she tells them.

 

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