by Alan Russell
“You are afraid of the fire?”
I reached for my scarred face. “That’s an understatement.”
“Fire isn’t always about destruction, you know. Many famous fire stories are about revelation, rebirth, and even resurrection.”
“The burn victims I know aren’t phoenix stories. None of us rose out of the ashes that way.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m very sure.”
“Fire has often been a messenger. It was out of a burning bush that Moses heard an angel speak. And despite the fire spouting from the bush, it was not consumed.”
“I saw lots of burning bushes. All of them were consumed and I never heard an angel talk to me.”
“Many of our myths are built on fire stories. Prometheus stole fire from the gods so that humans could become like gods.”
“And didn’t he get chained to some rock where he had his liver pecked out by a vulture every day?”
“That’s one version of the myth.”
“He paid quite the price.”
“So did you.”
“I know that. Once was more than enough. I’m tired of burning and burning and burning.”
“Maybe you haven’t allowed yourself to accept everything that happened to you.”
“You’re not going to start talking about how that fire caused part of my soul to escape and now it can’t find its way home, are you?”
“Not if you don’t want me to.”
“I don’t.”
“I’ll talk about fire then, and how you need to make your peace with it. I’ve been asked to put on a program at this year’s Burning Man event. Why don’t you go with me? The atmosphere might be therapeutic for you.”
I had heard of the annual event. Every year, thousands of people gathered at a remote desert spot in Nevada and burned a huge wooden effigy of a man. It sounded about as appealing as an STD.
“Send me a postcard from there, would you?”
“Fire isn’t your enemy. It’s one of the revelatory elements.”
“If that’s the case, then maybe we should go out to your backyard and make a campfire and tell ghost stories.”
“I don’t think tonight’s a good night for that.”
“Damn, I was looking forward to s’mores.”
“Tell me about your fire dream.”
“I already told you: it’s not a dream. It’s a reliving of what happened.”
“And in that reliving have you ever made it to safety?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. It’s always the horror show but never the relief. In every dream the situation feels helpless. Sirius is always dying, and I can’t do anything to prevent that. The only thing I can do is burn to death with him.”
“That must be a horrible feeling.”
I nodded. “I feel responsible for his dying because I’m the one that put him in that position. And my only consolation is that Ellis Haines is going to die with us, but even that is anticlimactic.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“The idea of killing Haines doesn’t make me feel better. I know I have to stop him from hurting anyone else, but for me it’s just one last duty, like shooting a rabid dog. Feel free to call me Atticus Finch.”
“You suffered a trauma,” Seth said, “and the fire still has a grip on you because part of you remained behind in that place.”
“Yeah, I left behind about a pound of flesh.”
“You must accept the flames if you would gain enlightenment. You won’t be able to go forward unless you go back.”
“Thank you, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”
“Instead of shrinking from the fire, use it for the purpose of illumination.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one that’s burning up.”
Both of us sat looking in our drinks for a minute. Seth didn’t see the world as I did. He believed as much in the invisible as he did the visible and saw dreams as journeys. I didn’t want to hear about befriending spirits or gaining empowerment through my travels, or at least I didn’t think I did. Still, when he’d spoken about enlightenment, I couldn’t help but dwell on what my fire dreams kept bringing to me.
“Each time that I awaken from the nightmare,” I said, “when I realize that the fire happened in the past and that Sirius and I are now safe, this strange thing happens.”
I stopped talking for a moment, trying to get a handle on how to explain the ineffable.
“I always think of what occurs as being the moment after. It’s the instant when the horror is behind me, and this kind of window opens and I get this clarity. I can’t really describe it any better than that. It’s like getting a glimpse into my world from the heights of Olympus. It almost feels like I’ve suffered in order to be able to see what I otherwise wouldn’t. Sometimes I call it my boon from the gods.”
“What kind of things do you see?”
“Lots of times they are just little things, but they always help me make sense of situations. Sometimes I remember something, and it gives me this insight I didn’t have before, or I’m able to apply it to some situation that’s been puzzling me. Lately the images have been more elaborate, though.”
“And you’ve been experiencing these images and insights with every fire dream?”
I nodded.
“Medicine for your burns. It is your armor for battling the dragon.”
“I’m tired of battling the dragon.”
“Then you must vanquish it.”
“I think you’ve mistaken me for Saint George.”
“All heroes resemble one another and are forced to travel a perilous path.”
“You’ve had too many worms tonight. They’ve gone to your head.”
“The Ojibwa called alcohol ‘firewater.’ It won’t stop the burning.”
I nodded and downed my glass of firewater. Then I thanked Seth for his hospitality, and Sirius and I headed home.
CHAPTER 19:
MAKE-UP SECTS
Usually when I don’t have a fire dream I awaken feeling renewed, but not this time. I awoke with a sense of loss. Lisbet Keane was the first woman that had made me feel alive in years. For a long time I had just been going through the motions of living, an actor playing the role of the old me. I didn’t want to go back to that tired role.
I went online and did a search. I had thought what I wanted would only entail the use of my credit card, but it quickly became apparent that I was out of my league and needed help. After doing a search of florists and determining that none of the twenty-four-hour cookie-cutter sites could help me, one particular florist and his claim caught my eye: “Whatever flower it is, no matter how rare, I will find it for you.” The floral shop making this promise was located in Connecticut.
It was a little before nine on the East Coast. The male voice that answered my call already sounded aggrieved, maybe because it was early in the morning, or it was Monday, or he just enjoyed acting put-upon.
“I’m calling from Los Angeles,” I said.
“My condolences,” he said in a condescending tone.
“I didn’t call for sympathy. I am looking for a particular flower. According to your ad, you can find it for me.”
“Oh, dear boy, some copywriter came up with that phrase. I am not the floral Mountie. I don’t always get either my man or my flower, but Lord knows I try.”
“Forget-me-nots,” I said.
“What was that you said? I forget.”
“I’d like a bouquet of forget-me-nots.”
“No, you really don’t.”
“Excuse me?”
“Have you ever seen a forget-me-not?”
“I’m looking at a picture of one on my computer right now.”
“The picture you are looking at was taken with an oversized lens,” he said, somehow managing to infuse a prurient edge into his words. “Forget-me-nots have small flowers that are difficult to appreciate without magnification.”
“I want to send the thought more than I d
o the flower.”
“Oh, no,” he said. “I think I hear the wailing of disco past.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I wasn’t exactly being truthful. I did know what he was talking about.
“Do you want to sing it for me?”
“Sing what?”
“Are you afraid of your voice, or is it sentiment in general?”
“Both,” I admitted.
“Forget-me-nots,” he sang, actually hitting the high notes.
I interrupted before he could sing any more. “Okay, maybe I was inspired by the song ‘Forget-Me-Nots.’”
“Who recorded it?”
I played his trivia game: “Patrice Rushen.”
“She should have sung about pink hydrangeas. I can get you some beautiful pink hydrangeas.”
“Can you get me the forget-me-nots?”
“I don’t know.”
“Today?”
“You must be kidding.”
“I am afraid not.”
“All women love roses. I can definitely get those delivered today.”
I thought of baby Rose. Roses wouldn’t do. “My mind is set on forget-me-nots.”
“Do you understand that a bouquet of forget-me-nots is out of the question? They’re not flowering this time of year, and even if they were flowering, their flowers would be too small for a bouquet. My advice for you is to forget forget-me-nots.”
“What about a forget-me-not plant?”
“What kind of statement are you trying to make? That plant would have the appeal of Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree. Even the Almighty overlooked forget-me-nots, or so the story goes. That’s how the plant got its name.”
“I don’t know that story.”
“And you think I’m Hans Christian Andersen?” He mock-sighed and then said, “Supposedly God had named all the plants in the world except for one. He had overlooked a small flowering plant, and it cried out, ‘Oh, Lord, you have forgotten to give me a name.’ And so He called it ‘forget-me-not.’”
“That’s a good story.”
“It’s a legend. A good story is what I will need to take on this mission.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Before proceeding on this fool’s errand, you’ll need to tell me a good story about why I should spend my morning hunting down a weed that’s probably not even flowering this time of year.”
“I’m not rich. I’m a cop. But I’ll pay you for your time.”
“That’s not a good story unless I somehow missed a part about handcuffs. That’s like me telling you I am a florist and then asking you to fix a parking ticket for me for a fee. I’ll need a story from you to work on.”
“What the hell kind of florist shop do you run?”
“As you might have imagined, it’s a quirky one. But it’s also quite popular and customers are already waiting for me to open my doors. I chose my line of work because I like to be surrounded by beauty. And I like to be inspired in my work.”
“I called to get flowers, not psychotherapy.”
“I throw the therapy in for free.”
I considered hanging up, but then found myself talking. “My wife died three years ago. Two years ago I was burned in a fire. In some ways being burned was a relief because it gave me an excuse to not get on with my life. I could tell myself it was just enough to survive. But this week I asked a woman out, and for the first time since my wife died I began imagining a future with someone else. Yesterday, though, we had a spat. I don’t want us to be over before we’ve even begun. And that’s why I want forget-me-nots.”
“Now that’s a good story. And because it is, I will try and do the impossible to get you your forget-me-nots and have them delivered today.”
“I really appreciate that.”
“I’ll include some poem or lyrics with the plant so that she realizes the uninspiring potted plant you’ve sent her is a token of much more.”
“She’ll know the song. She’ll know what I was trying to say.”
“Yes, about that song. You do realize that for the rest of the day it will be cycling through my brain?”
“It could have been worse. It could have been ‘Disco Duck.’”
For the first time since our argument, I felt better. The condemned man had a pulse. Maybe my relationship with Lisbet still had a chance. It would be up to her to forgive or not, and to forget or not.
I picked up a large coffee at a drive-through and finished it over the course of my commute. There was no one in Robbery-Homicide, and I felt a bit like an interloper. I had a right to be there, but I didn’t feel as if I belonged. I commandeered a conference room and spread out some papers. Gump and Martinez arrived a few minutes after I did, and we started comparing notes and divvying work.
“I’ve been going through the bully list,” Martinez said, “and checked out eight of the eleven names. Three of the names I wasn’t able to cross-index with school records.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “Jason Davis only knew Dinah Hakimi by the nickname the Agency gave her: Bugs.”
“What an embezzle,” Gump said in a Bugs Bunny Bronx accent. “What an ultramaroon.”
“Who do you still need to run down?” I asked.
Martinez handed me the list with Travis’s writing. Three of the names were circled: Sophie Gabor, Danny Marxmiller, and Laura Barrel.
“I’ll go back to Davis,” I said, “and tell him to do better with those three names.”
Martinez said, “I’ve talked to the other eight kids. They said that Klein and his group were annoying assholes.”
“What a news flash,” Gump said.
“I asked them for an accounting of their time from Monday afternoon to Monday evening. It seems as if they all have witnesses and alibis. I haven’t checked out their stories, but I’ll be doing that today.”
“While you work on your bully list, I’ll work on my bucket list,” Gump said. “How do you spell ‘ménage à trois’?”
“Even the Make a Wish Foundation couldn’t pull that one off,” Martinez said.
One of the Robbery-Homicide detectives was out on leave, so I commandeered her desk. I worked the phones all morning. Three of my calls were to Jason Davis’s cell phone. When it was apparent he was ignoring my messages, I called a fourth time and said, “If I don’t hear from you within fifteen minutes, I’ll be contacting your parents so that they can arrange for a lawyer for you, and then I’ll be visiting you in one of your classrooms at Beverly to pick you up.”
He called back within five minutes.
“Some of the names on your victim list we haven’t been able to identify. I’m going to need you to get them right.”
“It’s not like I really know any of those people,” he said.
“You knew them well enough to hassle them.”
“That list goes back years. I haven’t seen some of those kids since forever. People have moved and graduated and stuff.”
“We’ve already identified most of the names but need clarification on three of them. We couldn’t find anything on Sophie Gabor, Danny Marxmiller, and Laura Barrel. I need you to get back to me on those three.”
“Isn’t that your job?”
“You really want me to acquaint you with my job?”
Davis sighed and then said, “I’ll work on it.”
“I need to hear from you by the end of the school day. And make sure you spell the names right this time.”
“Maybe if you don’t call every five minutes, I might be able to do that.”
He ended the call, and I found myself glowering at my cell phone. The best of teens are adept at pushing adult buttons, and Davis and his spoiled brat pack were not the best of teens. Just as I was about to officially turn into a curmudgeon, my phone rang. At first I didn’t recognize the name of Dearly Departed on the readout, but then I made the connection with the business that ran the online obituary service and remembered their tribute wall to Paul Klein.
“Is this Detective Gideon?”
I confirmed my identity, but that wasn’t good enough for Mary Ann Wiggins. “Our counsel gave me permission to talk to you, Detective,” she said, “but I’d be more comfortable going through an official switchboard instead of calling your cell phone directly.”
I gave her the LAPD number and the extension where I could be reached and then waited for her return call. Finally, the phone at my temporary cubicle rang.
“I am sorry I had to do that,” she said, “but my work has made me suspicious.”
“Identity theft is the new bubonic plague,” I said. “You can’t be too suspicious. But in my case, I yam what I yam.”
“I see,” Wiggins said, apparently not as impressed as Olive Oyl. “When we talked last week you asked if we could flag any negative comments or poison-pen letters directed at Paul Klein. Are you still interested in those things?”
“By all means.”
“In the last four days there have been seven attempted postings that we deemed inappropriate.”
“Can you forward those e-mails to me?”
Wiggins hesitated a moment before I added, “If you want, I can send you an e-mail with my official LAPD e-mail address, and then you can forward those letters to me.”
“I’ll respond directly after hearing from you. And when you receive the forwarded letters, don’t be fooled by the two notes with biblical quotes. You’ll find they are disingenuous.”
“In what way?”
“The same writer wrote both. He pretended sympathy for the victim and cited what you would imagine were inspirational biblical passages, but anyone referencing those chapters and verses would be in for a surprise. They are anything but sympathetic.”
“Clever.”
“We’re used to that. What is harder to pick out is a note like the one we received today on a matter unrelated to your case. The remembrance was written by a daughter to a father. That seemed well and good until we realized the deceased only had two sons.”
“Daddy, we hardly knew thee.”
I thanked her, took down her e-mail address, and then said I’d appreciate it if she could forward the letters as soon as possible. I sent off my e-mail information to her while Wiggins was promising that she would do just that.