Lady in Flames Read online

  “Wife beaters were beaten senseless, drug peddlers overdosed on their own supply, murderers were found with their throats slashed, molesters castrated. No villain was safe.

  “Residents took secret solace in knowing that someone stood ready to do what no one else would. The reign of the Night Drivers promised that any offender would meet swift retribution. No one knew where they’d hit next.

  “Then as quick as they brought about their vengeance, they disappeared. No one woke to the far off rumble of big block muscle; there was no mob of black cars racing through the night.

  “It came to pass that a man by the name of Sinclane dismissed the idea of the Night Drivers. No one had seen or heard of them in a long time, he reasoned.

  “Sinclane was an imbalanced, disturbed individual, eaten away over time by the subliminal inclinations of his twisted soul. He had no love of decency. He thought of the world as his toilet. Morally corrupt, there was no depravity too base to amuse him.

  “Even so, Sinclane failed to act on many of his impulses. He feared the loss of freedom more than anything, but pride is a fragile thing. To submit to another’s claim to authority was too much for him to bear.

  “He took it personally when one night his path crossed with an officer of the law and was made to show himself a coward. There was a barroom scuffle, and Sinclane was about to smash a bottle across someone’s skull when the officer manhandled him in a restraint.

  “The officer’s name was Mason. Mason was a good man. He worked the second shift as a patrolman and lived with his young family in a modest home he and his wife bought when they were first married.”

  Grimley interrupts. “So he had kids?”

  “Yes—two small boys. Mason was the most honest, upstanding man you could find. He held the respect of his family and those in the community that knew him.

  “That night at the bar, Mason was making his rounds and stopped nearby to assist with a flat tire. He was drawn in by the clamor he heard from the street.

  “Mason stepped in just as Sinclane was ready to take a swipe at an already bleeding patron. He pulled Sinclane away from the fray, locked his arms, and forced him to his knees.

  “Sinclane wiggled free and took a drunken swing without stopping to see that Mason was a police officer.

  “Mason took it in stride, smacked Sinclane around a bit to sober him up, and put him in his place. Marching him out to the curb, he sent him off for home.

  “The other patrons shared laughs and guffaws at the way the sloppy Sinclane took his scolding and stumbled off with his tail between his legs. Some of them waved from the window or the open door. They always said he was yellow and now they knew it.

  “This burned Sinclane to no end. He wouldn’t be showed up by some young badge. He wanted to nail him to the wall. There would be a comeuppance; Sinclane was sure of it.

  “He took it upon himself to get to know Mason’s schedule. It wasn’t too difficult because he knew the right people to ask. Soon after, he shadowed Mason on his patrols, trailing off on a side street and picking him up on another.

  “After a week or two of tracking him, Sinclane began to follow Mason home. He saw how “perfect” Mason’s life was: the tidy lawn, his pretty wife, the respect of his neighbors. Sinclane hated him for it.

  “One night, Sinclane staged a breakdown. He knew Mason’s routes by then and was ready when Mason approached his vehicle on a vacant back road. Peeking out from under the hood, Sinclane played nice to earn Mason’s trust. He acted like he didn’t remember the incident at the bar.

  “Then when Mason wasn’t looking, Sinclane pistol whipped him and shoved him to the ground. He pressed the barrel to the back of Mason’s head and asked why he shouldn’t blow it off. He could do it; it would be so easy. ‘I know where you live,’ Sinclane said. ‘What do you think will happen to your little wife?’

  “Mason dug his hands into the gravel as his mind flooded with fear of what Sinclane might try to do.”

  I’ve Got Ears All Over This Town

  February 27th, 2002 1:04 PM

  Johnny Rollins’ apartment

  What a high. I could hardly sit still the whole ride home. Nobody saw me. I drove at least a mile before I saw another vehicle. I just wish I could’ve stayed to watch the rest of it burn.

  I wanted to make sure I had the car back before Mom got up, though. Don’t need to look suspicious. It turns out she’s still asleep, probably hung over.

  Now I’m lying in the crumb-lined recliner trying not to move. My ribs kill. The T.V. mumbles on low, and I can’t find any aspirin, so I’m just staying put.

  The bedroom door creaks and I hear a slow shuffle in the hallway. Mom appears over my shoulder, hand on her head, wincing. “How come you’re not in school?”

  “Didn’t feel like going today.”

  “Well I don’t want to talk to no office if they call.” She leans against the wall, hand still on her head. Her oversized t-shirt makes her look skinnier than she is, hanging over black sweat pants. “We’re out of aspirin. Can you go get some?” She holds out a twenty. “You can get yourself something to eat, too.”

  I snatch the bill. The only time mom’s civil is when she’s hung over.

  “Just get whatever’s cheapest,” she says before turning to go back down the hall.

  She didn’t see the cut on my face from last night. Good. I don’t want to answer any of her questions. I toss the remote on the stack of magazines and collapse the recliner in a squeaky thud.

  I grab the keys and my coat from the kitchen and swipe a cigarette from mom’s purse. Once outside the apartment, I light up and trudge out into the lot. It still hasn’t been plowed.

  The car chokes back to life and I crank the radio because the tape player is busted. Sliding past the other cars in the lot, I head for the drug store.

  Part of me still can’t believe I did it. I’ve never burned something so big before. The Lady is probably just cinders, unless they caught it early. And Buck probably knows by now. He’s going to want to put a hurt on somebody.

  What if he suspects me? My stomach tosses itself over in a sick somersault. I rushed into this and didn’t think it through to the end. Buck will probably come looking for me. Maybe I shouldn’t go back to the apartment.

  It’s like when Will Hart wanted to kick my ass in the eighth grade. Doppler let me hang out at his place for a while to lay low. Will said I was a coward and worse but he never got his hands on me.

  I haven’t been out to Doppler’s place since before he died. It’s near the high school, maybe a twenty-minute walk. The tiny house sits on some worthless property that nobody else wanted. No one ever bothered him out there, and as far as I know, no one ever bought the place after he died either.

  One hand on the wheel, I’m zoned out when a flashing red light appears in the rearview. Damn police. I’m not even speeding. What does he want? There’s no way…no…he can’t know anything about the fire. Nobody saw me!

  I don’t want to pull over, not now, not ever. Punching the gas seems like the right thing to do for a second, but the cop’s got nothing on me. There’s no reason to run. I’m not guilty. I didn’t do anything. That’s all he needs to know.

  Steering to the shoulder, I stamp out the rest of my cigarette between the other butts in the ashtray. Then I turn down the radio and put both hands on the wheel. Dead white fields stretch empty on either side—I try to make my mind the same way.

  The cruiser whips around and parks diagonal in front of me. It looks like it might be one of those undercover cars. There’s no light bar on the top, only one of those slap-on dome lights—no decals on the doors either.

  A chubby slob of a guy rolls out of the driver side door. His open jacket exposes a stained green t-shirt. Black smudges smear the thigh of his jeans. Son of a bitch. It’s Willis Freed.

  What does this loony-toon want? Jackass is always butting in where he doesn’t belong. He makes a motion for me to lower the window.

  The wor
n motor whines the whole way down. I lean out in hopes Willis will halt where he’s at. “What do you want?”

  Willis strolls over in a slow, carefree shuffle. He stops a foot or so short of me. “Hey there, boy. Where you headed?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Never you mind.” He picks at something in his teeth.

  “You’re not a cop, you know. You can’t just go pulling people over.”

  Willis scratches his tilted head. One eye squints, as if he’s confused. “I’m not sure what to make of you, boy. This ain’t about the police. This is about information I’ve got that you ain’t privy to.”

  “What information?”

  “I’ve got ears all over this town and happened to come across something you might be interested in.” He snorts and then spits. “Now I know you was close with Doppler Jennings. I seen you with him a lot when he was still alive.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Well, I imagine you was plenty upset when he died.”

  “I suppose.”

  “You probably wanted to ring the neck of whoever done it—might even still want to today.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  Willis chuckles and then shrugs. “Turns out I know who run him down.”

  His words hit like a sucker punch. “What did you say?”

  “Yep, I know who done it. It was Buck Armstrong. He got good and liquored-up one night and then tried to drive home. I heard him admit it myself.”

  My heart stops and drops into my stomach. The sides of my throat squeeze together like there are invisible hands around my neck. Then my heart pounds back into my chest. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.

  I thought if I ever found out who killed Doppler it would be like something on the news. Someone who was passing through, someone who I’d never get to meet. A person I never heard of who got caught doing something they shouldn’t.

  Willis leans forward, one hand on the door frame. He grins a snaggle-toothed smirk. “That Buck—he’s dirty. I know it. He got that dope Willard to fix his van for him. Helped him cover up the whole thing.”

  “How do you know? I mean, how do you know for sure?” I don’t want to believe him. For anything this town’s worth I don’t want to believe him.

  Willis leans back and his tone rises as if he’s annoyed. “I done told you that. I’ve got ears all over this town.” He pauses like he’s waiting for me to reply.

  “Prove it.” I fight to hold back the wetness in my eyes. The rest of my body burns like I’m either going to explode or go into meltdown.

  “Shit, son. I ain’t got to prove anything. You already believe me. I can see that plain as dirt.” He shifts from one leg to the other and says, “Now you go on and do what you got to do. I won’t stop you.”

  I turn away, knuckles bound over the steering wheel. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be. With one more watery glance at Willis, I slam the shifter back into drive and floor it.

  The thrashed motor belly-aches the whole way down the road. I’m a missile as I pass the trailer park, the holler, and the mill. I curse all the lone houses I see on my way past the outskirts of town.

  Letting out every obscenity I know, I pound my fist into the dash until the display on the radio goes dead. Buck? Buck Armstrong? That sloppy son of a bitch? All this time he’s been walking around, a free man. Never accused of nothing.

  A cloudy film of the last twelve hours fills my head. Getting beaten. Breaking into the hardware. Setting the fire. Then years past creep in—times when Doppler was still here. Fishing. Taking swigs of his whiskey. Collecting cans along the roadside. I drive toward his place without really thinking about it.

  Another ten minutes and I’m heading down the loneliest, most forgotten road in Halgraeve. No houses, no grain silos. Just a stringy, barbed wire fence that runs for miles.

  When I reach the narrow drive, I’m done crying. Whatever’s inside me is just an ember now, but I’ve got all the aggression in the world to fuel that back up to a raging flame. I stop short of getting the car stuck and leave it near the road.

  Trudging down the unplowed drive is a chore; the snow’s knee high. I can just make out Doppler’s old shack at the end. One side is close to being buried with all the drifting. The slate shingles hide under a thick blanket.

  It’s really just a two-room cabin with a small workshop on the one end. Doppler kept junk he collected in there along with rusty old tools. I know the lock was busted on that door and so I start there.

  Like I expect, the latch is loose and there’s nothing to keep me from getting in. Wedging enough room between the snow and door is another thing entirely, but with a few violent surges I’m able to squeeze past.

  Inside, I trip over old gas cans, ramming my left shin into the lip of one of them. They don’t budge because they’re full. Beyond them lies a workbench buried under boxes and paint cans. I remember smoking out here a lot.

  The inside door is locked, but that hasn’t stopped me all day so I heave into it with a numb shoulder. It must be the sturdiest thing in the house because it won’t give. I resort to some of the forgotten tools lying nearby to destroy the latch but don’t succeed.

  I give up and exit, marching around to the back of the house to jimmy the rear window with a screwdriver. The old wooden casing slips and I’m in, head first. The dusty kitchen floor feels as cold as the snow.

  The layout’s just like I remember it. The paint spattered, analog radio, the lumpy brown couch, the wood-burning stove, the greasy refrigerator. So dead now.

  Doppler once told me there was always going to be outsiders. That’s just the way society is. People want a scapegoat or a reason to feel like they’re better than you. He’d always sit me down on that couch and tell me how it was.

  He might as well have been my dad. Hell, he was my dad for what it’s worth. Buck could never appreciate that. His dad’s still alive; the old crotchety bastard is holed up in the nursing home across town.

  Rumor is that he always gives Buck an earful when he goes to visit. He’s supposed to be as big a loudmouth as Buck ever was. Suppose Buck were to lose his father? What then? How would he feel? Alone? An outsider?

  I’ll bet Buck’s never suffered one bit. He’s a taker, always used to having his own way. Why should he get off the hook when everyone else has to own up? Why shouldn’t he have to pay for once? Why shouldn’t he be the one to feel like he’s got nothing else in the world?

  My shin still aches from those gas cans. Those gas cans…

  The Driver Intervenes

  February 27th, 2002 2:19 PM

  The Driver outside the Shoreline Motel

  Grimley looks up at me from his place in the dirt, eyes begging me to tell him the rest of the story. “What happened next?”

  The soul rests before him like a dim firefly in the glare of the daylight. I swear I can make out a shallow visage, mouth gaping in a silent scream.

  I keep my eye on it, half wanting to snatch it away. The lure of the physical world tugs at my will. I know I could be back in Halgraeve in a matter of minutes if I just grab the soul and run.

  Grimley’s innocent curiosity gets the better of me and his rapt attentiveness to whether the good guy wins earns my appreciation. I lean back from my crouch and find a seat on the ground before continuing.

  “Still on his knees, Mason pleaded with Sinclane to remain calm and to think things through. It didn’t have to go down like this. When Sinclane shoved the barrel deeper into the back of his neck, he tried to appeal to his humanity or any shred of decency he might have.

  “Having Mason on his knees fueled some kind of sick fascination in Sinclane. He gloried in being in control, the one calling the shots. Mason’s fate rested in his hands and he relished every second of it.

  “Mason groveled. He was never more scared in his life. The only thing he could focus on was what might happen to his family if he was gone.

  “Sinclane wouldn’t budge. He told himself he w
as unstoppable. No one else was around to see or hear it, and so he pulled the trigger as easy as if he was starting his car. No thought, no deliberation, just a casual flick of his finger.”

  Grimley’s mouth quivers and his eyes turn down as if he might cry. He chokes back a few tearless sobs. “Why? Why did he do it? Why did Mason have to die?”

  Not meaning to have upset him, I hesitate. I can’t conjure up a decent answer and so I shrug and tell him I don’t know. There’s no way to soften it up for him now, but I feel like I need to redeem myself for having laid it on him in such a blunt fashion.

  “The story doesn’t end there. Do you want me to keep going?”

  Grimley doesn’t answer at first. After a few seconds’ silence, he says, “Yeah, I guess.” His shoulders droop as if he’s giving in.

  “Alright. Well, Sinclane stood over Mason’s body for several seconds, letting the moment settle. He knew he crossed a line, but instead of being filled with remorse or panic, he felt consumed with a new-found power. He sped away from the scene without a care in the world.

  “It was a long time coming, but the tipping point that was necessary to push him into moral oblivion arrived. Sinclane breathed deep the path of destruction laid out before him. He looked forward to savoring the fruits of his wanton desires, psycho-power unbridled.

  “Sinclane drove straight for Mason’s house. He sought to do worse than anything Mason might have feared in his last moments. Sinclane fancied himself a man of his word; he had to see through what he threatened.”

  Grimley interrupts. “He better not hurt that family.”

  “Just keep listening. Sinclane arrived at Mason’s house to find his wife locking up for the night. He barged his way in, gun in hand, and tossed her to the ground like she was garbage.

  “Already in bed, Mason’s boys came downstairs and tried to intervene. Sinclane wrangled them up, bloodied their noses, and tied them with their pajama bottoms.

  “Dazed and sobbing, the wife crawled toward the phone before Sinclane caught her. He dragged her by one leg back into the entryway where her children lay bound and bottomless.