Burn (10 page)

It was after one in the morning when Denny noticed that Luther had stopped fiddling with the dog chain. A half dozen empty, uncollected longnecks crowded the table on Denny's side of the booth. Luther, like always, had been drinking nothing but plain water, no ice. He was all focused and intense, which lately pretty much described Luther all the time. He'd been working on the dog chain with the pliers. Now he sat still, a pair of pliers in each hand, like he'd grown a set of drop-forged pincers.

Denny yawned and looked up to find Luther glaring at the television behind the bar. He recognized the voice coming out of the set at about the same time he noticed the vein bulging in Luther's forehead.

Denny sighed.

Programming had gone to infomercials. On the television, Rod Marvalis showed how you could get a rock-hard six-pack in just ten minutes a day using the only product on the market that carried the Maximum Health guarantee.

Many times as he'd seen the crazy thing, Denny still couldn't help but get sucked in. Because normally you had to do, like, twelve different exercises to get the same results. Or you could do your bod a favor and order The Abdominator™. It was light as a feather. It was durable as a dump truck. It folded up so you could keep it just about anywhere. It was so revolutionary you couldn't even believe it. And if you ordered now, you got a special
bonus DVD where Rod Marvalis personally demonstrated the five basic movements that led to Maximum Abs or your money back.

As they watched, Denny thought he heard a growl rattle up from deep in Luther's big muscular chest. He started gathering up empty bottles from the table, looking around for anything else within Luther's reach that might be breakable. To Rudy, he called, “Yo, Rudimus. Can't you find anything else to watch on that thing?”

Soggy bar towel over one shoulder, Rudy looked up from the tap, where he pulled a beer to go with the shot he'd already set up for one of the burnouts at the bar.

“Remote's up here where it always is, ” he said. “Come change it yourself.”

“Leave it, ” Luther said.

“Luthe. You gotta quit with this already. I told you, it ain't healthy.”

“Said leave it.”

Denny shook his head as Luther went back to work on the chain.

Fifteen numbing minutes later, Luther seemed to be finished with his big masterpiece. Dog chains jingling, he handed the whole perverted contraption across the booth.

“Yo, ” he said. “You wanna help so bad, try this on.”

Denny looked at the apparatus Luther had devised: the head harness from the hardhat, every inch wrapped in silver tape, with the dog chain hanging down from the leather strips connected to either side.

“The hell is that supposed to be?”

“Just put it on your head.”

“Um, no thanks.”

“You want in on this idea I got or not?”

Looking at Luther's rig, Denny honestly couldn't
answer the question. But he finally took the thing out of Luther's hand, looked it over, and carefully settled it over his skull. The dog chain hung in a Y shape, looping under his chin with the tail nearly reaching his sternum. The harness wobbled against his crown.

“I feel like a gonad.”

“Just fit it up with that knob there on the back.”

Denny sighed and did as he was instructed, reaching back to twist the knob until the headband tightened to a snug fit. It wasn't totally uncomfortable.

“Now gimmee some resistance, ” Luther said.

“Say what?”

“Just hold your neck tight.”

Denny still didn't know what Luther meant. But before he could say so, Luther reached across, grabbed the straight length of the chain, and pulled down hard. Denny's head bobbled on his neck. He braced himself with his hands on the table and tried to pull back, but Luther yanked too hard. Denny had enough time to see the table rising up to meet him before his forehead bounced off the rough wood between his hands. Empty Bud bottles clattered together.

“Hey!”

Luther let go of the chain, chuckling. Denny sat up, rubbing his forehead.

“What the hell?”

“See there? Works better'n I thought.”

“Damn, dude. That ain't even funny.”

“It was kinda funny.”

“Yeah? Put this fucker on your head, we'll see how funny it is.”

“Told you to give me some resistance.” Luther motioned with his hand. “Give it here, Crash Test. I gotta tweak me a couple things.”

Denny yanked off the stupid hat harness and tossed it back at Luther, still massaging his head. When he noticed a little smear of blood on his index finger, he touched the spot again, came back with another smear, then grabbed the napkin holder from the table and looked at his reflection in the metal.

“Goddamn, ”
he said, pulling out a wad of napkins and dabbing the small gouge at his hairline.

Luther frowned, looked at Denny's head, then ran his finger around the inside of the headband.

“My bad, ” he said, showing Denny an exposed metal flange from one of the pop rivets he'd used to attach the leather straps.

“I don't believe this shit, ” Denny said. He felt a little bit like bouncing the heavy napkin holder off the top of Luther's shiny black dome.

But he waited for the urge to pass. He'd never gone around with Luther before, and he didn't see the point in getting it on over something as stupid as this. They were pretty much buds.

“It ain't nothing, ” Luther said. “Scratch is all.”

“Yeah? You can scratch my ass. You happen to notice I'm bleeding?”

“So it ain't quite refined yet.”

Denny pursed his lips and grumbled, pressing the napkins against his head. While Rod Marvalis showed a babe in an electric blue bikini how to use The Abdom-inator in the comfort of her own bedroom, Luther went back to examining his invention.

Suddenly, holding his napkins and watching, Denny began to get a vague idea of what Luther might be up to. He looked at Rod Marvalis up on the television. He looked at Luther.

He said, “Now this is just getting sad.”

“Hand me over that tape.”

“Tell me you don't think anybody's gonna actually try and sell that little torture rig you got there on TV, ” Denny said. “I can't even tell what you'd want it for. Outside some kinda crazy sex-dungeon shit.”

“Tape.”

“Here's your tape.” Denny slapped the big roll into Luther's hand. “But I'm saying it this one time. You, big buddy, got issues. Oughta have that shit looked at ’fore it causes you trouble.”

Luther tore of a length of tape and went hunting for more exposed rivets.

“I mean, what?” Denny said. “So Rod's a personality and you ain't. Big deal. When you all of a sudden get a bug up your butt about it, anyway?”

“ ’Bout the time I found out what that sorry gutbag makes a year.”

“Yeah, well. You want my opinion, obsessing about it ain't gonna improve your outlook on life.”

“We'll see.”

Denny Hoyle sighed.

Knowing Luther, he was afraid they probably would.

EARLY
Wednesday morning, Eyebrow Larry Tomiczek slipped back into the past as the first flush of dawn began to lighten the sky.

Andrew watched the reflection of daybreak on the water. His head felt thick, and his mouth tasted sour. He felt like he'd been drained into the chaise lounge through a straw. But he didn't feel particularly sleepy, even though he hadn't had so much as a nap in the past twenty-four hours. Somehow, he couldn't get over the sensation that he'd been sleeping since he left Baltimore.

Andrew sat in the chair out on the deck, his mind strangely lucid, uncluttered. He looked out over the water. The pressure system behind the ongoing heat wave domed the entire basin like an overturned bowl. Even here at the ocean's edge, the nights stayed dense and warm. With the sunrise came dry breezes that stirred the palms, rustling the fronds like sandpaper blades. By
the time Andrew spotted the day's first jogger shuffling past on the strip, the sky had brightened to a pale hazy blue. Sweat ran, mixed with sunblock, and stung his eyes. The temperature seemed to have already risen ten degrees.

He went inside, collected the glasses he and Larry had left behind, and rinsed them at the sink. He capped the bottle and put it back in the cupboard, wiped the counters with a damp paper towel.

Eventually, Andrew wandered into the bedroom, stripped down, and stood under a cool shower until his skin pulled tight. When he'd had enough, he scrubbed himself dry with one of Caroline's soft towels.

He found clean clothes and put them on. He went back to the kitchen, found coffee, and put that on, too.

Somewhere along the way, Andrew realized he was hungry. Ravenous. So he pulled a chef's knife and the cutting board, started chopping onions and green peppers for scrambled eggs. He sliced off a three-inch cube of butter, dropped it in a skillet with the peppers and the onions, and put the pan over a low flame.

As the kitchen began to fill with the smell of breakfast, Andrew went to Caroline's utensil drawer and retrieved a spatula. He paused there a moment before shutting the drawer with his hip.

Then he pulled the drawer open again.

The envelope of cash still waited where he'd stowed it yesterday. Andrew picked up the bundle and held it in his hand a minute before he finally traded it for the phone. On his way back to the stove, he dialed the number scrawled in black ink on the envelope's flap.

Three rings.

“This is Benjy.”

“Morning, ” Andrew said. “This is Andrew Kindler.”

During the pause on the other end, Andrew cranked up the heat, cracked four eggs into the pan, and started scrambling. He said, “Surprised?”

Over the sizzle, he heard Corbin say, “Hey, Mom. I'm at work. Can I call you back?”

“Boss in the backseat, huh?”

“Sure.”

“Don't worry, I'll make this quick.” Andrew cradled the phone with his shoulder, turning his eggs while he talked. “Tell your friend Heather I changed my mind. I want to meet with her. Tonight.”

“I'll call you back in an hour.”

“But I won't answer, so it won't do you any good.” Andrew reached for the salt and pepper. A jolt of Tabasco sounded good; he swiveled toward the refrigerator and found the slender bottle in the door. “There's a place called Keegan's in Torrance. I'll be waiting there at ten
P.M.
Tell her to look for the guy with the pretty face.”

“That's twenty miles away. Why don't you let me find someplace closer?”

“All you need to do is pass along the message, ” Andrew said. “You won't be joining us anyway. If she still wants to meet me, it'll be a party of two. Otherwise, no deal.”

“I don't know, Ma.”

“That's the message.” Andrew killed the flame under the pan and added, in his best maternal mimic, “Have a nice day at work, dear.”

Before Benjy could say more, Andrew hung up the phone. He grabbed a fork and leaned against the counter while he ate his eggs out of the pan.

He felt like he could have eaten a dozen more without
moving from the spot. Instead, he did up the dishes and put them away. He resumed his position against the counter and drank two cups of coffee, wondering how he should spend the hours ahead in light of the things he'd learned from Larry a few hours ago.

He thought about getting in the car and taking a drive up Ocean to see if the cops were still camped out in the park. He thought about taking them up some coffee, just to be neighborly.

He thought about calling Caroline and telling her about his unexpected visit from her long-ago Romeo. He thought about packing a suitcase and driving for Mexico. He thought about grabbing the radio, finding the newspaper wherever it had landed today, going out to the deck like usual, and making believe he'd dreamed the whole damned thing.

In the end, he found himself gazing across the kitchen at the bundle of cash on the counter. He looked at it for quite a while.

When he'd finally decided what he wanted to do with it, Andrew poured himself another cup of coffee and got out the yellow pages. It took him a minute to find the number he was looking for, but he finally found it. He dialed.

“Plum Investigations, ” said the voice on the other end of the line.

“I expected a receptionist, ” Andrew said. “Or at least an answering machine. I guess business must be slow.”

“This is Travis Plum. Can I help you?”

“That's what I'm wondering, ” Andrew said.

“Who is this?”

“Listen, ” Andrew said. “You and I got off on the wrong foot yesterday. Sorry I got you fired. How about
we call it water under the bridge and start over? Clean

slate.”

At first, Andrew heard only silence on Plum's end. “What the hell, ” the snoop finally said, “do
you
want?” “For starters, ” Andrew said, hefting the envelope in his

hand, “I thought we could talk about your hiring fee.”

THE
longer Adrian Timms worked the job, the less he understood about what caused one person to put the life out of another. But over the years he'd learned that both murderers and their victims always had at least one thing in common: the higher their profile before the crime, the messier the aftermath.