The Burning Time (2 page)

Billy Ray Capshaw hitched his faded, olive-green duffle bag over his shoulder, looked both ways, and crossed Interstate 17. “You can’t be too careful” was his favorite motto. It was this dedication to caution that had kept him out of jail so far.

On the other side of the highway was the exit for Hastings Mills. He scuffed his way down the ramp, using a sodden red bandana to mop the sweat from his face. The blacktop, baked soft by the afternoon heat, grabbed at his heavy work boots like sticky chewing gum.

At the bottom of the ramp, where it met Route 16 going north and south, was a sign:

 Hastings Mills

 Population 15,000

Someone had added a third line in white spray paint:

“And shrinking.”

Billy paused and wiped his face again. Droplets of sweat fell from the point of his arrow-shaped Van Dyke beard onto the front of his yellow-stained sleeveless T-shirt.

For the past three days, the normally pleasant June weather had been doing a fine imitation of Florida in July, complete with steaming air, overcast skies, and clouds of mosquitoes. Billy was pretty sure he’d dropped several pounds while hitching northwest from Binghamton, despite the fact he’d been eating well, thanks to the wad of cash he’d lifted from a drunken trucker in Albany.

As he walked, he wondered what Tony was up to, where he’d gone after leaving Binghamton or if he’d even managed to get out of town at all.
Serves him right if he’s doing jail time. You don’t shit where you eat, and killing those girls definitely counted as a hot load in the kitchen. Who knew how many other geezers they could have ripped off if the cops hadn’t been breathing down Tony’s neck?

When he reached Route 16, he turned right and followed it into town, where it changed to Main Street. He knew if he stayed on it all the way through town, past the shopping district, the cemetery, and the river, it would become 16 South again, eventually taking him into Pennsylvania. Turning left and heading north was a two-hour ride to Buffalo.

Billy’s path carried him past High Street Park and its rusty playground equipment and into Hastings Mills proper. The first couple of blocks were just as he remembered from his childhood, an assortment of small mom-and-pop stores lining both sides of the road.

Classic Vinyl was still there, its bins full of LPs and singles visible through dusty windows. Cusher’s Used Furniture. The Salvation Army outlet. Angie’s Italian Restaurant, where his Aunt Kate used to take him on Saturdays.

“Small towns and old women,” he muttered to himself. His father had always said those were two things that never changed. It was one of the few conversations with his old man he still remembered.

As he walked, new names began to show up on the storefronts, and the stores themselves were in better condition. A Burger King where there used to be an empty lot. A store selling nothing but video games. Another music store, CD-Mania.

No vinyl in there, he thought. No cassette tapes, either.

Clothing stores selling men’s suits or fashions for professional women. A dry cleaner. Hot Wok Chinese Take Out.

Guess what, Pop? You were wrong. Again.

Billy stopped outside the Hot Wok and glanced at the menu in the window, thinking he might grab an egg roll and a Coke. He was reaching for the door when a blurry figure appeared ghost-like in the glass.

Turning, he found himself facing an overweight man in a tan uniform. A black hat, like the ones the State Troopers wore, perched over a wide, sweating forehead.

“Where you headed, son?” The sheriff’s voice was deep and gruff, the voice of a man who enjoyed using his authority. Fresh food stains on his shirt and tie belied his attempt at making a positive impression as a capable law enforcement officer.

“Not exactly sure, Officer.” Billy tried to keep his voice calm. The dime bag of weed in his duffle suddenly weighed a thousand pounds.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” The officer’s round, piggy face grew redder, and he took off his mirrored sunglasses, exposing washed-out blue eyes.

Billy Ray launched into his standard lie. “I’m hitching to California. I got friends there, and I decided to see the country the old-fashioned way. I decided to stop here for a few days because I used to live here when I was a kid.” The last part was true, and he hoped it would lend credence to his story.

“Used to live here, huh? What’s your name?” Disbelief colored the officer’s voice and showed in the way one eyebrow rose up.

“Billy Ray Capshaw.”

The second eyebrow joined its partner. “Capshaw? Kate Mulligan’s nephew?”

Billy tilted his head, not sure if he was being played for a fool. “Yeah. We used to live out on River Road.”

“I knew your aunt real well. You too, ‘though you probably don’t remember me.” He scowled as he said it, taking any pleasantness out of the words.

“No, sir, I don’t.” Billy stared at the moon face, trying to imagine it twenty years younger.

“Back then I was just a second-year patrol officer. I caught you and your friends picking the lock on the back door of the old bakery. Had to take you home to your Aunt.”

Jesus Christ. Of all the people...

“Harry Showalter?”

The man nodded. “It’s Chief Showalter now. Twenty-four years on the force, last five as Chief.”

“I was only nine.” Billy ventured a smile. “You know the crap kids get into.”

Showalter nodded. “Sure do. I also know that most kids who get into trouble when they’re young grow up to be even bigger troublemakers. Your aunt was a good woman. You caused her a lot of grief.”

He leaned forward, putting his face close to Billy’s.

“You best not cause me any grief while you’re in my town. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Showalter nodded again, his round head tilting up and down on the squat neck as if on a greased track. “Glad to hear it.” He slid his sunglasses on, hitched his pants up, and strolled away, unknowing or uncaring of the sweat stains on his back and ass.

Billy’s knees went weak, and he leaned against the hot, dusty brick of the storefront until his heart settled into something resembling a normal rhythm. When he could finally walk again, he cut across the street, no longer hungry.

Sonuvabitch.

Suddenly, laying low in Hastings Mills didn’t seem like such a great idea.

The sign over the Chilton Arms read, “Rooms by the day or week. Laundry facilities in the back.” Beneath it was a second sign, proclaiming ”Vacancies” in red neon.

The man with the silver hair paused at the door. Across the road, a few small houses sat side by side. A Pizza Hut, several families inside enjoying their meals of greasy bread and cheese, shared a parking lot with the King Cone ice cream shop. Soon there would be lines outside their windows, as children, adults, and couples in love all succumbed to the siren lure of cold chocolate and vanilla on a hot summer’s night. For a moment, a wistful look came over his face as he remembered the carefree times of his own childhood, cut short far too soon.

A bell tinkled over the door as he entered.

“Can I help you?” A fiftyish woman sporting a beehive hairdo sat behind the counter, a chicken drumstick in one chubby hand and a soda cup in the other. A small color television blared as a game show contestant correctly guessed the clue to a puzzle.

“I’d like a room, please.” He set his worn case down and pulled an equally aged wallet from the pocket of his jeans.

“How many nights?” The woman put down her dinner with a small sigh and opened a ledger filled with names and dates.

“I’m not sure. A week, perhaps two or three.”

“Gotta pay the whole week in advance. Since today’s Friday, you can either pay ‘til next Friday or Sunday.” She looked him up and down, her porcine face curious and wary.

He knew the reason for her caution. Although his clothes had a liberal covering of dust from long days and nights of walking, he wasn’t the sort of person she’d expect to see staying in a run-down boarding house. His face, tanned and lined from years of exposure to sun and wind, made him appear older than the forty-two his driver’s license showed. His silver hair furthered this impression, while at the same time giving him a look of authority and responsibility.

She’d wonder at his eyes, as dark as night, and his eyebrows, with no trace of silver in them. No five o’clock shadow on his face. His jeans, white button-down shirt, and black boots were neither torn nor stained.

When he spoke, his teeth would be straight and clean and white, and his breath would have no trace of alcohol, distinguishing him from most of her other guests.

All in all, he’d seem more suited to a Motel Six than the Chilton Arms.

“I’ll pay until Sunday, if that’s all right. How much?”

“It’s ten a day if you pay by the week, and fifteen by the night.”

“That’s fine. Here you go.” He handed her four twenties and a ten. A quick glance showed only a few singles left in the wallet. First thing tomorrow he’d need to look for work.

“Sign in here.” She slid the ledger over, and pointed with the pen at the next empty line.

As he signed in tiny, economical script, the ring on the third finger of his left hand barely shone under the cheap fluorescent lights, the plain band so old and scratched it was almost unrecognizable as gold.

The woman glanced at his name before closing the book. “Welcome to the Chilton Arms, Mister John Root. You’re in room 12B.” She handed him a key on a large plastic tag. “My name is Marge Chilton. I own the place. You come see me if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Marge. I will. Good night.”

“Good night, Mister Root.”

*   *   *

Mitch Anderson hurried down the steps of Hastings Mills Middle School. Danni’s old Mustang was parked by the curb, little puffs of oily smoke squirting from the tailpipe.

He wondered if he’d make it in time.

Question: How can twenty yards seem like a mile?

Answer: If you’re the brightest kid in your seventh-grade class, and also the smallest.

He’d bolted from World History as soon as the three o’clock bell rang, but by the time he swung past his locker to get his books, the halls had filled with students and teachers all migrating toward the doors, eager to begin their weekend.

He was halfway down the steps and thinking he had a chance when the hand came down on his shoulder.

“Hey, Tiny. Where do you think you’re going?” The hand spun him around to face its owner.

Ralphie Morgese, resident school bully and bane of all the eight-graders, poked him in the chest with a hairy-knuckled finger.

“You made me look stupid in history, butt-face.” He slapped Mitch’s books, knocking them to the ground. The boys standing behind Ralphie burst into laughter.

“You don’t need me to look stupid,” Mitch mumbled as he scrambled to gather his homework papers. As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he’d signed his death warrant.

A collective gasp rose from the surrounding students. Sensing a fight, the onlookers crowded closer.

The first punch caught him in the stomach, bending him over and knocking his breath away in a loud ”oof.”

“Whatcha got to say now?”

“Blow me,” Mitch gasped. Idiot! Three more days of school and you’d have been free of him for the whole summer.

“What?” Ralphie held up an over-sized fist. “I’m gonna kick your ass.”

His common sense shouted
Run!
but as he did far too often, Mitch found himself ignoring his own advice. “Fuck you.”

The punch came so fast he never saw it. Pain exploded in his mouth and nose, and the whole world disappeared behind red and black stars.

Mitch’s hands moved to his face as he fell to the ground. Something warm and wet covered his palms.

“You little shit. I’m gonna—”

“Leave him alone, asshole.”

Through his tear-filled eyes, Mitch saw a tall, blurry figure stepping in front of Ralphie. For a brief moment, he thought his prayers of a teacher rescuing him had come to pass. Then his hope for a respectable escape plummeted as he recognized his sister’s voice.

“Aww, look, Tiny’s sister is here to help her widdle brother.”

Ralphie’s mocking tones changed as Danni Anderson put her hands against his chest and shoved, sending him hard against the railing and then down onto his ass.

“Hey, cut it out!”

“What’s the matter, little boy?” Danni stared down at him. “Is the big girl picking on you?”

“Screw you, bitch.”

Danni grabbed Ralphie by the shirt and raised him to his feet. She slammed him against the railing again, drawing another shout of pain. He took a wild swing at her, but she stepped back and his fist flew harmlessly past. She grabbed the fingers of his other hand and bent them backward until he cried out.

“Stop! Stop!”

Holding him in that position, she said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Apologize or I’m gonna break your fingers.”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“Good.” She let go and he slumped against the railing, cradling his injured hand. “C’mon, Mitch. Get your books and let’s go. I’m late for work.”

Mitch wiped his arm across his face. It came away streaked with red. He touched his nose and felt around the inside of his mouth with his tongue, but nothing felt broken or loose. He scooped up his books, never taking his eyes off Ralphie, who stared at him with murderous intent. The other students, most of whom had gone silent when Danni appeared, stepped aside as Mitch started down the steps.

“Hey, Tiny.”

Mitch looked back.

“You’re dead on Monday.” Ralphie drew a finger across his own throat to illustrate his words.

“Get your butt in gear, Mitch,” Danni called from the bottom of the steps, “or no trip to the museum this weekend.”

Another burst of laughter followed him down to the car.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse.

I can’t wait for summer.