Flame Out (4 page)

I thought of Dave, who talked about the Island as if it were an isolated outpost. Perhaps for him it was.

“Anyway, if the judge wouldn't even fight for him, Bernie must've been dirty.”

Dad unmuted the TV, signaling that our conversation was over. A trumpet flourish blared, making the newscast sound grand.

“Lower the sound a touch?” I said. I pointed upstairs. “Lucy.”

He dropped the volume. I watched along with him for the first fifteen minutes, deciding to go to bed before the sports and weather.

“You coming?” I asked. My dad usually woke at five, and he was up way past his bedtime.

“I'm going to watch the eleven o'clock report, but you go get
some sleep. You've got to finish this once and for all for me, and Luisa, and Ted.”

I touched his arm as I went to the kitchen to wash out the Waterford crystal. I hoped we'd find Ted's body soon and would have another reason to break out the good glasses and close the case file.

I WOKE UP TO THE SOUND OF MY FATHER'S VOICE, SPEAKING
softly in the kitchen. I crept downstairs. He was showered and wearing different clothes, but I couldn't tell if he'd slept or not.

“Gotta go,” he said. He stopped speaking when he saw me. “Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . take care . . . bye.”

I poured myself some coffee. “Who was that?”

“Your mom.”

“Interesting. How often do these little chats happen?”

“I don't note it on my calendar,” he said. “When there's news. When something big happens.”

I hadn't seen my mother for three years, at Kevin's funeral. I spent most of my teen years resenting her for leaving my dad after she claimed he was too caught up in his job. I stopped visitation. My father tried to force me, and my sister tried to guilt me into it, but my mother took the faux Zen approach: “She'll come back when she's ready.” I added her attitude to the list of things to be mad about.

But in my late teens I softened. I didn't jump to reunite, mostly because I didn't want to admit my mother was right, but slowly we reconnected. I responded to her e-mails, and called to thank her for the grocery money she sent me in college. I visited for a couple of weeks on a college break and, to my amazement, almost had a good time. I had to make sure I didn't trip over Mom's crystal collection and I escaped outside for a break from the incense, but I began enjoying her for who she was. I even liked her “soul mate” Larry, who teased my mother while at the same time hanging up her wind chimes to “restore the chi in the guest bathroom.” I invited them to
my wedding, and encouraged her to visit for a long weekend a few months after Lucy was born.

When Kevin got sick, I thanked my Mom for the CDs on positive visualizations and the selenium she sent to help fight the free radicals in Kevin's body. She came from Florida to cheer us up. She did, unintentionally, as Kevin laughed himself to coughing after she gave “healing blue light” to his midsection, where his cancer was slowly crowding out his vital organs.

She swept into Kevin's funeral wearing muted linen earth tones, her hair twisted into a bun.

“You lost him long ago,” she said to me in the mourning line. “I hope you can see how the universe needed to carry him home.”

Stunned, I didn't say anything, focusing on the next mourner, Mrs. MacNeil. I took her condolences—“So terrible. Much too young.”—and averted my eyes as my mother floated her hands above Kevin's dead body, “aiding him on his path into the next realm.” Later, at the house, my mother explained how I shouldn't get caught up in the “negative energy” of Kevin's death, and how bad feelings would attract more bad feelings. I exploded.

“Please stop,” I shouted, and the house, crowded with mourners, went still. “Can you for once think of how what you do, what you say, affects anyone but yourself?! You're always so selfish, caught up in your own crackpot ideas, you never once stop to consider what anyone other than yourself might need.”

“You're speaking from a dark place. Your energy—”

“Shut. Up,” I said. “I need you gone. Now.”

My sister dragged her out of there, shooting judgmental glances at me over her shoulder. Over the last few years I've responded to Mom's e-mails briefly or not at all, and ignored all her invitations for me and Lucy to visit in Florida.

I didn't expect her and my dad to be buddy-buddy. “How was your chat?”

“Good,” Dad said. I could see him struggle with whether to continue
this conversation or not. I tried not to frown, and he continued. “She and Luisa were good friends, and she was happy Luisa's at peace. She said she'd make an offering at the temple later.”

“She's Jewish these days?”

“Hindu.”

I changed the subject. “You OK . . . with finding Luisa after all these years?”

He changed it back. “Your mom's planning a visit soon.”

My father and I could both ignore the conversation. I waved at the door. “Gotta go.”

I picked up Dave, and we drove over to visit our burn victim. We didn't stay long, as she was still unconscious and the smell in her room was almost intolerable.

“It's the dead skin,” her nurse, Gayle, said. “And the open wounds. We're excising the burned tissue, but it's slow going, and it will be another three weeks, at the earliest, before we can do a skin graft. We've applied Silvadene and a xenograft—”

“Xenograft?” I asked.

“Pig skin,” she said. I couldn't hide my revulsion. “Some burn centers utilize human cadaver skin. But pigs are readily available, have organs of similar size to humans, and don't transmit infections to humans very easily. They're perfect.”

Dave and I were afraid of what else we might find out if we stayed, so we returned to the station, both of us agreeing we could skip lunch today. On our way, we passed the factory ruins. Six media trucks were parked out front, their transmitters sticking up like insect antennae.

“Traffic control and toxins down here today,” Dave said. “Wonder what's waiting for us at the station?”

As I entered, I could hear Lorraine's voice bouncing off the walls of the empty room. The station's interior had been painted beige in 1990, the layer of spiderwebs in the corners deepening the shadows of an already gloomy room. I turned the corner to find Lorraine talking to Hale.

Hale wore one of his black suits. No longer required for agents, but as Hale admitted, “I look so nice.” His good looks defied fluorescents, his skin golden, his green eyes sharp and bright.

Hale twisted around in the wooden chair he was sitting in, a huge grin on his face “Y'all are going to love me.”

“Aw, G-man, we already do,” Dave said. “Found us something good?”

“We got a line on your burn victim. Those plates on the van . . .”

The front door crashed open, and Annie Lin walked in.

“I called,” Annie yelled over her shoulder. “The chief's expecting me.”

Lorraine reached for her phone. “Let me . . .”

Annie didn't wait, racing across the squad room. She skidded to a halt when she saw us but then continued barreling toward the chief's office.

“Going to ignore us, Annie?” Dave called. “What about our deep and abiding friendship?”

Annie threw her shoulders back, steeling herself for war, and I braced myself for the comeback. Annie was more than capable of dishing it out, and fortunately she could take it, but nothing came, not even “shut up,” which Annie used in place of hello and good-bye. Chief Donnelly opened his door.

“Ms. Lin,” he said. “I appreciate you coming down here personally.”

“Of course.” She sounded sweet and respectful as she stepped inside his office. “This is important.”

The door shut. We talked about the van found with the burned woman—Hale's big news was that he'd tracked down the partial plate to a Carfast rental agency, a regional outfit covering the southwestern United States—but none of us were completely engaged. We were all wondering what, exactly, Chief Donnelly and Annie were talking about.

Donnelly's door swung open. Annie bolted out of the office as fast as she had entered, leaving the chief hanging in the doorway.

“Detective,” Donnelly said. He waved to Dave. “Can you join me?”

Dave raised an eyebrow to us before jogging over. He blew a kiss to Annie. “Hope you brought me a good one.”

The door closed again. Hale spoke rapidly. “June, I think I came up with a compromise we can both live with. What if you consult for a very short time? We could make arrangements for you to continue on the Hopewell Falls police force.”

I ignored Hale and instead watched Annie, who had her eyes glued to the door.

Hale continued. “Let me talk to Donnelly . . .”

Annie was listening for something. Hardheaded and harsh, she had great instincts.

“Be quiet,” I told Hale, and he was.

A crash came from the chief's office, and I stood, unsure whether I should go in. I walked over to Annie, placing myself directly in front of her. She wouldn't meet my eyes.

“Annie?” I asked. Hale paced, his head cocked to one side, listening for another crash, a shout, a murmur. Lorraine stood at her desk, her ringing phone forgotten.

“Annie,” I said, “I'm going to find out in a second what you told the chief. Give me a clue. What am I walking into?”

She looked left and then right, mapping a route of escape. Finally, she spoke.

“His mom.” She didn't meet my eyes. “Dave's mom was in the barrel.”

The chief opened his door. Behind him Dave slumped over a desk, its contents a jumble on the floor.

“Lyons, can you come in here?”

T
HE RING,” THE CHIEF SAID, HANDING AROUND A PHOTO. THE
gold ring was tarnished almost black, but the words “Ваш завжди” etched inside were still visible.

“Yours, forever,” Dave said. I felt his shoulders tense and then relax under my hand. “That's what it means.”

Donnelly continued. “So when Annie searched the missing persons files, Vera Batko's contained the note . . .”

“You found the report I filed,” Dave said, “when I was twelve?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a notebook and pencil, taking notes, more comfortable in cop mode.

“Annie did.” Donnelly tried to pull Annie into the center of the conversation, but she kept her position against the wall. “The clothing didn't match—the original report listed her clothes as blue canvas work coveralls, and you saw her dress: shiny, red, polyester—”

“The manufacturer who made the dress went out of business in 1983.” Annie marched into the center of the group. “The ring, though. Taras Batko—”

“My father.”

“Yes, in your father's statement he says he purchased the ring for
Vera. Your mom.” Annie moved around the room during the discussion, going from the window to the corner to the doorway, before she bumped into Hale and pinballed back. “It's not certain. Give me some DNA and I can—”

“It's her,” Dave said. He finished writing a sentence. “I mean sure, go ahead, let's get the final evidence. But here, I know”—he touched his chest. “It's her. I just wish my father were still alive. He never had any peace.” He tucked his notebook back into his pocket. “If it's not going to create a hassle, I'd like to tell my brother. Lucas is not going to take it . . . you know, I have no idea how he'll take it. He may dance with joy.” Dave tapped the back of my hand. “You'll come, right?”

I agreed, and Dave stood. Rather than rushing out, he went to Annie, placing both hands on her shoulders.

“Thank you, Annie,” he said.

In true Annie fashion, she argued. “Why are you thanking me for bringing you this news?”

“You were being a pal,” he said. “I couldn't ask for a better friend.”

Annie threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly, and after a second Dave hugged her back. They broke and she hustled out, Dave following close behind.

“Need backup, June?” Hale whispered.

“I'll keep you posted.” I watched Dave grab keys off his desk and then pat all his pockets, checking for missing items. “He's going to need friends more than anything.”

Dave didn't wait for me, walking toward the exit, and I jogged to catch up. He passed Lorraine, clear eyed, but with tear tracks running through her coral blush.

Dave was quiet on the drive. He flinched visibly as the car rumbled over the bridge, the river water high with spring runoff and recent rains. We pulled up in front of his aunt's house, and I got out
of the car. Dave hesitated, but a curtain in the house moved aside—we'd been spotted.

The slam of his car door sounded loud on the quiet street. He paused on the sidewalk, looking up at the house. “What do I say, June?”

“You want me to do it? I can.”

“I gotta, but what do I say? ‘Lucas, Mom didn't run out.' Or”—and he laughed bitterly—“‘Lucas, remember how you always wished Mom was dead? Well, now she is.'”

“Is that how you feel?”

He sighed. “No. My brother, though, he went through more of Mom's bullshit. By the time she left . . . was killed . . . he hated her.”

“Stick to the facts,” I said. “Facts are straightforward.”

“Nothing with my mother was straightforward.”

The front door opened. “You staking out my house?” Lucas called. His smile faltered as Dave got close. “What's wrong? Tara OK?”

“Tara's fine. Aunt Natalya here?” Dave asked. “We need to talk to you alone.”

“Grocery shopping,” Lucas said, his eyes darting from Dave to me. “June staying?”

“Yeah. She's here in an official capacity.”

Lucas opened the door wide and we shuffled past. A plastic mat wound a path through the living room, keeping the cream-colored carpet clean. The brothers moved to a gold couch, the fabric squeaking as they sat down. A Stephen King novel rested open on the arm, and on the table sat a glass of cola, the color washed out with melted ice and, I was pretty sure, rum.

“It's Mom,” Dave said, never breaking eye contact with Lucas. “She's dead.”

Dave's brother frowned. “What? Where was she? How'd you find her?”

Dave explained that the woman found in the barrel in the factory
that had been all over the news hadn't been Luisa Lawler, but instead their mother.

“Wait. She's been there since . . .”

“Yeah,” Dave said. “That last run wasn't a run.”

Lucas stood up, grabbing his hair and pulling. Dave rushed to intercept, clutching at his brother's elbow.

Lucas didn't pull away. “No!”

Dave grappled him into a hug. The two brothers rocked, Lucas sobbing harshly. They stood like that for a few minutes, and I tried to figure out how I could slip out. I shouldn't have come. They needed time to mourn.

Lucas struggled out of Dave's arms, pushing him away and running to the kitchen, a vomiting sound coming a moment later. I went to follow, but Dave held my arm.

“Give him a minute,” he said. “Let him get himself together.”

“Sure. You OK?”

Dave looked over my shoulder to where we could hear Lucas half choking and half sobbing. “That went . . . well, more or less as I expected.”

“Really?”

“Well, it could have been nastier. A tirade on how she deserved it.” Dave sounded bewildered. “Am I crazy, or did he seem sad?”

“He's a grieving son.”

“I expected . . . not that.”

The retching had stopped, and the two of us went into the kitchen. Lucas spat twice into the sink, before washing the vomit down the drain. He left the water running, sticking his mouth under the tap and drinking directly from the faucet.

“That stupid bitch went and got herself killed.” Lucas wiped away tears with the end of his T-shirt. His breath hitched. “And I helped bury her.”

Dave narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“It means exactly what I said.” Lucas faced the sink. Rather than
vomiting he stared out the window, to the backyard and the field beyond. “You found Mom behind a fake wall, right? Over on the right side of the Sleep-Tite basement?”

“Yes,” Dave said.

Lucas took a hitching breath. “I helped build that wall.”

Dave pulled his arms tight across his middle, clenching his eyes closed. Already, I regretted combining police work with helping Dave. He shook his head twice, opening his eyes and letting his arms drop to his sides before walking over, leaning back against the counter next to his brother. Unlike Lucas he faced me, gently bumping his brother's shoulder with his own.

I pulled out my notebook. “Lucas, when did you build this wall?”

“A few days after Mom went missing.” I was surprised at how easily the date came to him, but realized that as much as he professed not to care, his mother's disappearance had never been forgotten. “Sleep-Tite always closed down the last week of summer to do cleaning and repairs. Me and a couple of other guys, Bernie hired us to pull apart machines, replace furnace filters, shit like that. And build the wall.”

“Did you have any idea what was in those barrels, Lucas?”

“No.” Lucas continued to stare out the window, entranced. The back field was filled with wildflowers, soft whites and greens, with purple dotted here and there.

“Not even the chemicals?” I asked. Dave opened his mouth to protest, and I held up my hand, silencing him.

“Those I suspected.” Lucas turned, facing me. “I feel bad, especially when I picture Tara playing in places where the chemicals could be seeping into the ground. But back then, I wasn't sorry about it. Bernie said he would put in a good word with the Judge, who had his finger in all the contracts for the 787 extension back then. Deal got us our union cards.”

“Who's ‘us'?” I asked.

“Dan Jaleda was a sort of foreman, but the rest of the guys . . . I
can't remember. Jake Medved dropped off the supplies—the plasterboard and sawed bricks.”

Lucas explained that they hadn't built a real brick wall—“not enough time”—but rather a fake, sawed-in-half bricks covering a sheetrock base.

“Is Jake Medved related to Judge Medved?” I asked, realizing I might have stumbled on another half-brother in the twisted Medved/Lawler family tree.

“Ugh. Yes,” Lucas said, pulling out his phone. “Which you just reminded me . . . I'm supposed to start my shift at the bar in thirty minutes. How the fuck am I—” He paused. “I can't lose this job . . . I'll lose custody.”

“Tell them there's been a death in the family,” Dave said.

“But don't mention anything about your mother,” I said. “Not yet.”

Dave and I returned to the living room. From the kitchen I could hear Lucas's voice: “Stop busting my balls, here. I'll cover your shifts next week.”

“How come mentioning Jake reminded him to call in to work?” I asked.

Dave kept his voice low. “Lucas works at Jake's Social Club over on Ontario. Jake . . . Medved, owns the place.”

“A social club?” I asked. “That serves alcohol?”

“That's all they do, really. Only reason they're a social club instead of a bar is because Jake Medved's racked up some felony assault charges back in the '60s. From what my dad said, if you found someone with their head bashed in on the Island, Jake did it.” I heard Lucas say good-bye, and Dave added quickly, “Aunt Natalya always had a soft spot for Jake because they escaped the Nazis together. Or was it the Russians? Probably both.”

Lucas returned, throwing himself onto the couch.

“That shithead Brian pulled one of his power trips. The guy's itching to fire me. If I lose this job, well . . . I can think of no more
fitting tribute to our deadbeat mother.” He grabbed his rum and Coke and took a long drink. “Bernie Lawler killed her, didn't he?”

“No question,” Dave said. “He did his wife and kid, and then Mom. He placed the order to brick in the barrels, right?” Lucas nodded. “With this monster, we might reopen a couple of other cold cases.”

Dave wouldn't be allowed anywhere near this case, but for now I kept my mouth shut. I planned to question Lucas further about the wall once we were alone.

“When did you last see your mother, Lucas?” I asked.

Lucas's fury had begun to seep out, a calmness returning, however briefly. “Me and Mom, we both had shifts at Sleep-Tite. Bernie Lawler came from the Island and gave jobs to his old neighbors, including me, a high-school dropout, and Mom, a slut famous for running off at the drop of a hat.” Lucas rolled his eyes at Bernie's stupidity. “You could still do that then, get a job without a college degree. Nowadays, you even need it for construction, not that there are any
jobs
.”

Lucas sat back in his chair, lost in the past. “Mom and me did different work, me in the loading area, and Mom at the cutting machines, slicing up pieces of fabric, cute shit with lambs or dancing sheep. Other ladies, they'd do the actual sewing. I tried to pretend we weren't related and stayed as far away as I could.” He reached over and drained his glass. “We worked different shifts, so it wasn't hard. She took nights because she and mornings didn't get along. She could barely deal with eleven p.m.” Lucas stood up, grabbing his glass. “I'm gonna make another. Want one?”

Both Dave and I said no, me because I was working, and Dave because he thought he was. We remained silent until Lucas returned.

I let Lucas resettle on the couch. “Did anyone report seeing her at work that last day?”

Dave jumped in. “There's mixed reports. Your dad did a check, Lyons, after I filed the missing person report. That was six months later, though.”

“And I hadn't seen her since two days before she went away,” Lucas said. “I was out partying with friends, came home and found Mom in the kitchen. Was one a.m., and she's sitting there smoking cigarette after cigarette, getting good and primed to wake up Dad and fight.”

“She was drinking?”

“She usually was. But remember, Vera . . . our dear
mother,
was a nightmare stone cold sober, telling my Dad how he wasn't a man, that she hated being tied to such a useless loser for the rest of her life. That's what I meant about the mouth. She'd get into screaming matches with anyone, and she didn't need a drink to do it.”

“Like with Mrs. Welgas,” Dave laughed. “Mom found out her son pelted me with chestnuts. Mom went and punched her, said her son was next if he didn't stay away from me.”

A key sounded in the lock. The door swung open, and a frail hand dropped plastic grocery bags inside the door. Dave stood up, moving to help his Aunt Natalya, who was struggling to collapse the granny cart she'd been pushing. He grabbed it, pulling three times before it shut, the cheap wheels spinning as he lifted it off the ground and slammed it together. She heaved herself over the doorjamb, twisting herself over the step.

She unbuttoned her black cloth coat, stopping when she saw Lucas.

“Your job!
Shcho z vamī?
” She moved toward Lucas, but Dave blocked her way.

“There's nothing wrong with him, Aunt Natalya.” Dave combed his hair with his fingers, trying to flatten his springing curls. “There's been some news.”

Natalya reached up, stilling his hand. “Squashing your hair when you are afraid. Like your father.” She looked back and forth between the brothers. “What has happened?”

“They found Vera,” Lucas said, his comment lost as he gulped another drink.