The Burning Time (7 page)

Billy Ray sat down, relishing the feel of the cold leather against his sweaty back. A few moments later, Tony placed two frosty mugs of beer on the table, followed by two shots of tequila.

Without waiting, Billy Ray downed his shot, chasing it with a sip of beer. Wiping the foam mustache away, he asked, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Tony poured his shot into his beer, gulped down a large mouthful, leaned back, and belched. “That ain’t much of a greeting for an old friend. Almost makes me think you ain’t happy to see me.” His dark eyes were as cold as the beer.

“Can the shit. You were supposed to lay low until I called you.”

“I was beginning to think that call wasn’t coming. It’s been almost three weeks since Binghamton.”

Billy shook his head. “I wanted to get settled before I called.”

Tony leaned forward, a scowl on his dark face. Heavy stubble covered his cheeks and chin, and the stink of days-old body odor wafted off him. “You got a job and a place to sleep. Seems to me you’re pretty settled.”

“Think again. I got the local sheriff riding me like a tick on a dog.” Billy sipped his beer, trying to act like he hadn’t caught the hidden threat in Tony’s words. “How’d you find me, anyway?”

With a shrug, Tony said, “Read about the murders in the paper. I recognized Hastings Mills as your hometown, and I thought, hey, what better place to start looking for my favorite home boy.”

“What happened to you after Binghamton?” Billy waved his hand at the bartender, signaling for another round.

Tony laughed, the same nasty sound he’d made the night Billy’d confronted him about the dead girl in their apartment. “Shit, you didn’t think I’d let them pin those murders on me, did you? I made sure the evidence disappeared. All of it.”

Billy waited until the bartender set down their beers and walked away. “What are you talking about?”

Tony drank down half his Pabst. “I torched everything. First the apartment and then the morgue.”

Relief warred with disbelief in Billy’s head. “You lit the fucking morgue on fire?”

“Burned it to the ground, m’man. Now they ain’t got shit on me. Or you,” he said, tilting his mug at Billy. “So I figure you owe me for coverin’ your tracks. I want in.”

“In? In on what?”

Tony slammed his glass down, the sound echoing in the empty bar like a gunshot. “On whatever score you’re planning to pull in this shit-burg.”

Billy took a long, slow sip of beer, considering his options. There weren’t many. No matter what he said, Tony would stick around anyway.

“All right. I got something in the works, but it’s not time yet.” He looked around, making sure no one else could hear them. “Next month the church is holding a big fundraiser, a carnival or some shit. They’ve already got a few thousand in a lock-box. After the carnival there’ll be like twenty grand, maybe more. I was figuring we could snatch the box and head to Vegas, have ourselves a party.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “We?”

Spreading his hands, Billy said, “Hey, I told you. I was gonna call you, soon as the heat was off me. But you gotta make yourself scarce for now.”

“So you can take off with the money and disappear? Bullshit on that. You owe me, Billy-boy.” He poked a finger into Billy’s chest. “I saved your ass.”

Billy took a deep breath, controlling his frustration. He wanted to reach out and throttle some sense into Tony, slap the self-satisfied smile off his face. But Tony was larger, faster, and half-crazy.

Lowering his voice further, Billy continued. “The chief’s already watching me. If the cops see you hanging ‘round, we’ll never have a chance of getting close to that money. Shit, we’ll be lucky if they don’t run us both out of town.”

“How the fuck does my being here screw things up? Nobody in this shithole knows me.” He signaled for another round.

“Dude, have you looked in a mirror lately? This is a fucking farm town, for Chrissake. Around here,
I’m
a long-haired freak. People see you, they’ll go nuts. And that’s not good in a town where girls are getting killed.”

Tony pulled out a cigarette, lit up, and took a long drag. “All right. I’ll keep a low profile. Find me a room someplace, stake me some cash, and I’ll play nicey-nice.”

Something relaxed in Billy’s chest. “Just remember, we can’t be seen together.”

“Long as you keep me in the loop.” Tony lifted his shot glass. “Here’s to easy money and easy pussy.”

Billy touched glasses and downed his tequila, his thoughts already on his next move.

How can I set him up before he finds a way to double-cross me?

*   *   *

Randy Henshaw watched the two greaseballs saunter out of McNally’s. He gave the bar a perfunctory wipe and casually made his way over to where Buddy Harris and Jack Skokes were arguing about the weather.

“Hey, you guys know those two?” Randy nodded his head toward the big front window. Out on the sidewalk, the two men from the back booth were heading in separate directions.

“Heard Harry Showalter say the skinny one’s Kate Capshaw’s nephew. Don’t know the other fella.” Buddy took another bite of his egg.

Jack held out his mug for a refill. “Looked like he had prison ink.”

“Fucker stunk to high heaven,” Buddy said. Chunks of yolk clung to his front teeth like fungus on tree stumps.

Randy set two more beers down. “These are on me.”

“Thanks, Randy.” Jack pulled another egg from the oversized jar, his fingers dripping pickle juice as he shoved the whole thing in his mouth.

Moving to the far end of the bar to escape the briny, sulfurous stink of old eggs and beer breath, Randy made a mental note to mention the Capshaw fella and his friend when Deputy Cullin came in for his usual burger and beer that afternoon.

“Scum bags like that give the bar a bad name,” he muttered to himself.

At the other end of the room, Buddy Harris let loose a loud fart, the sound bouncing off the wooden bar stool like a string of firecrackers going off. Jack Skokes laughed around his mouthful of white and yellow mush, sending egg shrapnel across the bar.

With a sigh, Randy headed back to clean up the mess.

*   *   *

John opened the door to the Chilton Arms and ushered Mitch inside. The two over-sized ceiling fans spun the humid air into a warm, damp breeze in the empty sitting area.

Marge Chilton, her hair festooned with pink curlers inadequately covered by a gossamer kerchief, looked up from her
People
magazine and smiled. “Afternoon, Mr. Root. Hot enough for you?”

“Hello, Marge. Yes, it’s certainly been warm lately.” One hand on Mitch’s shoulder, he led the boy up the stairs to the second floor.

Once inside his room, he locked the door and motioned toward the bed. “Have a seat.”

Ignoring John’s request, Mitch went to the small mirror over the cheap wooden dresser and touched a finger to his cheek. “How are you gonna fix this?”

John removed his leather valise, which resembled an old-fashioned doctor’s bag, from under the bed. Reaching inside, he withdrew a small glass jar filled with a green, thick liquid.

“With this. It’s an old herbal remedy, made from plants that grow in the swamps where I live.”

He motioned again for Mitch to sit down and opened the jar. The sweet, wild scents of mint, honeysuckle, and fresh earth filled the room, transporting John back in time to his mother’s kitchen, watching her fill jelly jars with the potions she cooked on the old wood-burning stove.

The sense of smell is tied so closely with memory in the brain. Just a whiff of gingerbread reminds us of the holidays; fresh-cut grass makes us think of lazy summer days.

He gave a mental shake of his head to send the ghosts of his past back to their graves. Dipping a finger into the cool paste, he scooped out a dab and applied it to Mitch’s cheek, spreading it across the bruise.

The boy’s body twitched as he gave an involuntary shudder. “Yuck. It’s all cold and slimy.”

“Only for a moment,” John said, working the mixture into the skin. Another tiny dab went onto the swollen lower lip. “Now, leave it alone for a few minutes, give it a chance to work.”

“Did you make it?” Mitch asked as John closed the jar and returned it to his bag.

“I did. My mother taught me the recipe. She taught me how to make a lot of remedies, what people today would call botanicals or herbals. Back when I grew up, we just knew them as the only medicine around.”

“What else do you have in there?” Mitch reached for the bag, but John quickly shut it and pulled it out of reach.

“I’ll show you some other time. Right now we have to get going.”

Mitch crossed his arms, a pout on his face. “It’s not like I was gonna break anything.”

“I know. But we need to get you back before Danni gets home. Go take a look at your face.”

Still frowning, Mitch went to the mirror. “Holy shit!” He touched his finger to his cheek. The bruise had disappeared, and his swollen lip had returned to its normal size. “It worked!”

“Don’t thank me, thank Mother Earth. Now let’s go. We still have to call a cab from downstairs.”

When they emerged from the staircase to the lobby, John led them outside to the pay phone, preferring to spend the quarter rather than get stuck in a conversation with Mrs. Chilton. While they waited for the cab, he cautioned Mitch about the afternoon’s adventures, more for his own protection than the boy’s.

“Remember, this is our secret. Your sister doesn’t strike me as someone who’d understand about the pecking order of teenage boys.”

Mitch looked up at him, his eyes wise behind thick lenses. “Or about potions that cure people like magic?”

“That, either.”

“No problem. She’d probably think I made the whole thing up anyway.”

That’s what I’m hoping, John thought as the cab pulled up. Otherwise, I’ll have a lot of explaining to do.

*   *   *

Marge Chilton leaned over the counter and watched the yellow cab pull away. Something tickled her brain, bothering her like a fly that wouldn’t stay away no matter how often you shooed it.

That Root fella seemed decent enough, but what was a grown man—and a stranger in town at that—doing bringing a young boy to his room in the middle of the day? And there’d been no mistaking the mark’s on the boy’s face; he’d been through one hell of a beating.

She wanted to think their being together was innocent enough, but God knew that all sorts of depravities went on every day, all over the country. All you had to do was turn on the news and you’d hear about perverts hunting for young children on the Internet and at the mall.

That’s when it came to her, something Reverend Christian had said during Wednesday Mass.

“Many forms taketh the Stranger; he likes nothing better than to corrupt the innocent, foul the chaste, despoil the righteous. The hand that strikes the wife or touches the child the wrong way does the Devil’s work. And we cannot count on our leaders, our politicians and our police, to stop it. For they, too, are corrupted—by power and greed. It is up to us—you and I and our neighbors—to right the wrongs, to fulfill our Gods’ plan, to act as our Gods’ fists.”

“The hand that touches the child in the wrong way,” Marge whispered to the empty lobby. She scowled at the cloud of dust left in the cab’s wake.

“Not in my town, Mister Root.”

Harry Showalter jerked the wheel of the police cruiser, sending the car to the right so hard Wade Cullen’s container of iced tea splashed cold liquid across his chin and down his shirt front.

“Jesus, Harry, what’s the matter?” the deputy asked as the car pulled up to the curb.

“That’s the matter,” Showalter replied, staring out his driver side window. Across the street, a skinny man with a long ponytail was just coming out of McDonald’s, a bag of food and a soda in his hands. “Didn’t you say that bartender friend of yours said Capshaw was in McNally’s earlier today, with some other scumbag?”

“Yeah, big fellow with tattoos all over and a pony tail. Randy said he looked Mexican, or maybe even part Indian.”

“I think we need to have a talk with Mr. Capshaw.” After checking for other cars, Harry flipped the siren on and cut across the road, stopping just ahead of Billy Ray, whose face had gone as white as the paper bag he carried.

“Where you headed, Billy?” Showalter asked as he hefted himself from the car. He heard the other door slam shut, indicating Cullen had also gotten out.

“Nowhere.” Capshaw’s voice struggled between nervous and angry defiance.

“Sounds like loitering to me, Chief,” Cullen said. He tapped his fingers against the baton hanging from his belt. At six-five, he was the biggest man on the force, one of the reasons Harry liked him as a ride-along partner.

“I don’t mean nowhere like nowhere.” Billy Ray glanced from Showalter to the deputy and back. “I mean, I’m heading back to the church.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want you to be late for work, would we, Wade?”

Cullen smiled and shook his head. “Sure wouldn’t.”

“Hop in, Billy.” Harry opened the cruiser’s back door. “We’ll give you a lift.”

Capshaw backed away, all traces of defiance gone from his face. “No, that’s okay. I got time. I’ll walk.”

Harry let his own smile drop from his face. “I ain’t askin’. Get in the car.”

Billy looked at the open door, his eyes narrowed. “I’ve only got a few minutes for lunch.”

“Lunch is over,” Cullen said, slapping the bag and soda to the ground. “Get in.”

“Hey!”

Harry grabbed Billy Ray’s arm and twisted it. Placing his lips next to Billy’s ear, he whispered, “Behave yourself and you’ll be back to work before Reverend Christian even notices you’re late. But if you raise a fuss, I guarantee you’ll be takin’ your meals through a straw.”

He watched the arrogance drain away from Billy Ray’s eyes. The younger man stopped struggling and ducked down to enter the car. Harry considered slamming his head against the edge of door frame, but a quick glance around showed too many people already gathered on the sidewalk, enjoying the unexpected afternoon show.