Shallow Graves

15

The fire at the clinic wasn't too bad.

Nowhere near the excitement of the Great Fire of 1912.

Only one of Cleary's trucks was needed and the men got the blaze under control with fire extinguishers, which was a big letdown because of all the hours they'd spent at hose drill. Brush fires and burning toasters-that was all they ever got. And at the clinic they didn't even get to use an axe. Like a lot of buildings in Cleary, the clinic was left open even when the all-night nurse went out for coffee, or-as in this case-to buy batteries for her Walkman.

Most of the carnage was confined to the office. A lot of patient records were destroyed as was all the outgoing mail and a number of envelopes bound for the testing lab in Albany. The gushing water had caused the most damage.

The first chief, a lean, chiseled-faced man who ran an insurance agency in town and took both jobs equally seriously, went through the office slowly. He didn't really need to, though; it didn't take any length of time, or great forensic skill, to make the discovery. He put his find into a Hefty trash bag (the Cleary Fire Department wasn't entrusted with evidence bags) and then went to his car to call the sheriff on his CB. He had trouble getting through and went back inside to call him on the phone, which was partly melted but still working.

As he stood at the charred desk and waited for Tom to come on the line he stared at what he'd found. For some reason the fire had not completely consumed the incendiary device. He knew, from the label, that the bottle at one time had held Taylor New York State sparkling wine and, from the smell, that it had more recently held gasoline.

He knew too (from research and continuing education-never having encountered a fire bomb before) that cloth was standard procedure for fuses. But this one was different. He held it up close. The fire chief was pretty much a humorless man. But as the sheriff came on the line with a "Lo?" the chief was laughing, thinking they must be dealing with some pretty literate arsonists.

Who else'd use pages from a National Geographic to light a Molotov cocktail?

"Mark," said Mayor Hank Moorhouse, after hearing him out, "it's no crime for the man to wander around and take pictures. If it weren't for assholes taking pictures of the leaves, we'd be a much poorer town. You know that."

It was suppertime. Succulent smells-roasts and fatty potatoes-floated through the Moorhouse's Victorian home. The sound of utensils and muffled voices came from another part of the house.

The heavyset and damn-scary young man, moving a pile of chewing tobacco around inside his cheek, said, "This guy is dangerous. You heard about Meg Torrens's kid? He got his hands on some dope."

"No! I didn't hear about that. Sam?" Moorhouse's eyes flicked down to the blond moustache then up again.

"The word is he got it from Pellam. A couple guys saw 'em together."

Mark moved the chaw around his mouth.

Moorhouse's nostrils dilated at the smell of dinner. He wanted this over with, and fast. But Mark worked for Wexell Ambler and Ambler held the first and second mortgages on Moorhouse's six-bedroom Colonial and was an assemblyman on the town council. He said, "That somvabitch." He tore off a piece of Scotch tape, wadded it up and started chewing. He'd tried to stop the habit but thought now: Better'n tobacco.

"There's more."

Mark dropped a packet of white powder down onto the desk.

"What's that?"

"What do you think it is?"

Moorhouse stared at the package as if it were from the melted core at Chernobyl.

"I saw him drop it," Mark said. "Pellam."

Moorhouse leaned forward carefully. He didn't want to touch the plastic. "We don't get much of this stuff around here. Christ, I worry about my boys-" He nodded toward the dining room. "- drinking beer. They tell me they've never tried pot and I believe 'em. But this… What exactly is it, Mark? Cocaine, huh?"

"Speed, I think."

"And it's illegal?"

Mark scoffed. "Illegal? A class 1-A controlled substance."

"What do you suppose it's worth? What's the, what do they say on the news, what's the street value?"

"You're asking me?" Mark said, his voice high with surprise. "What difference does it make?"

"Can't arrest someone just 'cause you saw him drop it." Though when Moorhouse thought about this, he wasn't so sure. Maybe you could. He wondered where you could look that up. Cleary had a town attorney.

Mark smiled amiably and leaned toward Moorhouse in a way that he thought of as doing what he did best. "Then we'll have to think a little harder."

Moorhouse's eyes kept circling in on the packet like a mosquito over flesh. "I don't know."

The brown envelope hit the desk with a slap. Moorhouse jumped, hesitated a moment, then picked it up. He glanced up at Mark, who said, "There's three thousand dollars in there."

Moorhouse thumbed through the bills. "Take your word for it. Where'd it come from?"

"Let's say a bunch of folk took up a collection. We don't think this guy should be here any longer. Movie ain't gonna be made here. No reason for him to hang around."

"So what's this for?" Moorhouse asked, before he realized he shouldn't be asking.

"A magistrate's fee you could call it."

His eyes darted from the money to the white packet.

He slipped the envelope in his desk and poked the powder, soft as baby talcum, with the end of his Cross pen.

He had three shots of Wild Turkey-trying to convince himself that he was celebrating-and lay back in the camper, listening to Willy Nelson sing Crazy.

Pellam had this theory that made for a very optimistic life. You kept considering the worst that could happen to you and then, when it didn't, whatever did happen wasn't so bad.

Who couldn't be cheerful with that kind of philosophy?

So, close to drunk, Pellam told himself that the worst had happened. A, he'd gotten fired from a job he needed and B, that was the one job in the world-outside of being independently wealthy-that he was temperamentally suited for. C, the rumor would already be burning up Sunset Boulevard that he was personally responsible for cratering a damn fine movie. D, he still hadn't found the man who'd killed his friend. And E, the woman he was spending a lot of time thinking about was mad at him for some reason he couldn't for the life of him figure out (this would be Meg, not Janine. Or… oh, Trudie. Too late to call her today. He would tomorrow).

He heard the car pull up.

He hoped it would be Meg though he knew it wasn't. It'd be Janine. Pellam knew what had happened: the old man was balling his current old lady under a Da-Glo Hendrix poster and somebody got stood up.

Come on, Janine, please, baby. Free love. Give peace a chance. Up against the wall…

Pellam was whisky giddy, almost happy. The worst had happened. He was immune. And here was a big, horsy warm woman to bed down with.

The worst-

He swung open the door.

– had already happened.

The dirt and stones caught him square in the face before he got his hands halfway up to cover his eyes. He went blind. He inhaled a good bit of Cleary debris and started choking.

There were two of them. And one was big, a bear. He grabbed Pellam's shirt and pulled him easily out of the camper. He stumbled and, off balance, went down on his knees. Got dragged a few feet.

His eyes were burning, he was coughing loud and spitting out the bitter dirt.

"Come on, asshole, stand up," a brisk voice whispered. Arms slid under his chest. The bear tugged him up. Pellam uncoiled his legs. The top of his head collided with jaw.

"Shit, motherfucker! Cut my tongue. Shit, shit, shit!"

Pellam kicked out at the other, a smaller guy, who easily sidestepped the boot.

What he'd done-the lunging up-was just a reaction. But he knew it was a mistake. Guys like this, local tough guys, you don't play with. You just stay as clear away as you can, rolling and dodging until you get a good crack. You don't sting them; you hit them hard once or twice, really hard. Try to break their head. Make them think you're going to kill them. They'll leave, cussing you out and making it sound like you're not worth the trouble.

What happened was they'd come to have fun and Pellam had just pissed them off. Now they were mad.

The bear punched him hard on the first offered target-his shoulder, which didn't hurt much, but then he got him in a full nelson, pressed Pellam's chin down to his chest. Pellam was taller-so the bear couldn't lift him off the ground but the huge man kept him immobile. The other one came in for some low gut swings, right into the muscles, which knocked his wind out and sent blasts of nausea up through his chest. The bear said to no one, "My tongue bleeding? Shit, I think it is. Goddamn, that hurts."

Pellam opened his eyes but couldn't see a thing through the mud and tears. He gasped, "What do you want? You want money?"

The bear bent his head down further and the words got lost in a gurgle.

No, what they want is to beat the living crap out of me…

The smaller one came in close, aiming for Pellam's face, but couldn't get his fist in because the bear's fat elbows were in the way. "Hey, turn him loose for a second."

Which is when Pellam, gasped, shuddered and went completely limp.

"Shit, what happened?" The bear relaxed his grip.

"Is he dead? Fuck. What'd you do?"

"What'd I do? I didn't do nothing. I just-"

Pellam broke free, felt his shirt rip down the back as the bear grabbed for it and swung a feint with his left fist at the smaller assailant, who dodged to the side. Right into Pellam's sweeping right fist. The snap of the man's nose cartilage was real satisfying; the howl that accompanied it was even more delightful.

Pellam turned to meet the bear but the big man was already on top of him. He picked Pellam up, right off the ground. "So you want to play rough, huh?" he asked.

"I don't want to do anything! I want-"

The bear slammed him into the side of the camper. Something snapped but it sounded more like metal than bone. Pellam fell to the ground, gasping, then got to his knees. The bear was battering him wildly, connecting often enough so Pellam couldn't stand. The pain swirled through his body.

Finally he gave up, he lay still. Exhausted, gasping. "Enough. Okay."

In the distance was a siren. "Let's get out of here," the bear said.

"Oh, God, this hurts," his partner offered. "He broke my nose. He broke my fucking nose."

The bear whispered, "Shut up, will you?"

Pellam, trying to breathe, started to crawl under the camper. He felt the big hands reach down and grab him by the ankle. They pulled him back then reached into his pocket. Not his wallet pocket, which he would've expected, but his front shirt pocket. Why there? It was empty.

The siren wailed closer.

Pellam heard:

"Let's get the fuck outa here. Move it."

"My nose, man. You didn't-"

"Move it, asshole."

He heard doors slam, and the throaty, crisp sound of a motor firing up, a squeal of tires.

Pellam spit blood and tried to catch his breath. Fucking odd… He supposed it wasn't a robbery-they left his wallet and watch, ignored everything in the camper and only went through one pocket.

If they'd been here to deliver a get-out-of-town message they'd had plenty of time to deliver it but hadn't.

He coughed and made it halfway to a sitting position, lay back down.

The cop car skidded to a stop on the other side of the camper. The siren shut off and he saw the strobe of colored lights on the trees.

His hand strayed to the pocket the bear had rummaged through. He felt the present.

Oh, Christ, no…

He pulled out the little glassine envelope. Coke or speed. A gram, easy. Oh, Lord. Felony possession. Pellam stared at the packet through muddy eyes.

He heard their voices. "Okay, let's find him. Search everything around the clearing."

Pellam started coughing again, deeply, as the cops rounded the camper. He recognized the two deputies even though neither was wearing their trademark sunglasses.

"Well, sir," the deputy said, "looks like you had some more of that bad luck after all."

No, don't go after the thugs. Stand there and bust my chops, why don't you?…

"You all right, sir?" The other one asked.

He helped Pellam to his feet. He was coughing, choking. "Water, please, some water."

"Sure, no problem." The first deputy stepped into the camper and came back with a cup of water. Pellam took it and swallowed the whole thing down. Breathing desperately, his chest heaving, like a nearly drowned man on land once again.

"Can you stand up, sir?"

Pellam was frowning, watching the other deputy going over the clearing with his flashlight, inch by inch.

"Yeah, I can."

"Good." The deputy smiled. "Because you're under arrest." He glanced at his friend. "Read him his rights. And search him."