The Burning

Chapter 10

Tommy couldn’t tell me anything else about the guy with the beard. He couldn’t remember any of the truck’s identifying details beyond its color, maybe, and the tonneau cover. Not the tag, not its first letter, not if it was in- or out-of-state; not the time of the truck’s arrival, the direction it had driven in from, or where it had gone when it left.

For twenty more minutes I kept at him, my forearm starting to burn from clutching the bin liner in a fist that grew tighter and tighter as I demanded information he could not provide.

I don’t know he kept saying. I don’t remember.

The harder I pressed, the more muddled he got, until his father laid a hand on his shoulder and said, looking at me, “That’s all right. You did good.”

Tommy bit his lip.

I said, “Thank you. Both of you.”

Dolefully Tommy shuffled off toward the house.

I held up the bin liner. “I’m going to take this.”

“Far as I’m concerned you can take them all.”

I gave him my number in case Tommy remembered more. I stripped off my soiled shirt, tossed it in the footwell, and drove away, pulling over beneath the underpass.

Gloved up and drew the gun out of the bag.

Walther PPS semi-automatic 9mm. It had seen better days. The grip and slide were worn; the serial number had been filed off. The crime lab could recover the number with acid. But that would require turning the gun over to the crime lab.

At the base of the grip, around the bottom of the magazine, was a thin layer of dried blood.

Rory Vandervelde had a gash above his eye. Typical pistol-whip injury.

I ejected the magazine. Six-round capacity, half full.

Rory Vandervelde had been shot three times.

I replaced the magazine. I put the gun in the bag, tied it off, and lowered it into the footwell beside my shirt. Setting it down gingerly, as if it might explode on contact.

A blue Nissan Leaf sat at the curb outside my house. Andrea was hunched on the porch steps, knees gathered to her chest. She sprang up as I turned into the driveway.

I gestured

to her and texted Amy.

I reached down for my dirty shirt, leaving the gun and bag behind.

Andrea met me at the driveway’s edge. She didn’t register that I was bare-chested. It can be that way with self-obsessed people. I half expected her to shove a syringe into my hand.

She said, “I need to talk to you.”

In the kitchen I lit candles, filled her a glass of water, and told her to hang tight while I cleaned up. I soaped myself to the shoulders in the bathroom sink and got changed. When I came back to the kitchen she was pacing, the water untouched.

I sat at the breakfast table. She hesitated, then joined me.

“Have you heard from Luke?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I’ve been trying him all day.” She looked down, gnawed a thumbnail. “I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

I waited.

“We had a fight. Saturday night. The next day he wanted to forget about it but I was still upset. We started arguing again and he got in his car and left.”

“What time?”

“I told you, I don’t remember. I think it was around lunchtime.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“For a drive.”

“Where?”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“Is this something he’s done before? Left the house?”

“Never for more than a night,” she said. “And he always calls.”

“That’s what you thought was going on when I talked to you yesterday.”

A beat.

“I’m scared,” she said.

“Of?”

“He’s not coming back.”

“Did he say that? Do you have any reason to think it?”

Her eyes flashed. “It’s what you think, isn’t it?”

“Where does he go, when he leaves?”

“I don’t know... a motel.”

“Any particular one?”

“I don’t think so. Sometimes he just sleeps in his car.”

My brother had experience making do at night. “What about friends? Who would he go to? Who’s he closest with?”

“Scott, probably.”

“He hasn’t heard from Luke, either.”

“You spoke to Scott?”

“Earlier today.”

“You went to his work?”

“Nobody’s heard from Luke since Sunday,” I said. “My parents? Does he ever crash there?”

“The last thing we need is them getting involved.”

“Have you talked to them?”

“She’ll just blame me.” A strange look came over her. “Haven’t you?”

Same barrier I’d hit with Scott.

I knew about the Camaro. The gun, too, now.

Andrea didn’t. To her, Luke’s absence was personal, not criminal.

So why hadn’t I taken the next sensible step and called my parents?

I hadn’t, because I knew my parents. For Luke’s sake I needed to control the flow of information. My mother was the last person capable of that.

I said, “Let’s hold on talking to them for the moment.”

“Why? Just call them and ask.”

“I will, when it’s right.”

“What are you talking about? Call them.” She slapped the table. “Give me your phone.”

“Andrea. Please listen.”

“Forget it,” she said, standing. “I’ll go over there myself.”

I reached for her. “Hang on.”

“Let go of me. Let go of my fucking arm.”

She wrenched free, grabbed her purse, and ran outside, headed for her car. Seeing me coming after her, she made a mewing sound and bolted up the sidewalk toward my parents’ house.

“Andrea. Wait.”

“Leave me alone.”

I closed the gap between us in a few strides but hung back. Anyone peeking out a front window would see a six-foot-three man chasing a much smaller woman, fumbling with her purse and in evident distress.

Domestic dispute. Mugging in progress.

We continued up the block, me pleading with her as she hollered at me to go away.

At the corner she spun, waving a can of pepper spray. “Stop following me.”

I said, “I found his car.”

I saw it spread to her, the dread I’d been carrying, saw it envelop her like a poisonous cloud.

“What do you mean, you found it.”

“We can’t have this conversation here.”

“Found it where.”

“Someplace it shouldn’t be.”

“Where.”

“Let’s go inside and talk.”

She said nothing. The can shook in her hand.

“Yesterday I was called to a homicide. Luke’s Camaro is in the victim’s garage. Can we go inside, please?”

“You’re wrong.”

“I—”

“It’s not his. You’re wrong.”

“I ran the tag. It’s his.”

“No, no. No.”

“I tried calling Luke to ask if he’d sold the car. If he left because of a fight, he should pick up when I call. He’s not. Scott can’t reach him, either. I traced his phone to a gas station. I went to look for it and found a gun, in the trash, with blood on it. So we cannot call the police and we cannot call my parents. Do you understand me?”

She began to cry.

A red SUV slowed at the curb. The window lowered and the driver leaned over. Middle-aged guy, bald, glasses. Bag of groceries belted into the passenger seat. “Everything okay here?”

“We’re good,” I said.

“Ma’am? You okay?”

Andrea stuck the pepper spray in her purse. She wiped her face. “Yes.”

“You sure?”

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

The guy frowned. “Do you need me to call someone?”

She brushed past me and walked toward my house.

I followed, allowing a ten-foot margin.

The SUV edged along behind until Andrea had turned up my front walk. Then it sped off.