Part 1 (1/2)
Small Magic: Collected Short Stories.
Aaron Polson.
This book is dedicated to Aaron Ouellette, Jason Wollenberg, and Ken Boling, three friends who help me build many stories. Maybe too many.
Chapter 1: How to Burn a House.
When it comes to actually burning the house, remember a good blaze is a work of art. It's all about three ingredients: oxygen, fuel, and heat-the right amount of each make a fire something special. You skimp on one of the three, and the house just simmers. Rank amateur.
Before I even think about lighting up, I always open the windows so the fire has a good air supply. A few guys I know like to break windows, but I figure it's a matter of taste. Always seems like overkill anyway, busting up the windows before the fire. Broken gla.s.s gets everywhere. Just a matter of opinion, I guess.
The house provides plenty of fuel itself, but a nice, high quality job-a masterpiece-needs a little nudge. Gasoline works great, and my Daddy's hand-me-down metal can gives me a warm feeling like he's right there with me. They don't make those metal ones anymore, but a good plastic container will do. Rubber gloves are good, too. I had a little spill once that made my hands stink for a week.
If there's a bas.e.m.e.nt, start there with the gas because fire likes to travel up. For finished bas.e.m.e.nts, sprinkle gas over the furniture and splash a little on the walls. Don't waste any time with the floor if it's tile or bare concrete. For an unfinished bas.e.m.e.nt, make sure to soak the support beams and exposed wall studs-anything that will burn.
From there, douse the rest of the house, hitting the furniture first, a little on the walls, from the lower floors up. If the gas runs out before the attic, so be it, but don't forget to save a little for the bedrooms, even if they're on the top floor. Don't hang around too long, of course, but make sure the bedrooms have a little boost in the fuel department. Most window dressings go up pretty well without much help, so do blankets and clothes, so use the gas sparingly on those areas. On a personal note, I make sure to dribble a little over all family photos and other personal knick-knacks. It's a nice touch.
Make sure to save the fuel containers-especially if they're those nice, metal kind-and grab the igniter. A fire has to have heat to get going. Matches work fine here; no need for fancy lighters or ignition devices. Some folks prefer to stay outside the house to light the fire. In this case, drop the lit matches through an open bas.e.m.e.nt window or two. Personally, I like to set the match to a few spots in the bas.e.m.e.nt myself, but that just because I'm a hands-on guy. Once that sucker is lit, get out and drive away-not too fast of course, but not like it's a sight-seeing vacation or anything.
I should mention one last thing: it's best to go back to the bedroom and check on the owners before lighting the place. Don't look them in the eye-I've known guys to break down when they look them in the eye-but make sure the cable ties are still holding their hands and feet. I always use cable ties because they can't be undone like rope or twine and they can't be torn like tape. Of course nothing beats a good hunk of duct tape across a mouth once the hands and feet are bound. Wouldn't want somebody hollering out and spoiling the fun before a nice, big inferno got going, would you?
Chapter 2: A Little Bit for Braz.
The first victim tacked to Piecemeal's rap sheet was missing the pinkie finger of her left hand. Three bodies later, and the police had a pattern, something to work with: a pinkie, a hand, the forearm up to the elbow joint...PK they started calling the murderer around the precincts in the city, PK for Piecemeal Killer, like a playground nickname.
Braz b.u.t.terfield worked the case all the way to both shoulder joints and a missing leg.
Five years. Fifteen victims.
He'd wondered in the past if they'd missed one of the victims, working backwards like they did from the shoulder. After years of tiny pins on a map of the city, trips into the foulest alleys and the rusted iron, faded paint parts of town, rubbing elbows with junkies and greasy, early morning fog, Braz developed a certain belief, his own act of faith, that they'd miscalculated because PK took something so small, so insignificant, the coroner's report had been remiss. Something tiny like a fingernail.
Academic now, he reminded himself as he stood over the corpse in room 166 of the South Dells' Motel 6. Academic.
Braz b.u.t.terfield held the unfolded portrait of PK, the only sketch anybody had been able to squeeze from a potential witness in five years. The cold meat on the bed matched as close as anybody-the loping, dangling ears, the hitch in an otherwise thin and somewhat distinguished nose, the odd s.p.a.cing of the eyes, a centimeter or two away from being ”just right”, the obtuse pucker of the upper lip. Braz had him.
The bullet wound and rest of the hotel room told the story: a plastic shopping bag filled with homespun collages made from snippets of truck-stop p.o.r.n, the spilled bag with traces of methamphetamine, the lack of money anywhere in the room. Braz had searched of course, explored every possible creva.s.se and even scoured the Ford Ranger outside in the lot.
That's where he found the suitcase. That's how he really knew, even more than the artist's sketch. Braz found the missing parts in the suitcase, each sealed like leftovers in vacuum-tight plastic bags. He didn't bother to count and verify the fifteen victims' missing bits or even search for the suspected sixteenth. No. That was for crime scene. He'd make that call soon enough.
Maybe.
The corpse held him for the present. PK captured the last five years of Braz b.u.t.terfield's life. PK ended Braz's marriage. PK added fifteen pounds to Braz's midsection and took a few inches from his hairline. PK made him miss his son's last football game, but nothing kept Braz from the funeral after the boy wrapped his Honda around an oak on spring break.
No, PK had captured so much of him, Braz might as well be missing pieces, too.
The fingers of Braz's left hand played at his pocket, feeling the outline of Toby's Boy Scout knife. Remembering. Planning.
Go on.
The voice startled him at first, but Braz knelt next to the bed, praying at the altar of the monster who'd taken so much, piece by piece, little pieces adding to something bigger than Braz's world. He fished the knife from his pocket and unfolded the smallest blade.
Go on.
With a trembling hand, Braz lifted PK's left and separated the pinkie from the other fingers. He pushed the blade under the nail, pushed until it wouldn't go any further. There was a dark line, but no blood came-it had already pooled at PK's back. Braz twisted the knife, prying until the yellowed nail broke free of the skin. He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, savoring the smoothness and thickness of it before stas.h.i.+ng it in his pocket with the folded knife. He'd grab a box of plastic bags on the way home.
When he walked out of the room, Braz couldn't help but smile, his eyes lingering on the left pinkie, wondering how long it will take the next detective to make the connection, piece by tiny little piece.
Chapter 3: Inheritance.
When Magomu reaches the platform, he hurries to his brother's rope. His hands ache, raw and strained from the climb, but he works quickly, struggling against the dullness of his knife. It is an old knife, but not as old as his father's. Not as valuable.
He closes his eyes as the last strands fray and pop. With his eyes closed, he sees his brother's body, broken on the packed earth below, and imagines holding his inheritance to the sun, the blade glittering, while the crowd cheers his name.
Chapter 4: Gary Sump's Hidden City.
That guy over there, the skinny one with the big gla.s.ses and pinched nose, sitting alone at Java Stop and drinking a tall regular, his name is Gary. He has a miniature city in his backyard. I live next door, and I've watched him from my second-story window. Gary is dull-plain yogurt without sweetener-except for the secret city.
It started simply, just buildings made of spare wood and a couple of bricks he had lying around his yard. Maybe he's lonely. I don't know. I never see the guy on the phone, and he doesn't go out except for a tall regular at Java Stop. I've watched him since before his wife bailed six months ago.
Anyway, he made roads, parks, and a lake in his backyard-just like The Sims. You remember The Sims, right? Scott played for hours back in the dorm; probably why he dropped out. Well, the people came later. Little critters-they look just like you and me, wearing clothing and everything.