Page 77 of Slow Burn

Velvet had gotten across the street by the time Agent Dimples came out to get her from the car. She ducked in an entryway, but knew he’d seen her, knew he was coming after her. She darted from one storefront to the other, but they were locked, closed up tight.

The response time of the Highland Park Police was legendary. She picked up a brick from a flower-bed and pitched it through a plate-glass window; as she’d hoped, alarms went off, whooping to the skies.

Not enough. He was coming at a loping run, as if he ran a lot. She took off down the sidewalk, regretting all those hours at the bar, those candy bars between tricks. Her legs felt like mud. She heard the slap of his shoes behind her.

She gained the next corner, a cluster of imposing houses with high rock walls and ornate gates. The second one down had a plain-looking gate of six-foot-tall wooden boards—operated with a motor, of course. She got her fingers under the gate and shoved it open enough to wiggle in, leaving two fingernails in the wood as it slammed back against her. She surveyed the back yard—Christ, what a yard!—and circled the pool to a tall stand of something that looked like corn but probably was more expensive.

She dropped gratefully down on the cold ground and hugged herself, shivering, waiting. The wind carried an echo of laughter. She pulled the corn plants aside and saw a family inside eating dinner in a kitchen fromBetter Homes;they were having something that looked like lasagna. Her stomach pitched.

From where she sat, Velvet had a perfect view of the garage—three cars, one heavy-looking Mercedes, one boxy-looking Volvo station wagon, and one white Jeep Cherokee, since everybody in Highland Park seemed to think they couldn’t live without four-wheel drive. She wondered what the chances were that the rich left keys in their cars, and decided they weren’t too good; the rich had invented paranoia, what with their alarm systems and electric gates and big dogs. She glanced around nervously for dogs, but found only evidence of kids—bright yellow and red plastic tricycles, ragged-looking dolls, dismembered pieces of toys she couldn’t identify. If they had a dog, they kept it in at night.

An outside light snapped on, bathing the corn row in harsh white. She dropped flat and pressed her cheek to the cold dirt as the back door opened. Someone clumped down three steps and across the flagstones to the garage. She lifted her head and clawed hair out of her eyes to watch a tall guy in a blue shirt gather up an armload of firewood. He was whistling something that sounded like a commercial, or opera.

Velvet heard wood creak and turned her head the other way, her other cheek now in the dirt. A dark shape dropped over the top of the gate and landed lightly, knees bent, in the shadows.

“Oh, Christ,” she whispered, and bit her lip. The guy in the garage dropped a stick of firewood and bent over to pick it up; his whistling broke off and started again as he straightened up.

Agent Dimples came a step closer into the light; he was smiling slightly, not even out of breath. He’d put on gloves, and in one hand he had the gun he’d pulled on her at Robby’s apartment. He was watching the garage, but he was also looking around the back yard for potential hiding places. Any second now, he’d look at the corn row.

No time for subtlety. Velvet opened her mouth to scream.

The back door opened, and a little girl said, “Daddy?”

Velvet’s scream hitched in her throat like a gag. She swallowed hard and stayed very still, cheek pressed to the ground, wind pressing like cold fingers on her exposed face.

“Coming, sweetheart. Go on back inside, it’s cold out here.”

Think, Velvet screamed at herself.Do something. Anything. For god’s sake, don’t just lay there!

She realized she was looking at a playhouse hidden behind the corn, a little princess house with miniature glass windows and heart-shaped shutters. She started to crawl for it, moving slowly, and eased her head and shoulders inside, curling her legs and feet in behind. The kid had furnished the place with some good blankets and pillows—Mom would probably have a cow when she found out—and Velvet wrapped herself up and sat next to the window, looking out at the guy in the garage.

He’d put down his firewood, and was looking toward the wall where Agent James waited. She watched him pop the door on the Mercedes and get something out of the glove compartment.

He picked up his firewood, walked to the back door, and slammed it shut behind him. Through the glass door, Velvet saw him say something to the dark-haired woman at the table, whose face went blank and then tight with fear. She got up and left the room.

She hadn’t seen him move, but all of a sudden Agent Dimples was standing there in the corn rows, scuffing a shoe in the outline where Velvet had pressed her face in the dirt. She wiped at the grit on her cheeks and pulled the blanket over her head as he looked at the playhouse. Dark. Her sweat smelled like Scotch, she couldn’t get her breath, was he coming? Was he right there,lookingat her, aiming the gun—

She screamed when she heard the shots, two quick loud explosions, and waited for the pain.

When she stripped the blanket off her head and pushed her hair back, she saw Agent Dimples face down in the dirt, blood spreading black under him. The rich guy stood in the doorway, holding onto it with one hand, like his knees weren’t quite ready to do the job. Behind him, the kids were screaming, Mom was running and grabbing and hugging.

The rich guy had a gun in his hand. Velvet watched it fall from his hand and bounce on the steps. It spun to a stop a couple of feet away, shiny as a roach.

The guy sat down and started to cry, big gulping gasps of air she felt all the way across the yard. While his head was down, while the kids were screaming, she clambered out of the blankets and snaked out of the playhouse, ran to the gate, and pushed it open enough to wiggle through.

Sirens wailed in the distance. She ran.

Incident Five

DALLAS, TEXAS

Spontaneous Human Combustion (SHC)

Minnie Abramson woke up crying.

In itself, that didn’t scare her; she often woke up crying. Sometimes she felt so lost, so strange … nothing seemed right anymore, not the way it had been when she was a child. In her dreams she was eight, skipping down the sidewalk in a blue dress, proud of her new black patent leather shoes. She skipped rope with Verna Henderson. The sun had been hot and tasted like lemons.

It had all been so different then, the neighborhood full of good Christian people, full of kids who weren’t afraid to play in the street or in the yard. The ice cream truck had come around every couple of days, and sold blue ices and chocolate Fudgsicles. The driver had worn a crisp white suit and his truck played popular songs like a giant music box.

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