John Lutz - Burn

He looked a lot like the serial killer Ted Bundy, only older. Mid-forties, probably. Carver’s age. He had Bundy’s all-American, amiable features, complete with neatly arched eyebrows and small, chiseled nose turned up slightly at the tip; the same innocent blue eyes and a mouth always ready to smile, even when things were going bad. As they must be, or Joel Brant wouldn’t be in Carver’s office.

Brant sat down and raked his fingers through his dark, wavy hair, which was going gray at the temples. He was wearing pleated blue slacks and a gray sport coat over a white shirt without a tie. A thick silver neck chain winked in the light among dark chest hair where his collar parted.

“Morgan recommended you,” he said. He looked worried; the sincere blue eyes held secret pain.

“I know,” Carver said. “Vic called me about you.” Vic Morgan’s recommendation was the only reason Carver wanted to touch Brant’s problem. Morgan was a retired vice cop, and a more savvy judge of human nature than a roomful of psychologists. He believed Brant, which went a long way with Carver.

“The police won’t believe me,” Brant said.

“You sure? Maybe they’re just doing their job. A complaint’s filed, and they go through a certain procedure.”

Brant shook his handsome head. The neck chain glittered. “No, I can tell by their expressions they don’t believe me. I suppose you can’t blame them for that, though. I mean, it’s the times, the way things are right now on the news and in all the magazines. Like the whole society’s gone mad.” He absently rubbed a finger along the chain where it disappeared beneath his collar. A nervous habit, maybe. “I doubt if you’re going to believe me.”

“You don’t have to make me believe,” Carver said. “You only have to make me curious.”

Brant dragged a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. Camels. “Mind if I smoke?”

Carver noticed Brant’s hand was trembling. “Smoke away,” he said. He wanted Brant to relax and talk freely. Besides, the smoke didn’t really bother him. He smoked cigars himself sometimes after meals.

Brant stuck what appeared to be the last cigarette from the pack between his lips, then fished around in a pocket and withdrew a silver lighter. It took him three tries to get the lighter to work, then he sucked in enough smoke to burn away half an inch of the cigarette. He threw his head back and exhaled toward the ceiling. For several seconds he watched the smoke spread out up there, then lowered his gaze and looked directly at Carver. His eyes were calm now, but one corner of his mouth twitched slightly before he began to speak.

“I’m what could be described as a reasonably successful businessman, Mr. Carver. My company, Brant Development, is a small construction firm specializing in residential real estate. You might have seen Brant Estates, our newest subdivision, off the highway west of town.”

Carver nodded. He recalled driving past the spread of neat, medium-priced homes that were perched like a goal and a promise on the edge of the poorer section of Del Moray.

“I’m a widower,” Brant went on. “My wife Portia was killed six months ago by a drunk driver. I’m not what you’d call a womanizer-in fact, I hardly have any social life at all. I spend most of my time working. After my wife’s death, I got into that habit to try forgetting my grief.” An expression almost palpably sad passed over his features, as if gravity had given them an extra tug. “I’m still doing that, I suppose, still trying, still not forgetting. So I was damned surprised when this thing started. At first I thought it was some kind of sick joke, then it continued and I knew the woman was serious.”

“And the woman is?”

“Marla Cloy is her name. A month ago she called the police and accused me of stalking her. She told them I’d even parked across the street from her house and watched her through binoculars. She described my car and gave the police the license number.” Brant leaned forward earnestly, like a salesman trying to close a deal. “I was nowhere near her house at that time nor any other, Mr. Carver.”

“Where were you?”

“At home by myself. I can’t prove it, though. How many people can prove when they were home minding their own business?” Brant decided he needed more smoke. He inhaled, exhaled, then studied the ceiling again for a second or two, as if there might be answers floating up there in the carcinogenic haze.

“Was your car parked in the street?” Carver asked.

“In the condo garage, out of sight. With the foliage around my unit, it’s even out of sight from most of the neighbors when it’s parked in my driveway.”

“You should park it in the street from now on,” Carver said. “Make sure it’s at least possible someone can verify it was there if the woman makes the same kind of accusation again.”

“I thought of that,” Brant said. “At first I didn’t do it because I didn’t see why I should have to change my life just because some crazy woman decided to persecute me.”

“She says you’re persecuting her.”

“I hadn’t even seen her when she made her original accusation,” Brant said angrily.

“But now you have seen her?”

“Yes. You can understand why I was curious. I drove past her house, trying to catch a glimpse of her. I mean, the way I was figuring it at the time, she and I had to have some connection for her to be doing this to me. I thought if I found out what the connection was, I could talk with her, straighten all this out. But when I saw her come outside to put her trash bags at the curb, I didn’t recognize her at all. I’m sure we’ve never had any previous contact.”

“Did she see you when you were watching her that time?”

Brant looked disgusted. “I don’t think so, and that time is the only time I’ve seen her, even though she’s called the police several times claiming I’ve been harassing her, threatening her.” Brant clenched his teeth and hissed through them in exasperation. “I seem to be getting the same reaction out of you that I got from the police.”

Carver gazed out his office window, across Magellan to where a knot of teenage girls stood waiting for a bus. Beyond them, through the spaces between the buildings, he could see the blue-green Atlantic shimmering in the bright Florida sun. A tall, skinny teenage boy stood about five feet from the girls, who began giggling and jostling one another, and one of them playfully hit another with her purse, which was on a long strap. On the backswing she’d struck the boy. Carver was sure it had been on purpose. The girl turned around and apologized, and she and the thin boy moved away from the other girls and began to talk, tentatively exploring the fringes of one of life’s great mysteries.

The tension between the sexes was usually what kept Carver busy, and here it was again, in the person of Joel Brant.

“What’s this Marla Cloy telling the police about you other than that you’re stalking her?” Carver asked.

“She’s saying she’s never seen me before, didn’t even know who I was until the police told her my name after tracing my license plate number. She says I must be fixated on her. Some men are obsessive that way about certain women, Mr. Carver, but I’m not one of them.” The finger touched the neck chain again. “Women’s brains are wired differently; usually they aren’t that way.”

“But you think Marla Cloy is?”

“I don’t know. I have no idea why she’s doing this to me. That’s why it’s driving me nuts. She’s ruining my reputation and might even get me jailed, and I don’t have the slightest idea why. Do you realize how that feels?”