Burning Man

“We have a chance to live if we leave him. We’re dead if we don’t.”

“One.”

“If we find a way out of here we can send help for him.”

“Two.”

The Strangler’s head jerked in my direction. He could hear the intent in my voice and he suddenly realized that there were two counts going on, and that one of those counts was going to end very badly for him. He dropped down and placed his hands underneath Sirius, and it took me a moment to realize what I was feeling: disappointment. Now I would have to keep going.

“Three,” I whispered, but instead of my shooting the Strangler, we lifted Sirius up and started walking. It was up to me to lead, even though I didn’t know how to lead anymore and hadn’t for some time.

Fire blew our way again, and the pain made me cry out. It surprised me that I was still alive enough to feel.

Something dug into my arm, and I felt pressure on my chest. I opened my eyes to see my shepherd hovering over me. One of his front paws was on my arm, and the other was on my chest.

“I’m all right,” I said, patting him.

Once again I had done my Lazarus act and returned from the dead, but this time, more than any other of my resurrections, I recognized that being alive was a good thing. It hadn’t always been that way. When you’re severely burned it takes a long time to get better, but that had been the easier recovery for me. After Jen’s death I tried to hide from everyone how bad off I was. Few people had any idea I was a basket case, and my severe burning had helped to mask my other symptoms.

My dreams were now forcing me to look back. There was no longer any hiding from what I’d been. Part of me had wanted to die in the fire. Jen’s death had left me a hollow man, a shell ripe for going up in flames. Being responsible for my partner was the only reason I hadn’t let myself become a human flare. As bad as reliving the burning was, facing up to the old emotions was worse. It was a hell of a lesson to keep on burning night after night.

My moment after stripped away my veneer. I had gone out into that fire wanting to die. Ironically, getting burned probably saved my life. I had been contemplating suicide, but I hadn’t wanted it to look like a suicide. That was my own personal insight. I had a feeling my vision somehow applied to the Klein case, but I didn’t know how.

Inspiration might strike, I told myself, if I got more sleep. Later, I told myself, I would think about it. And then, knowing I wouldn’t burn anymore that night, I fell asleep again and awakened much later than usual.

Every PTSD burning takes its toll. Satchell Paige once posed the question, “How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?” In the morning following a burning I usually awaken feeling as old as Methuselah. When I got up, I was parched and drained and achy. I downed an Advil with two glasses of water and then started thinking about my moment after.

My visions-for want of a better word-are not always straightforward, but unlike dreams I always remember every detail of them. I would like to believe that the after-fire message comes from my subconscious, but I don’t know if that’s an adequate explanation. Before my walk through fire I was never prescient, but now some strange door seems to have opened up for me. My oracle demands a high price, though. It needs its pound of burning flesh.

I made myself a breakfast of Cheerios and coffee. While I sipped my coffee, I thought briefly about my moment after but didn’t stay with it for long. It was too personal. I didn’t like remembering the suicidal thoughts that I’d had and was glad that darkness was no longer with me.

During my talk with Karen Santos, she had recalled seeing a “feisty” bird on the sweatshirt of the young woman that had bought the baby bootees at the monastery’s gift shop. Her impression was that the bird was gold or brown and belonged to a college. It was time to find that bird. I started entering information into my laptop.

“Road Runner,” I hummed as I typed, “the coyote’s after you.”

The search engine told me there were more than twenty four-year colleges in Los Angeles, Orange, and San Fernando Counties. The mascots were varied: there were lions and tigers and bears (oh my!), as well as an anteater, a beaver and, yes, a roadrunner. There were mascot characters such as Prospector Pete, Matty the Matador, and Johnny Poet (which makes sense only if your school is named after the poet John Whittier), and nonanimal mascots in the forms of titans, Trojans, and waves.

There were also two eagle mascots. One belonged to Biola University, and the other to Cal State, Los Angeles.

I went to the website for each school. Both of their eagles looked feisty, but the CSULA golden eagle looked more like the bird that Santos had described. It was golden brown and black, and had an attitude. The demographics and location of the school also made it a more likely choice. Biola University was located in La Mirada, about a forty-minute drive from the Monastery of the Angels, whereas Cal State, LA was only about five miles from the monastery, with the same Interstate 10 passing by both of them. The more I read about CSULA, the more it fit the profile of the young woman Karen Santos had seen in the gift shop. Sixty percent of the Cal State, LA undergrads are women, and almost half of those are Hispanic. The vast majority of the university’s twenty-one thousand students lived off campus. Assuming Rose’s mother was a typical commuter student, it wouldn’t have been hard for her to maintain a low profile while attending classes. No one might have even noticed she was pregnant.

Sorting through my notes, I tried to find Karen Santos’s telephone number. Some of my notes had gotten scattered after the attack on me, and the only home number I could find was that of Dottie Antonelli.

When I dialed her up I said, “I’d like to return a barely used Saint Jude’s medal.”

Dottie didn’t sound surprised to be hearing from me. “It’s about time that you called to say thank you.”

“And what am I thanking you for?”

“I’m thinking those Saint Jude and Saint Michael medals saved your life.”

“I’m surprised you’re not crediting the pumpkin bread as well.”

“Who says I’m not?”

“Is there a patron saint for pumpkin bread?”

“There’s a patron saint for farmers: Saint Isidore the Farmer.”

“Thanks for distinguishing. Like there would be another saint named Isidore.”

“For your information there’s at least one other saint named Isidore.”

“You’re kidding?”

“I am not.”

“But there is only one Saint Isidore the Farmer?”

“That’s right.”

“With a patron saint named Isidore the Farmer, it’s no wonder that there are so many jokes about farmers’ daughters.”

“I hope you’re not calling to tell me one of those jokes.”

“It didn’t start out that way, but maybe you’ll get lucky. I called for Karen Santos’s number.”

“I’m afraid that puts me in a bit of a dilemma, Detective. We’re not supposed to give out the phone numbers of our volunteers.”

“She already gave me her number. I misplaced it.”

Heavy on the mock skepticism, Dottie said, “Is that so?”

It took me a moment to interpret what was going on. “You’re shaking me down again, aren’t you?”

“Did you know that Saint Michael is the patron saint of law enforcement? We just got in a shipment with some new Saint Michael medals. I’d be glad to put one aside for you, along with a few other choice items.”

“How much is all that going to set me back?”

“Your donation of a hundred dollars will be greatly appreciated.”

“Who’s the patron saint of extortionists?”

“I don’t believe there is one.”

“In that case, you want me to write a recommendation letter for you to the pope?”

“If you do, don’t forgot to mention our statue fund. You do remember what our beautiful statue of Saint