The Burning Soul

‘It’s quiet all over tonight,’ said Dempsey. ‘I don’t figure this for a late one.’

‘Obviously you’re free to wait in your car,’ said Mrs. Napier. ‘It’s cold. I’m going to close the door now.’

She tried to follow through, but Dempsey’s foot was in the gap. Ryan watched the pallor seep into her face.

‘Please take your foot away,’ she said.

‘We’d like to wait inside,’ said Dempsey. ‘Like you say, it’s cold out.’

‘If you don’t remove your foot, I’ll call the police.’

‘That settles it, then,’ said Dempsey. His hand shot through the gap and grabbed Mrs. Napier by the hair, pulling her face toward him until it was sandwiched by the door and the frame. He let her see the gun.

‘Take the chain off.’

‘Please-’

Now he pressed the muzzle hard against her forehead. ‘I won’t ask again.’

‘I can’t take it off without closing the door.’

‘You don’t have to close it all the way.’

‘I have to close it a little.’

‘That’s okay. Give me your left hand.’

She hesitated. Dempsey pressed the gun harder against skull. She yelped in pain.

‘Easy,’ said Ryan instinctively, and Dempsey bared his teeth at him in warning.

‘Give me your hand,’ he repeated.

She did as she was told. Her wrist was very thin, and as brittle as the skeleton of a bird. Dempsey turned her hand so that her fingers were flat against the frame of the door. He handed the gun to Ryan, then slipped a knife from his pocket. He flicked the sharp blade and pressed it hard beneath the top knuckles of Mrs. Napier’s fingers. Seconds later, blood began to flow.

‘If you screw around, I’ll cut off the tips of your fingers,’ said Dempsey. ‘Close the door against your hand and lose the chain.’

Slowly, she closed the door. They heard her fumbling with the chain.

‘It still won’t open,’ she said. She had started to sob.

‘Try harder.’

She pushed against the door, trying to close the gap a little more. The pressure on her fingers made the blood flow faster.

‘It hurts,’ she said.

‘And you can make it stop,’ said Dempsey. He was getting anxious. The street had been empty until now, but Ryan could see the figure of a man approaching from the east, walking his dog before bedtime.

The chain came free. The door opened.

They stepped inside.

‘Nice. Your husband buy this?’

Dempsey was standing by a flat-screen TV, the kind that was so large you had to pivot your head to take in the whole picture. It looked as if it had only recently come out of its packaging. Beneath it was a Blu-ray player, a cable box, and an amplifier for the home theater system. It was a neat set-up, spoiled only by the clothes drying on a rack by the radiator behind the TV.

Mrs. Napier nodded. She was still pale, and shaking with shock. Ryan had found a clean cloth in the kitchen and had given it to her so that she could bind her wounded hand. The blade hadn’t required much pressure on it to break the skin, and there was a lot of blood soaking through the material.

‘New? It looks new.’

Mrs. Napier found her voice. ‘It’s pretty new.’

‘Driving a cab must be more lucrative than I thought,’ said Dempsey. ‘If I’d known just how much money could be made on it, I’d be driving one myself. How about it: You think we should go into the cab business?’

Ryan didn’t reply. He thought Mrs. Napier might be about to vomit. The first floor of the house was an open plan, with only a decorative arch separating the kitchen from the living area. Ryan moved toward the sink.

‘Where are you going?’

‘She’s in shock. I’m going to get some water for her.’

Dempsey looked at Mrs. Napier.

‘Are you in shock?’

She didn’t reply for a moment, then said, ‘I don’t know. I feel nauseous.’

‘Shock it is, then,’ said Dempsey.

There were cups on the draining board. Ryan filled one with water and brought it back to Mrs. Napier. She took the cup, but didn’t say thank you. Ryan wasn’t exactly waiting for her to do so, but still, it would have been polite.

‘Why are you shocked, though?’ asked Dempsey. ‘Are you shocked because you’re hurt? Are you shocked because we’re here? Or are you shocked because your cab driver husband seems to be able to afford Donald Trump’s own home theater?’

Mrs. Napier sipped her water and kept her eyes down.

‘What’s your name?’ said Dempsey.

‘Helen.’

‘So, Helen, your husband been buying anything else that we should know about? You had a new dress lately? Maybe you’re eating out in nicer places? You can tell us. We’d like to know.’

‘Just the TV.’

‘Just the TV?’ Dempsey laughed. He moved to the bookshelves, which were sparsely populated with books – a couple of paperback novels, a book on home finance, and a set of encyclopedias so old that they probably still contained pictures of airplanes with propellers – but had a whole shelf devoted to new Blu- ray discs, most of them still in their plastic wrapping. He checked out the titles, running his fingers along the spines, then stepped into the kitchen, examining the white goods, opening drawers. When he was done, he told Ryan to keep an eye on the woman while he went upstairs. Soon they heard closet doors slamming, and the tinkling of glass as something small and delicate broke. Helen Napier tried to get up, but Ryan put his hand on her shoulder, forcing her back into the chair.

‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No you’re not.’

She was trying not to cry, and she succeeded. The sight reminded Ryan uncomfortably of the woman back at the Wanderer. It didn’t make him feel good about himself.

When Dempsey came back downstairs, he had a shoebox in his hand. He squatted before Mrs. Napier and showed her the contents. The bills were neatly stacked and bound: twenties only. Ryan guessed there were probably two or three grand in the box.

‘You don’t trust the banks?’ said Dempsey.

‘I don’t know what that is,’ said Mrs. Napier, and Ryan believed her.

‘It’s money, that’s what it is.’

‘I didn’t know it was up there.’

‘Husband keeping secrets from you? That’s bad. Once the lies start, it’s the death of a marriage.’ He leaned in so that his face was close to Mrs. Napier’s. ‘You want to know how it got there? I’ll tell you. Your husband doesn’t just drop passengers at their destinations. He picks up and drops off packages too. He’s a regular courier service for protection money, cocaine, marijuana, maybe a little heroin. He’s not a dealer, but he works for the dealer. Our problem is that your husband now maybe fancies himself as a little bit of a dealer after all, an independent operator. Just a little bit.’ Dempsey placed a thumb and forefinger close together. ‘Teeny-tiny. With that in mind, he’s been skimming from the product: enough to earn himself some extra cash, and irritate the people who were paying for the full weight, not most of the weight, because if they’d wanted cornstarch and talcum powder they’d have gone to Walmart. So that means we have to talk to him and find out how much he’s taken, and how much he’s made, and reach an agreement about restitution. See?’

‘My husband doesn’t use drugs,’ said Mrs. Napier.

‘What?’ Dempsey appeared genuinely confused.