Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 34, No. 13 & 14, Winter 1989

Tate was barely twenty, standing at least six feet and gangly. He had an acne-scarred face and a scraggly beard, and he wore army fatigue pants and a black T-shirt imprinted with a colorful logo from one of those rock bands. There was a collective sigh in the room when he walked in, and I wondered suddenly why Chief Parnell or some county sheriffs hadn’t frisked the crowd as they came in. It would have been mighty easy to smuggle in a pistol or a sawed-off shotgun, and Harmon Kirk caught my eye and smiled again, and I knew the same thing was on his — and others’ — minds. No doubt the rest of the media were there to cover the bail hearing, but I’m sure some were secretly hoping for an outburst or a vigilante display.

After some more legal talk Judge Temple set bail at fifty thousand dollars, cash or surety, meaning property or some such being put up for the bail amount. I heard a few low moans from the front right bench, and saw a heavy woman in black polyester stretch pants and a teary-eyed man, arm across her shoulders, and I imagined they were Tate Burnham’s parents. That amount probably seemed as much as a million dollars to them, and I saw Tate turn and smirk at his parents, and at that moment I felt my jaw clench, knowing this smiling twerp had torn a part of my life out with his rags and matches.

Then a few people started coming forward, either with checks or pieces of paper in their hands, and the court clerk look flustered and went up to the judge, and soon there was a line of people at the bench, all carrying something in their hands, and the courtroom started buzzing and I was scrambling to write in my reporter’s notebook as Judge Temple rapped his gavel and said, “Tate Burnham, you should consider yourself one lucky soul. About twenty of your neighbors have come forward to pay your bail.”

There was some shouting and crying from his parents, but after a few moments the handcuffs were off Tate Burnham and he was being hustled out of the courtroom, past the bright lights of the television cameras and the microphones of the reporters. The place became very crowded and I found myself wedged in among some reporters next to Wayne Ferguson, road agent for the town, who scratched at his bald head and explained why he had put up one thousand dollars for Tate Burnham’s release.

Wayne Ferguson said, “Well, the boy’s troubled, anyone can see that. I don’t see what purpose or good it’d do, having him put in jail until the trial. No purpose at all. After all’s said and done, he’s from Purmort, he’s a neighbor. And we take care of our own here.”

With that he pushed some of us aside and I was next to Harmon Kirk, who carried one of those hand-held Japanese tape recorders.

Harmon said, “Hell of a good story, Jerry.”

“That it is. But you must be disappointed — no vigilantes.”

Harmon smiled at that. “Right. No vigilantes. My editors will be dismayed. Guess I’ll have to pitch them a piece about a crazy town with a big heart.”

“Guess so,” and with that phrase, never had I been so proud to be a resident of Purmort.

That night, after my supper, I sat in front of my first-floor woodstove and watched the trapped flames flicker and dance, knowing my home was safe.

But I was up on Timber-swamp Road, shivering in the late night cold, watching the hard gray in the east signal a slow-approaching dawn. I remembered how I talked to the county dispatcher, Norma Quentin, and how she hesitated when I asked her about this fire and Tate Burnham. The smell of the smoke was mixed with something else, a harsh, greasy smell, and I made my way farther up the hill, finding my way easily enough in the lights from the firetrucks and the police cruisers. Chief Parnell was there, with two of his officers, and I nudged past them, looking at the crest of the hill where the grass had burned away.

There was no wreckage there, no blackened timbers from a house or a barn. In the middle of the burnt-out grass patch was an oak tree, its trunk scorched by the flames. Next to the trunk was a gasoline can, turned on one side, its paint bubbled and smeared away. Wrapped around the base of the tree was a chain, and the chain ran down the hill a short way, where it ended up wrapped around the legs of a charred carcass, which at first looked like a cow or a goat or a...

Only by turning my head quickly and stepping away was I able to avoid getting sick. I breathed through my mouth, not wanting to smell that horrible, greasy odor again. Chief Parnell came over to me and grabbed my arm, and we walked a bit, down the darkened road, until my head cleared.

The chief said, “Got here quick enough.”

“My sources. You know that.” I looked back up the hill, and just as quickly looked at the chief. “Who is it?”

The chief shrugged. “Not an official I.D., but based on what we know and who was reported missing last night, I’ll have to say Tate Burnham.”