Evil Has a Key

By Janet Hayward Burnham

The Gill family: Garner, Michaela (Mike), and their children: Ross 16, and Alexis 10, have recently moved to Brockton, a small Vermont town. Garner and Mike thought the move over carefully, and decided small-town life was what they wanted. Garner is the Chief of Police in Brockton, and Mike teaches an English Honors Class for seniors at the area high school. It’s the late ‘90’s, and many Vermont folks still don’t bother to lock their doors.
Teenager Ross, and his buddies Jason and Richie, spend their free time riding around in Jason’s Jeep, looking for something interesting and exciting to do. They’ve come up with something unusual – and illegal.
The Gill’s haven’t been in Brockton for two years yet, when bad things begin to happen. A terrible accident, and then a murder.
One Saturday, when the Gill family has dental appointments, Jason and Richie take off – without Ross. Their trip comes to disastrous consequences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781984586100

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Copyright © 2020 by Janet Burnham.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 07/10/2020

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CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

My writing career covers a wide spectrum. From two romance novels published in four countries, two poems used for years in state-wide tests in more than seven states, to hundreds of articles and photographs in magazines and newspapers: Yankee, Vermont Life, Odessey, The Country Journal, The Boston Globe, The N.Y. Daily News, Instructor, 4H News, The Rutland Herald, The Randolph Herald, Cricket, Spider and Woman’s World. Plus, my husband and I began a children’s press, which no longer exists. Books I wrote and illustrated for the press: The Dragoness Mess, Jeremy The Puny, Out Of Time (Kirkus Review), A Week Ago Cat.

This book is dedicated to: George Hathaway

Burnham, my late husband

… and to the following …

Scott, Mark, Hilary, and Kristen

and…

Jade, Jesse, Charmaine, Charlie, Lisa and Bryan

I also wish to thank my daughter, Hilary Mullins, for the title.

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CHAPTER ONE

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I T WAS THE sound of vomiting that woke her, but it was the almost imperceptible sobbing that made her sit up. Garner? She ran her hand under the blankets on his side of the bed. He wasn’t there; hadn’t been, there was no warmth still caught between the sheets. She glanced at the clock – 4am – then felt under the bed with her toes for her slippers. She stood up and pulled on her robe. It was their habit, hers and Garner’s, to turn down the thermostat at night. She shivered. It was early November and the house was cold.

Out in the hall she listened. Had she dreamed it? Imagined it? No, the sobs were still audible, only quieter, she could hear them distinctly coming from downstairs. Halfway down the steps, she paused. Garner? She called his name again in a loud whisper, not entirely sure that it was Garner sobbing; and further, not wanting to awaken the children.

There was still no answer. She had started down again before she heard him answer. Yes, his voice coming out breathy and strange, hardly sounding himself at all.

She found him sitting back on his haunches on the floor in front of the toilet in the little half bath off the kitchen, his face as white as the porcelain just-flushed toilet. The smell of vomit still hung strong on the air.

You’re sick, she said flatly.

He swallowed. No … an accident. I’ve just come from an horrific accident.

Is there anything I can do? She touched his shoulder and felt him shutter.

No … no, I don’t think so. He gave her hand a light pat. It was meant to reassure her, but it didn’t. Garner did not give short perfunctory pats. If anything, it worried her more.

She reached around him and took one of the pretty little hand towels off the rack and dampened it in the sink. Here, wipe your face.

He took the little towel and slowly mopped his face and neck. Dear God, he said, tears refilling his eyes.

That bad, she said. It wasn’t a question.

He nodded and handed back the towel. ‘Yes. He stood up nodding, pulled three Kleenex from the box kept on the back of the toilet, and blew his nose. That bad."

Can I get you something? She glanced back into her kitchen, almost as if it wasn’t hers, but belonged to someone else whose system would be so different, she might not know where simple things were kept.

Coffee – I guess I could go for some coffee. His voice sounded thin.

When in doubt, get the coffee out, she repeated their little ditty. It was just a silly little something that they had repeated to each other since their college days, since they first met. Silly, familiar … trying to bring him back a little from this place of grief. This was Garner, for heaven’s sake, her husband of 18 years. Garner who had been a cop for almost all of those 18 years. Garner who did not fall apart … not like this.

She fixed the coffee with practiced ease. It smelled good, comforting, the aroma taking away the stench of vomit that had worked its way across the cheerful kitchen.

He sat hunched at the kitchen island on one of the stools, his feet on the top rung, pushing his knees high, almost in a fetal position, his face still white.

She brought over two mugs. He wrapped his hands around the steaming mug. She always admired his hands, sturdy, capable. She sat beside him, pulling her rose colored robe more closely around her slim body, waiting for him to tell what had happened. He would, she knew. He always did.

It was out on Route Twelve, out at Findley Bridge, he began.

Anyone hurt?

He nodded. "Young fellow, working two jobs I understand … from Wallingford. This was a second job, delivering gasoline at night. He must have fallen asleep and didn’t make it around the corner there where Tumble Brook comes down to join the river. You know, that old concrete bridge there on the corner.

She nodded.

He didn’t make the curve. Leaned right into that old concrete bridgework, rubbing all along it, just like striking a match. Took out the wheels on that side. And when he got beyond it, the tanker just fell over into that little space of land between the road and the river. It was burning of course, all that fuel. When Phil and I got there, he was still alive, pinned inside. We couldn’t get close.

Garner stopped and stared across the kitchen at the window over the sink. It was evident his eyes weren’t seeing the darkened window with its red and tan checkered curtains. He was still seeing the accident and the flames. He shook his head quickly, then continued: He begged us to shoot him - so he wouldn’t feel any more of the fire. Begged – I mean, pleaded. ‘Don’t you sons of bitches let me burn alive, shoot me, shoot me!’

I took out my pistol, he paused. I was going to do it – until Phil touched my arm. Don’t, he said. That was all he said, just don’t. It was as though his word had frozen me. It was only moments until the poor S.O.B. burned to death screaming and cursing us. He shook his head to throw off some of the memory.

She reached over and touched him on the shoulder. He flinched.

It’s all right, she said. I’m so sorry. Was it just you and Phil?

"No, by the time the kid was cooked, Ray arrived with the fire truck. And Bob Ploof, he was coming down off the mountain, answering the fire call. Findley Bridge was right on his way, so of course, he got to the scene before he got to the firehouse.

Hal Martin came over too. He’s the nearest neighbor. He had called it in. Didn’t hear it happen, but said he woke up to see orange shadows dancing on his ceiling."

Garner took a deep breath, and turned to her, his eyes in deep pain. I let that poor sucker burn to death, Mike.

That’s what you had to do, she answered him.

Is it? He pounded the counter-top. The coffee mugs jumped. Is it? he repeated. I let that poor son of a bitch die because I chose to protect my job. What sort of choice is that?

I’m not sure, she said.

I feel like a bloody awful coward. I took the low road – the coward’s way out.. I can’t go back and do it again. It’s done, no second chances. It’s so Goddamn final!

Well, she said, what if you had shot him? What then? Wouldn’t that have meant some sort of trouble for you?

There would have been an inquiry – possibly an indictment of some sort. It would have been a big stink. Brockton probably would have been forced to let me go.

Certainly not an easy call, she said slowly. Nevertheless, we all must live with the consequences of our actions.

Isn’t that the bloody truth! I suppose I can spend the rest of my life weighing it up. Did I do the right thing? Every Tuesday I can think I did. And every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, I can decide I didn’t.

I didn’t mean it that way, she countered. I meant that you didn’t rock him to sleep. The accident wasn’t your fault. He fell asleep and what happened, however bad it was, was his consequence for working two jobs. He took that chance, not you.

Trying to do right by his family, he put in.

Whatever were his reasons. They are still his reasons, his mistakes, his consequences – not yours.

Yeah, but I could have given him an easier death.

He wasn’t your pet dog, Garner. Murdering another human being, even at his request, is not allowed in this state. You know that better than I do.

The law be damned, he growled.

They sat for several long minutes in silence. Did the truck explode? she asked.

No, Ray and Bob kept it cool, hosed it down. What was burning was the truck’s own fuel and oil.

Couldn’t they have put it out?

No, it would have taken a truck full of chemical fire retardant … like they have at airports. The only thing they could do was keep the tank cool and hope it didn’t explode.

Dangerous wasn’t it? If the tank exploded, I mean.

‘Yes."

How long was it before … she stopped, wanting to know all the particulars, but not wanting to make it any harder on Garner.

Before he died?

She nodded.

I don’t know. It seemed like a very long time, but I don’t suppose it could have been. Phil and I got there, got out. Spoke to the guy. There was no way we could get near him. Then Ray arrived with the fire truck. And right after that, Bob came. We all heard him die. Oh, and Hal Martin. I think Hal was there by that time too. Ray kept yelling at us to back off, he was afraid it’d blow. Ray didn’t even have the pumper hooked up before the poor bastard cooked.

There wasn’t time, she said.

There was time to shoot him, he said flatly. And I didn’t do it.

Garner, she rested a hand on his arm. I thank you for not shooting him. Your children thank you for not shooting him. It was too much to ask.

Was it?

Was it what? They both jumped in surprise and turned to see their son, Ross, standing at the door to the hallway, his hair rumpled and his pajama bottoms threatening to fall down his slim shanks. They hadn’t heard him coming down the stairs. What are you two doing down here at this hour? He nodded his head in the direction of the clock on the wall. What’s wrong? He frowned and leaned forward to peer closely at his father. Dad, have you been crying?

Christ Almighty! said his father. Garner stood up so abruptly, that the stool fell over. Without a further word, he walked out of the kitchen and up the stairs, brushing by his son, and never bothering to pick up the fallen stool.

Ross watched him go. What’s wrong with him? I didn’t mean … I mean, why’s he so angry?

Michaela sighed. Your father has had a hard night, Ross. There was a terrible accident – a fellow burned to death.

Ross padded over in his bare feet, righted the fallen stool and sat down. Geez, Mom, can’t you turn up the heat? It’s cold down here. He wrapped his arms around his thin bare chest to warm himself.

Why don’t you wear the other half of you pajamas? she asked, already knowing what his answer would be. They had had this exchange numerous times before.

Too confining. Makes me dream of straitjackets. So, what happened with this guy burning to death?

She told him. She believed in being straight with kids. She might not have told the cold absolute facts to a very young child, but to a teenager, a junior in high school, Ross deserved to be told the unvarnished truth.

The guy begged Dad to shoot him?

Yes, she nodded. ‘I guess being shot was better than feeling oneself burning to death."

"Intense! But why didn’t Dad do it? I would have.

Being an officer of the law, he knew the consequences, Ross. He would have lost his job.

So, get another one. This Podunk town isn’t the only place in the universe.

It would have been murder. He wouldn’t have been able to get another job in law enforcement … if he had shot him.

How about compassionate something or another What’s that called? Uthan… something or another.

Euthanasia, said said. It’s against the law. You shoot someone, even in extreme circumstances, the law says you’re guilty at the very least of manslaughter, at the very worst murder.

I would have done it anyway, he said stubbornly. No matter the consequences.

"Your father almost did. But he’s not just one person operating in the world by himself. He makes his decisions thinking of