Small Magic: Collected Short Stories.

Aaron Polson.

This book is dedicated to Aaron Ouellette, Jason Wollenberg, and Ken Boling, three friends who help me build many stories. Maybe too many.

Chapter 1: How to Burn a House.

When it comes to actually burning the house, remember a good blaze is a work of art. It's all about three ingredients: oxygen, fuel, and heat-the right amount of each make a fire something special. You skimp on one of the three, and the house just simmers. Rank amateur.

Before I even think about lighting up, I always open the windows so the fire has a good air supply. A few guys I know like to break windows, but I figure it's a matter of taste. Always seems like overkill anyway, busting up the windows before the fire. Broken gla.s.s gets everywhere. Just a matter of opinion, I guess.

The house provides plenty of fuel itself, but a nice, high quality job-a masterpiece-needs a little nudge. Gasoline works great, and my Daddy's hand-me-down metal can gives me a warm feeling like he's right there with me. They don't make those metal ones anymore, but a good plastic container will do. Rubber gloves are good, too. I had a little spill once that made my hands stink for a week.

If there's a bas.e.m.e.nt, start there with the gas because fire likes to travel up. For finished bas.e.m.e.nts, sprinkle gas over the furniture and splash a little on the walls. Don't waste any time with the floor if it's tile or bare concrete. For an unfinished bas.e.m.e.nt, make sure to soak the support beams and exposed wall studs-anything that will burn.

From there, douse the rest of the house, hitting the furniture first, a little on the walls, from the lower floors up. If the gas runs out before the attic, so be it, but don't forget to save a little for the bedrooms, even if they're on the top floor. Don't hang around too long, of course, but make sure the bedrooms have a little boost in the fuel department. Most window dressings go up pretty well without much help, so do blankets and clothes, so use the gas sparingly on those areas. On a personal note, I make sure to dribble a little over all family photos and other personal knick-knacks. It's a nice touch.

Make sure to save the fuel containers-especially if they're those nice, metal kind-and grab the igniter. A fire has to have heat to get going. Matches work fine here; no need for fancy lighters or ignition devices. Some folks prefer to stay outside the house to light the fire. In this case, drop the lit matches through an open bas.e.m.e.nt window or two. Personally, I like to set the match to a few spots in the bas.e.m.e.nt myself, but that just because I'm a hands-on guy. Once that sucker is lit, get out and drive away-not too fast of course, but not like it's a sight-seeing vacation or anything.

I should mention one last thing: it's best to go back to the bedroom and check on the owners before lighting the place. Don't look them in the eye-I've known guys to break down when they look them in the eye-but make sure the cable ties are still holding their hands and feet. I always use cable ties because they can't be undone like rope or twine and they can't be torn like tape. Of course nothing beats a good hunk of duct tape across a mouth once the hands and feet are bound. Wouldn't want somebody hollering out and spoiling the fun before a nice, big inferno got going, would you?

Chapter 2: A Little Bit for Braz.

The first victim tacked to Piecemeal's rap sheet was missing the pinkie finger of her left hand. Three bodies later, and the police had a pattern, something to work with: a pinkie, a hand, the forearm up to the elbow joint...PK they started calling the murderer around the precincts in the city, PK for Piecemeal Killer, like a playground nickname.

Braz b.u.t.terfield worked the case all the way to both shoulder joints and a missing leg.

Five years. Fifteen victims.

He'd wondered in the past if they'd missed one of the victims, working backwards like they did from the shoulder. After years of tiny pins on a map of the city, trips into the foulest alleys and the rusted iron, faded paint parts of town, rubbing elbows with junkies and greasy, early morning fog, Braz developed a certain belief, his own act of faith, that they'd miscalculated because PK took something so small, so insignificant, the coroner's report had been remiss. Something tiny like a fingernail.

Academic now, he reminded himself as he stood over the corpse in room 166 of the South Dells' Motel 6. Academic.

Braz b.u.t.terfield held the unfolded portrait of PK, the only sketch anybody had been able to squeeze from a potential witness in five years. The cold meat on the bed matched as close as anybody-the loping, dangling ears, the hitch in an otherwise thin and somewhat distinguished nose, the odd s.p.a.cing of the eyes, a centimeter or two away from being "just right", the obtuse pucker of the upper lip. Braz had him.

The bullet wound and rest of the hotel room told the story: a plastic shopping bag filled with homespun collages made from snippets of truck-stop p.o.r.n, the spilled bag with traces of methamphetamine, the lack of money anywhere in the room. Braz had searched of course, explored every possible creva.s.se and even scoured the Ford Ranger outside in the lot.

That's where he found the suitcase. That's how he really knew, even more than the artist's sketch. Braz found the missing parts in the suitcase, each sealed like leftovers in vacuum-tight plastic bags. He didn't bother to count and verify the fifteen victims' missing bits or even search for the suspected sixteenth. No. That was for crime scene. He'd make that call soon enough.

Maybe.

The corpse held him for the present. PK captured the last five years of Braz b.u.t.terfield's life. PK ended Braz's marriage. PK added fifteen pounds to Braz's midsection and took a few inches from his hairline. PK made him miss his son's last football game, but nothing kept Braz from the funeral after the boy wrapped his Honda around an oak on spring break.

No, PK had captured so much of him, Braz might as well be missing pieces, too.

The fingers of Braz's left hand played at his pocket, feeling the outline of Toby's Boy Scout knife. Remembering. Planning.

Go on.

The voice startled him at first, but Braz knelt next to the bed, praying at the altar of the monster who'd taken so much, piece by piece, little pieces adding to something bigger than Braz's world. He fished the knife from his pocket and unfolded the smallest blade.

Go on.

With a trembling hand, Braz lifted PK's left and separated the pinkie from the other fingers. He pushed the blade under the nail, pushed until it wouldn't go any further. There was a dark line, but no blood came-it had already pooled at PK's back. Braz twisted the knife, prying until the yellowed nail broke free of the skin. He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, savoring the smoothness and thickness of it before stashing it in his pocket with the folded knife. He'd grab a box of plastic bags on the way home.

When he walked out of the room, Braz couldn't help but smile, his eyes lingering on the left pinkie, wondering how long it will take the next detective to make the connection, piece by tiny little piece.

Chapter 3: Inheritance.

When Magomu reaches the platform, he hurries to his brother's rope. His hands ache, raw and strained from the climb, but he works quickly, struggling against the dullness of his knife. It is an old knife, but not as old as his father's. Not as valuable.

He closes his eyes as the last strands fray and pop. With his eyes closed, he sees his brother's body, broken on the packed earth below, and imagines holding his inheritance to the sun, the blade glittering, while the crowd cheers his name.

Chapter 4: Gary Sump's Hidden City.

That guy over there, the skinny one with the big gla.s.ses and pinched nose, sitting alone at Java Stop and drinking a tall regular, his name is Gary. He has a miniature city in his backyard. I live next door, and I've watched him from my second-story window. Gary is dull-plain yogurt without sweetener-except for the secret city.

It started simply, just buildings made of spare wood and a couple of bricks he had lying around his yard. Maybe he's lonely. I don't know. I never see the guy on the phone, and he doesn't go out except for a tall regular at Java Stop. I've watched him since before his wife bailed six months ago.

Anyway, he made roads, parks, and a lake in his backyard-just like The Sims. You remember The Sims, right? Scott played for hours back in the dorm; probably why he dropped out. Well, the people came later. Little critters-they look just like you and me, wearing clothing and everything.

No, they aren't dolls or action figures.

They move around.

They live in the little buildings.

They're alive.

After a while, I started watching them instead of Gary. I hooked up a camera which looked over their city so I could watch what happened while I was at work. Eight hours of video zipped by in about twenty minutes on high speed. They work, too. The little people cook, create art, worship. They rearranged some of Gary's buildings, made one of them into a kind of church. I don't know if he ever noticed.

Gary goes to work at eight in the morning, returns at five-thirty, and turns off his television at ten. He's an accountant or something. Dullsville. On Sat.u.r.days he comes down here, has a cup of coffee, and reads the paper. Not a lot of variation.

I've seen him in his bedroom, sobbing like a baby. One time I saw him look at the label on a bottle of pills-an orange one. Maybe Gary was pondering the undiscovered country.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he goes outside, tilts a house on its side, s.n.a.t.c.hes a few of the people, and squeezes their heads until they swell and burst. Poof-little red cloud. After killing two or three this way, he slumps onto his porch steps and sobs, kind of like that night in his bedroom. He tosses the stained bodies into the city. After a while, he goes inside, slamming the door.

They hold funerals. They dig holes and plant the headless in a section of dirt near Gary's begonias. Kind of creepy, really-they have this whole funeral procession thing and play sappy music. I've watched these people do everything: Work, play, swim in the lake, even have s.e.x in their fenced-in backyards, but I only feel like a sleazebag when I watch one of their funerals.

Yet mostly, I feel sorry for Gary. The guy made a whole city and still isn't happy.

Chapter 5: Enough.

Barry Garner craved positive feedback like a fire l.u.s.ted for oxygen. That's why he walked to the post office with the tiny package. He was ready to keep going, bit by bit, until the feedback loop switched back to green. That's why he made a trip to the post office almost every day for a year, rain or shine, dropping one person's garage sale junk into the mail for another person who found it as treasure on eBay. All the positive feedback a guy could want, even if he took a hit on shipping or the occasional refund for a dissatisfied curmudgeon. The record had been clean, 100% positive, until the camera. Until that b.i.t.c.h in South Carolina.

His teachers did it too him, really. Back in school. They were the ones who started with the gold foil stickers and the "nice job" scribbled in the upper margin of his Big Chief Tablet papers. They were the ones with the pats on the back or the high fives when he cranked out a double during recess kickball. A drug. That's what it was for Barry. Pure and simple. One smiley face in red pen and he was hooked.

Heh. Red pen. Not really irony-Barry understood that much-but still funny.

The world of online auctions became his paradise on Earth. His Valhalla. His Nirvana. His Heaven. A dingy back room filled with the opium haze of positive promises and a bright, digital star next to his screen name. BG_Luv1975. Barry felt a twitch crawl across his neck thinking of the old handle. BG_Luv1975. He glanced at the tiny box in his hands. Her name was on it again. The third package he'd shipped to her. He rubbed one thumb across the series of stamps on the corner. Enough. Hopefully enough. He flinched to imagine the box returning with a mark of insufficient postage. Negative feedback. But his Paypal account had been suspended, too, and he couldn't buy postage online anymore. He had no choice but to use the stamps.

He should have checked the G.o.d-d.a.m.ned camera better.

It was the battery door. Corroded shut, she wrote. He promised a full refund. She didn't want a refund. She wanted to ruin Barry's perfect score. Crush his 100% positive into less than perfect. Tear the gold foil stars from his eyes and stomp on them with her digital boot. What did she want? What would make her satisfied? She stopped responding to the messages. He found her real name: Cheryl. Cheryl Santus. What did Cheryl want, his blood?

Well, he sent some for her in a tiny little vial. But even that wasn't enough. Court orders. Investigations. Suspension of his account online. The psychiatrist.

Barry shoved his left hand in the coat pocket as he entered the post office. No need for anyone to see his hand. Not yet. Later maybe. After they know. After he shows them how far he would go for positive feedback. Barry flinched, his eyes darting around the post office lobby. The blood was his, after all. They'd shown that much at least. It's not that he hurt anyone, really. He was making a point. An object lesson in red. Like ink. Heh. But now, now he'd given her a little more. Maybe eBay would reinstate his account. Maybe he could wash BG_Luv1975's slate clean.

"Can I help you?" The postal clerk wouldn't smile.

Barry pushed his package onto the counter. "I-is it enough?" His eyes wouldn't leave the box.

The clerk dropped the small, brown wrapped box onto the scales. "Yes. Actually you've put a little extra...sir?"

Barry couldn't stifle the giggle. "I did good?"

"No additional postage needed. Thank you." The clerk's eyes moved toward the end of the line. "Next."

Barry felt the rush. He'd done well. More than enough postage. As he walked toward the post office door, he imagined the look of surprise on Cheryl's face. Would it be enough? Maybe. Another spasm shot through his back. He remembered the pain-it wasn't much. Not as much as he'd expected when he slipped his left pinkie finger into the kitchen shears and closed the blades until the bone snapped. Plenty of blood, red like ink. Cheryl would have a really nice surprise indeed.

Chapter 6: Faith.

She doesn't flinch as the counterfeits in white ap.r.o.ns-her co-conspirators-arrange the raw seafood on her skin. Pink and white, tuna and squid, their hands drop the squares in circles, sweeping the meat in spirals over her stomach, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, extending down her legs. The men's hands shake slightly, but they continue the work. She doesn't squirm even though the meat is icy on her skin.

Nyotaimori is an art, but the counterfeits have been trained. Like other expensive dishes, this one is best served cold. Five years she has waited.

Her eyes lock on the ceiling as they wheel her across a tiled hallway and through the aluminum doors. In the club room, the voices are brash, too loud, already drunk. When the cart comes to a stop, one of the men mutters something and laugher crawls up the walls. She doesn't close her eyes, but waits for the probing violation, the jabs and explorations with chopsticks as they begin to eat. Layers peel away, and her skin chills.

She becomes a puzzle broken into pieces with nothing beneath. Naked, but motionless. Hiding. These men cannot know. Her faith keeps her still.

Blood pounds inside her head, and after a few minutes she can no longer hear their voices. She remembers though-she remembers the cold eyes of these men, puppets of the regime wearing the masks of the national guard. She remembers when they took her mother-their voices locked behind stupid, empty grins. Her jaw locks as chopsticks poke and prod bare patches of flesh. Her fingers curl when one set of utensils snap tight on an uncovered nipple. There is laughter, but she doesn't hear. The men are just shapes moving in the periphery. Shadows. Memories.

Her breath comes in small, measured amounts. In and out. Calm. Even naked, lying on the stainless tray beneath the banquet lights, she will not break. She broke before, five years ago, after they found her mother and the others face down in the sewer ditch near the woods.

She thinks of the chefs bound with tight knots and hidden in the scullery. She knows her co-conspirators have shed their ap.r.o.ns and wait behind the hotel. She knows the poison cannot be adsorbed through her skin, only the stomach lining of those giggling pigs, and it will work quickly and quietly. She has faith that her mother's ghost will be sated and her thirst for revenge, quenched.

Chapter 7: Manning Up.

Evan started coming apart because of the dare. Because of Ben, the kid with a weasel nose and surly eyes. Because he said he could do real magic, and Ben said it was bulls.h.i.t. Caleb told him it was a bad idea-a stupid idea, but Ben stoked the fire.