Free Trauma by Graham Masterton Page B

alight.
    There is never anything romantic about burning alive. The boy had leaped up from the bed and rushed around the room screaming in agony, setting fire to the drapes. Then he had run downstairs and tried to get out of the house by the front door. His fingers, however, were already too charred to draw back the safety chain and turn the handle. His body was found by the fire department still standing against the door, stuck to the paint like a grinning, shriveled monkey. The widow’s body had been so badly burned that they couldn’t decide which was mattress ash and which was human cinders. The contents of her funeral urn had been part widow and part Sealy.
    Bonnie checked her watch. If the family lawyer didn’t show up within four minutes exactly, she was leaving. She was sweltering, and she was feeling so hungry that she was nauseated.
    She had already started her engine when a shiny red Porsche convertible drew up on the other side of the street, and a tall, suntanned man climbed out of it, wearing a cream polo shirt and white tennis shorts and carrying two racquets under his arm. He had well-cropped blond hair, mirror sunglasses and a strong cleft chin. He reminded her of somebody, but she couldn’t think who it was.
    He was about to walk toward the house opposite, but then he stopped and lifted his sunglasses and frowned at her. He came across the street and said, “Pardon me. Can I help you with something?”
    â€œI’m fine, thanks.”
    He laid his hand on the door of her Electra. Hisarm was very brown, with fine golden hairs and a fine golden Rolex.
    â€œYou know what happened here?” he asked her. She was absolutely sure that she had met him before. But when did she ever get to meet men who looked like this? She averted her eyes, but then she found herself looking at his firm, suntanned thighs, and the bulge in his crisp white tennis shorts. Immediately, she lifted her head again and looked at herself in his reflecting lenses—two of her, both plump, both distorted, both perspiring.
    â€œI know what happened here, sure.”
    â€œWell, we’ve had quite a few people driving by to take a look at the place, and we’ve even had people getting out of their cars and peering into the windows and having their photographs taken on the front lawn. One family even brought a picnic. I’ll tell you. Can you believe that? Cold barbecued chicken legs.”
    â€œAnd you think that’s what I’m doing? Rubbernecking?”
    â€œI’m just telling you that what happened here was a terrible human tragedy, and we’d prefer it if people behaved with a little more respect.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œSo”—he made a sweeping gesture with his hand—“if you don’t mind being on your way.”
    She suddenly realized why she recognized him. “You’re Kyle Lennox!” she said, breathlessly. “That’s who you are! You’re Kyle Lennox. From
The Wild and the Wayward
!”
    â€œYes, I’m Kyle Lennox from
The Wild and the Wayward
,but that doesn’t alter anything. This is where I live, and me and my neighbors are all pretty much sickened by people like you coming to …
ogle
this house. I knew Mrs. Marrin. She was a personal friend of mine. I knew her nephew, too. What do you think you’re going to see here? An action replay?”
    â€œNo, no.” Bonnie reached across to her glove compartment and took out one of her business cards. “That’s what I’m doing here, Mr. Lennox. I’m waiting for the family lawyer so that I can give him a quotation for cleaning the house up.”
    Kyle Lennox lifted his sunglasses again and peered at the card with the palest blue eyes that Bonnie had ever seen. She had always thought he was handsome when she saw him on television, but to see him right here on the street.… She made a point of not looking down at his tennis shorts