Trauma by Graham Masterton

again.
    â€œHey, listen,” he said. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t have any idea.”
    â€œThat’s all right. When somebody dies in circumstances like these, it isn’t surprising that their neighbors get kind of sensitive about it.”
    â€œNo, I’m really sorry. I accused you of being a sicko and I was totally mistaken.”
    â€œIt’s all right, really. It was a pretty easy mistake to make.”
    â€œI didn’t even know that there were special people—well, you know, I didn’t know that there were special companies who cleaned up after suicides and stuff. Don’t the cops do it?”
    â€œThey don’t have the expertise. It takes more than a mop and a bucket to clean up after something like this.”
    â€œJesus … I never knew. I’ll bet you get to see some pretty gruesome things, huh?”
    â€œNow and again. Mostly it’s just stains.”
    â€œJesus. How many trauma scenes do you go to every week?”
    â€œFour, maybe. Sometimes more. People are always offing each other.”
    â€œJesus. What was the worst one you ever saw?”
    Bonnie pointed to her business card. “Would you mind signing that for me? I really love
The Wild and the Wayward
. Sign it for Duke, could you, my husband? He loves it, too. He watches it even more religious than me.”
    â€œOkay, sure. Do you have a pen?”
    Bonnie took the chewed ballpoint pen from the top of her clipboard and handed it to him. He signed the card with a flourish. “There you go.
For Duke … You Too Can Be Wild and Wayward
.”
    â€œWell, he can be pretty darn wayward. I’m not so sure about wild.”
    At that moment, a metallic-green Coupe de Ville arrived outside the house, and a small ginger-haired man climbed out. He shrugged on a wheat-colored sport coat and then raised his hand to Bonnie in greeting.
    â€œThat’s the family lawyer?” asked Kyle Lennox.
    â€œI guess,” Bonnie nodded and climbed out of her car, too.
    â€œI’d better leave you to it, then,” said Kyle Lennox. “It’s been real interesting to meet you, Bonnie … and sorry again about the misunderstanding. I hope you forgive me.”
    Bonnie smiled. “It’s nothing, really. Forget it.”Until she stood beside him, she hadn’t realized how tall he was—and how he smelled of suntanned, young, well-exercised man and Hugo aftershave by Hugo Boss. Forgive him? She would have forgiven him if he had publicly accused her of turning people’s milk to vinegar and sleeping with Satan.
    She watched him walk back across the street. She loved the little bounce in his step, a combination of fitness and very expensive tennis shoes. The family lawyer came up to her and stood beside her. “Isn’t that—?”
    â€œYes, it is. He just gave me his autograph.”
    â€œMy wife’s going to be so sick when I tell her. I’m Dudley Freeberg, by the way. Freeberg, Treagus and Wolp.”
    â€œNice to meet you, Mr. Freeberg.”
    â€œWell, likewise,” said Dudley Freeberg, and gave her a gappy grin.

Ashes to Ashes
    Like all houses in which people have died violently, the Marrin residence was preternaturally silent, as if it were holding its breath at the horror of what had happened here.
    But it was the stench of burned carpet that struck Bonnie the most. As she and Dudley Freeberg stepped into the hallway, their nostrils were filled with the fumy smell of gasoline, mixed with badly scorched wool. There was another smell, too, like those sour, charred fragments of hamburger that stick to the barbecue.
    Dudley Freeberg peered around the back of the door, and then very cautiously closed it. On the inside, the white paint was bubbled and brown, and there was a sooty smoke trail all the way up to the ceiling. Ribbons of shriveled fabric hung from theupper part of the door, and the center panel had been scratched by a