Fire Season (15 page)

Rudy pushed open the screen door, and the two men stepped off the porch. Coffin half expected the house to rise a few inches, freed from their weight.

“Next time you're out at his place,” Rudy said, scratching his beard stubble, “take a good look at the ducks.”

“The ducks? What about the ducks?”

“
Vaya con queso,
Frankie,” Rudy said, waving to Coffin with his back turned.

“Rudy!” Coffin yelled, but the two big men had already disappeared into the fog.

 

Chapter 14

He reached into the crib and picked up the baby, its mottled fur cold and wet to the touch. Everything smelled like smoke. The big stuffed animals bared their savage teeth.

“It's okay,” Coffin said. “I've got you. It's okay.”

The baby stared at him with its dark, liquid eyes. He thought of his father, drowned in the ocean, seaweed in his hair. What would his father say about the seal baby, he wondered?

“I've got you,” Coffin said. “I've got you.”

Flames licked the curtains, flowed up the walls. Coffin wrapped the slick, squirming seal baby in a blanket, ran with it down the hallway. Sparks and smoke were everywhere—he could hardly breathe …

“Frank.”

The stairs were a cauldron of fire. He had to get out—had to save the seal baby. He retreated into the bedroom, opened the window. The smoke was choking him. He was drowning in smoke …

“Frank!”

Something poked him in the ribs.

“Frank, wake up!”

“What?” Coffin said. His eyelids felt as though they'd been glued together. “Wake up? Why?”

Jamie was jabbing him with her finger. “You stopped breathing. It freaks me out when you do that. Turn over on your side, okay?”

“Sorry,” Coffin said, rolling onto his side. “Sorry.”

Jamie grunted and went back to sleep. Coffin looked at the clock—7:23—closed his eyes, opened them again. He was exhausted, but wide-awake.

“Shit,” he said.

“Hmph,” Jamie said, pulling the covers up around her chin.

Coffin got out of bed, pulled on a T-shirt and pair of sweatpants, and went downstairs to the kitchen. He put a filter in the coffeemaker, half-filled the carafe at the sink, dumped the water into the reservoir, then spooned four scoops of ground decaf into the filter—Jamie wasn't drinking regular coffee now, on her OB-GYN's advice.

It was raining outside—a gray drizzle, occasionally driven by an easterly gust of wind. He turned on the radio, hunted around for NPR. Sometimes it came in, sometimes it didn't, depending on which way the wind was blowing, Coffin thought, or sunspot activity, or variations in the Earth's magnetic field. The whole FM band was static except for WOMR, the local all-volunteer station. They were replaying an old episode of
Ptown 02657
, a homemade radio drama: a gay character and a transsexual character were having a breathless conversation about a lesbian character who'd given her straight married lover chlamydia.

Coffin switched the radio off, poured a cup of decaf, added half-and-half and sugar. He sipped it, made a face. “Decaf,” he said to the rain on the window, to the starlings pecking in the yard. “Why bother?” The phone bleeped. He picked it up.

“Frank?” It was Arlene, his secretary. “Listen, Dr. Gault wanted me to ask you to come in ASAP. You and she have an eight thirty meeting with Mancini and a federal agent—guy from ATF.”

“Miles Kendrick? Boston office?”

“Yep, that's the gent.”

“Great,” Coffin said. “See you in a half hour.”

*   *   *

On his way to Town Hall, Coffin stopped at the Yankee Mart for a cup of real coffee. The girl working the cash register was a slender Belarusian named Ioana: she'd been a brunette when she first arrived in Provincetown, but lately she'd been dying her hair a tawny, reddish blond. She was small-breasted, her features slightly Asian. The Mongols had made it as far as Poland, Coffin knew—had they passed through Belarus on their way?

“Did you find everything you were looking for?” she said.

Her accent was wonderful, Coffin thought—the dark vowels, all that lingering on the terminal
g
's. She was probably twenty.

“Yes,” Coffin said, holding up his paperboard cup of convenience-store coffee. “The coffee machine is well marked.”

“Another satisfied customer,” Ioana said. “This is what I live for.”

“No doubt your corporate masters have taken note.”

“One can only hope. How is Yelena?”

“Fine, I think. I didn't know you were friends.”

“It's the Eastern European mafia,” Ioana said. “Haven't you heard? We're taking over this dump.”

Taking gover
, Coffin thought. “Be my guest,” he said. “It's all yours.”

*   *   *

At Town Hall a half-dozen painters were working on scaffolds in the main stairway. Drop cloths covered the floor, and a heavy metal song roared from a boom box—Metallica or Megadeath, Coffin thought, but he'd never been able to tell them apart. Coffin's head began to throb: the smell of latex paint was thick, the music was loud, he hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep. He trotted up the stairs with his coffee cup and ducked into his office, shutting the door behind him.

Lola was waiting in one of his leather guest chairs. She was in uniform, legs crossed, hat balanced on her knee.

“Holy crap,” she said. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

“That bad?” Coffin said. He sat in his desk chair, a fancy executive model, and put his feet up on the desk.

“I probably don't look so good myself,” Lola said.

Coffin peered at her. “You look fine,” he said. “Why, what happened?”

Lola's cheeks reddened. “It's embarrassing,” she said. “I screwed up. But I got a look at our firebug. Sort of.”

She told Coffin about the man in the gray hoodie—how'd he'd drifted away from the crowd of onlookers the minute she'd gone to retrieve the camcorder, how she'd followed him into Atkins Lane.

“He stopped running too soon,” she said. “I would have heard his footsteps if he'd kept running all the way out to Bradford. So I knew he'd ducked into one of the yards. The first one on the left was real dark—it's got a tall hedge on the Commercial Street side, and the streetlight's funky, so the whole thing was in deep shadow. I figured he might be back there, but I couldn't see anything, and I didn't have a flashlight. Couldn't call for backup, either.”

“Doesn't sound like you screwed up,” Coffin said. “You were dealing with some limiting factors.”

“Yeah, like my brain. You know how when you're trying real hard to see in the dark, the rest of your brain kind of shuts down?”

“Yeah, when I get lost in the car I have to turn the radio off. Can't navigate and listen to music at the same time.”

Lola nodded. “Same thing. So I'm trying like a son of a bitch to see what's behind this little saltbox house, and I forget about the shed. I'm just not thinking about it, because I can't see behind the house. And that's where he was hiding—behind the shed.”

“Okay. So?”

“He's quick. And stealthy.” Lola touched the spot behind her ear.

“What'd he hit you with?”

“A brick, I think.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. There was a pretty good lump. But I iced it down last night and it's not too bad now.”

“You're going to see a doctor, right?”

“I'm fine. The EMT said it was no big deal. Didn't even need stitches.”

“You're going to see a doctor, right?”

“Yes, dear. Whatever you say.”

“Ha,” Coffin said. “If only.”

*   *   *

Monica Gault's office was crowded. Gault sat behind her desk, while Mancini and Miles Kendrick, the ATF agent, sat in the two leather guest chairs. Other chairs had been brought in: orange plastic with slim metal legs, like the one in Coffin's old office in the basement. Coffin sat in one of these; so did Pete Wells. Lola and the state police detective in the brown suit, Pilchard, stood against the wall. Outside, in the hallway, workmen were banging on pipes with hammers. It was hard to hear what anyone was saying.

“Fun town you've got here,” Kendrick said, voice raised. He was around Coffin's height, but in better shape. His hair was cropped close, silver gray. He had a narrow face with pale eyes, a large chin, and a long upper lip.

“You should catch the drag show sometime,” Coffin said. “Talk about fun.”

“I'm sorry, what?” Kendrick said, cupping a hand at his ear.

“Coffin's a little defensive,” Mancini said. “You can't blame him, really.”

“
What?
” Gault said, leaning forward. “I didn't hear any of that, I'm afraid.”

Kendrick consulted his notebook. “So…” he began, pausing for an especially energetic burst of hammering from the hallway. “You've had multiple fires, including three recent structure fires, correct?”

“Correct,” said Mancini.

“All of the recent fires appear to be arson, correct?”

“That's my judgment, yes,” said Pete Wells, practically shouting over the din. “They appear to be the work of an amateur thrill arsonist.”

Gault put her hands over her ears. “Good Christ—I can't stand it!” she said. “Gentlemen, I propose we find a quieter space in which to discuss this.”

“My old office in the basement is probably okay,” Coffin said.

“I'd rather hold a meeting in purgatory.” Gault stood. “Come on, gents, I know just the place.”

Gault led them down the back stairs to the main floor, where there was no pounding. They followed her into the police department's squad room: Gault shut the door behind them with a sigh.

“Oh, hell's bells,” she said. Heavy metal music from the front stairway vibrated the squadroom's south wall. For a moment Gault seemed nonplussed.

“How about the men's room?” Mancini said. “It's on the other side of the hallway—should be quieter.”

“Not on your life,” Gault said. “The ladies', on the other hand, will do just fine.” She strode from the squadroom, crossed the hall, opened the door of the ladies' room, and disappeared inside.

Coffin looked at Kendrick. Kendrick looked at Mancini. The three of them looked at Wells. They all shrugged.

“Works for me,” Coffin said.

“Good times,” Wells said.

“I love this town,” Kendrick said.

“What a freak show,” Mancini said. And then they all went inside.

*   *   *

The ladies' room had last been refurbished in the 1950s. It was done in kelp green tile, floor to ceiling, with a long, pale green counter and two pink porcelain sinks. There were two stalls, and a large metal sanitary napkin dispenser. It was blissfully quiet, but crowded: Gault propped her backside against the counter; Coffin, Mancini, Wells, and Kendrick stood with their backs against the wall; Lola leaned against the door; and Pilchard sat in one of the stalls, the only space left.

“All right, gentlemen,” Gault said, her voice echoing slightly in the tiled room. “Where were we?”

“God, the acoustics in here are fabulous,” Kendrick said, smiling broadly. “All that natural reverb! Couldn't you just burst into song?”

Mancini glowered. “Only in Provincetown,” he said.

“This is a first for me, I can tell you that,” Pilchard said, from his seat in the stall.

“Is it that different from the men's room?” Gault said, eyebrows raised.

“It's not
that
different,” Lola said. For a moment everyone looked at her.

“Pinch me,” Kendrick said finally. “I must be dreaming.”

“Could we get back to business?” Mancini said, looking at his Rolex. “There's a decapitated nursing home director that also requires my attention.”

Kendrick sighed. “Killjoy,” he said. “Fine. How about DNA? Any left at the sites?”

“Not that we've found,” Wells said.

“Thank God,” Gault said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Ah, well,” Kendrick said. “And what about commercial motives?”

“Only one of the fires has a potential commercial motive,” Coffin said. “We're working on that.”

Mancini made finger quotes. “Working on that,” he said. “Right.”

“The fires so far appear to have been set by the same individual,” Coffin said. “Could be the guy that Sergeant Winters had an encounter with last night. It's possible he may have set multiple fires to cover up a commercial arson, but it seems unlikely at this point.”

Kendrick gazed at Coffin, pale eyes hooded.
Sizing me up,
Coffin thought.

“How so?” Kendrick said.

Wells tilted his head a bit. “The fires appear to be amateur work, like I said. Very simple execution. No timing devices. What seems like randomly selected targets. The fact that the firebug may be showing up in the crowds of onlookers also points to a thrill arsonist. A smart professional wouldn't stick around.”

“A
smart
professional wouldn't,” Mancini said. “Nobody's suggesting this guy is particularly smart.”

Coffin cleared his throat, ran a finger around the inside of his collar. He was in uniform, and his tie was strangling him. “He's smarter than we are, so far.”

“You've heard of John Orr?” Kendrick said.

“Of course,” Wells said.

“Help me out,” Mancini said.

“John Orr was a fire captain and arson investigator in Glendale, California,” Kendrick said. “He was convicted of arson after setting something like two thousand fires through the 1980s and early '90s in the Los Angeles area, including a fire in a busy hardware store that killed four people. Right before we arrested him he was spotted in the crowd watching a warehouse fire he'd started.”