Fire Season (22 page)

“That's Kendrick,” Coffin said, waving. “He's the ATF guy.”

“Why don't you ask him to join us?” Jamie said.

“You sure?”

“Why not?” Jamie said. “You like him, right?”

“I'm not sure yet. I liked that he made fun of Mancini, anyway.” Coffin waved Kendrick over. “Join us,” he said.

“Nice of you,” Kendrick said. He offered Jamie his hand. “I'm Miles,” he said.

Jamie shook it. “Jamie,” she said. “Please, sit down.”

“I hope you don't think me too forward,” Kendrick said, spreading his napkin across his lap, “but are you—”

“Pregnant?” Jamie smiled. “Yes. Lucky for you.”

“I deduced it. You don't seem the sort of woman to drink a Shirley Temple, otherwise.”

“Good save,” Coffin said.

Kendrick smiled. “There were other clues,” he said. “Anyway, congratulations. To both of you.”

“I've been meaning to get in touch with you,” Coffin said. “Busy day, it turns out.”

“I knew where to find you if I needed you. I spent the afternoon poking around in your fire scenes. The church was very impressive.”

“In terms of scale?” Jamie said.

“There's that, yes,” Kendrick said, “but I was thinking more in terms of the sheer recklessness and stupidity of the arsonist.”

“Let me guess,” Coffin said. “Lots of accelerant.”

Kendrick nodded. “Gallons of it, looked like. A good bit poured far from any exit, with no apparent timing device—the fire appears to have started in the
back
of the church. Hard to say for sure; lots of debris to wade through, but that's where the heaviest damage is. If that's the case, then your guy is either a complete moron or he has a serious death wish. If not both.”

“They're not exactly mutually exclusive,” Coffin said.

“You know the redneck's last words?” Kendrick said, to Jamie.

She grinned. “Hey y'all! Watch this!”

“You sound like home,” Kendrick said.

“South Carolina,” Jamie said. “I grew up in Charleston. I can still do the accent when I want to.”

“Heaven,” Kendrick said. “I grew up in Knoxville. I miss it every day.”

Mel brought Kendrick's drink—a Bombay Gibson. Kendrick sipped it, closed his eyes, smiled. “God is good,” he said. He looked at Jamie. “Gasoline is the accelerant of choice for your basic large-structure arson. It's not the only choice—you can start a fire with anything that burns, obviously—but gas is cheap and easily obtainable, and totally unincriminating. Who doesn't buy gas? If you know what you're doing it doesn't take much. Pour it on something combustible, use a simple delayed ignition device and you're good to go. A burning couch can put a house in flashover within minutes.”

Jamie frowned. “Flashover.”

“It's basically the point at which everything combustible in a room ignites at once,” Kendrick said. “The heat and smoke from the burning couch or TV set or recliner, say, gathers below the ceiling, then begins to spread down the walls. Every surface in the room becomes superheated; then the furniture—carpet, appliances, you name it—releases flammable gases as they begin to thermally decompose. When it all gets hot enough—”

“Boom,” Coffin said.

Kendrick smiled. “That's the technical term for it, yes.” He fished the onion out of his cocktail and ate it.

“Flashover's the killer,” Coffin said. “Once the couch or mattress or whatever really starts cooking, you've got very little time to get out.”

“It depends on the size and contents of the room,” Kendrick said. “But yes. It can happen very quickly.”

Jamie stirred her Shirley Temple with the little pink umbrella. “So if you're the arsonist, and you're going heavy on the gas—”

“Way heavy.”

“Then you're putting yourself at risk. So, not smart.”

“Exactly. If the fumes become concentrated enough, any stray spark—from a heater, a lamp, a string of Christmas lights, you name it—could ignite them while you're still in the building. And, of course, that's unpredictable. The environment might be fine, and it might not.” Kendrick leveled an index finger at Jamie. “So not smart at all, our boy. I doubt he knows how much danger he's putting himself in.”

“He's doing a good job,” Coffin said.

“Sorry?” Kendrick said.

“He really wants them to burn, and he's making damn sure they do. He's not thinking about the risk to himself—he wants to do a good job.”

“I like it,” Kendrick said. “On the one hand he's a careless amateur with a very limited understanding of the forces he's dealing with. On the other hand he's committed to completing the task, risks be damned. I don't suppose those attributes are mutually exclusive, either.”

“No,” said Coffin. “I don't suppose they are.”

Coffin was glad when Mel brought the appetizer: a large tuna roll dipped in tempura batter and deep-fried, then cut into slices and arranged artfully on a white plate, along with a soy dipping sauce and a small, green ball of wasabi. Coffin pushed the plate into the middle of the table, between himself and Jamie. Jamie offered Kendrick a piece.

“It looks delicious,” Kendrick said, “but I wouldn't want to deprive you, since you're eating for two. And your husband has the lean and hungry look of a man who hasn't eaten since lunch.”

“We're not married,” Jamie said, with her mouth full.

“No?” Kendrick said. He raised his glass in a mock toast. “Mazel tov,” he said.

“I keep asking, she keeps turning me down,” Coffin said.

“Not true,” Jamie said, helping herself to another piece of sushi. “It's been months since you asked me. Months!”

“Will you marry me?” Coffin said.

“Nope,” Jamie said. “Sorry.”

“See what she does to me?” Coffin said.

Jamie pointed her fork at Coffin's nose. “More than half of all straight marriages end in divorce, Frank. More than half! Straight people suck at marriage. And we think
gay
people are going to wreck it?”

“I'm of the more-the-merrier school myself,” Kendrick said, “but then, my father was a divorce lawyer.”

Coffin grinned, sipped his wine.

“So,” Kendrick said, after a brief silence. “What would someone like me do around here for fun?”

“That depends,” Jamie said, “on what someone like you enjoys doing.”

“Oh, you know—drinking. Men.”

“Try the A-House,” Coffin said, chewing. “It's Thursday, right?”

Kendrick nodded.

“Oh!” Jamie said. “Tighty whitey night!”

“You've said the magic words,” Kendrick said. “God, I love this town.”

*   *   *

When the two big men in leather coats climbed out of their car, Filson felt his heart stutter in his chest. He was certain they were cops: they had the square jaws, the cropped hair—and cops were the last thing he wished to encounter at that moment, especially big, tough-looking, smiling cops from out of town. He fingered the leather strap of his gym bag and kept walking.

“'Scuse me,” the taller one said, blocking his path, “but do you work in there?” He indicated Town Hall's mint green bulk with a tilt of his head.

“Yes,” Filson said. “I do.”

“What's the matter?” the shorter one said. “You seem a little nervous. You okay?”

“I'm fine,” Filson said, knees practically quaking. (
Ridiculous,
he thought.
You've done nothing wrong.
) “Now if you'll excuse me, there's a meeting at which my presence is required.”

“What do you do in there, exactly?” asked the shorter one.

“I am the town clerk,” Filson said, drawing himself up to his full 5'7". “My name is Filson. To whom am I speaking?”

The taller cop pulled a badge out of his pocket. “State police,” he said. “That's whom.”

“So you know Detective Coffin,” the shorter cop said.

“Yes—I've known acting Chief Coffin since I began as town clerk.”

The taller cop smacked himself lightly on the forehead. “Of course!” he said. “I got it!” He gave the shorter cop a slight shove. “Who does he remind you of, Hump?”

Hump scratched his head.

“I got nothin,'” he said.

“Oh come
on
—it's Mr. Peabody! He's a dead ringer!”

“Mr. who?”

“Mr. Peabody,” Filson said. “He's a cartoon. A talking dog—from the old
Rocky and Bullwinkle
show. I always thought Wally Cox did the voice, but he didn't.”

Hump shrugged. “Before my time, Bitters,” he said.

“It's uncanny,” Bitters said. “The bow tie, the little round glasses. He even talks like him. I'll show you on YouTube. You won't believe it.”

Hump cleared his throat. “Did you notice if Coffin was carrying anything when he came in tonight? Any kind of briefcase or bag? Maybe like the bag you've got?”

Filson blanched. He hoped it didn't show. “No,” he said, trying to keep his voice from quavering. “No, I didn't see anything like that.”

“So you wouldn't know what was in it, or where he might have put it,” Bitters said.

“No. Sorry.”

“We're worried, you see,” Hump said. “Detective Coffin may have committed a crime.”

Bitters pooched his lips out, nodded. “He may have removed evidence from a crime scene without proper authorization,” he said. “A felony.”

“That is a nice bag you've got there,” Hump said. “You mind telling me what's in it?”

“That would be none of your business, I'm sure,” Filson said, voice rising a half octave.

“Would you mind getting in the car, Mr. Filson?” Bitters said, a hand on Filson's elbow. “I think we need to have a little talk.”

*   *   *

“Well,” Rudy said. “This is awkward.” He reached into the glove box, pulled out his Glock 21, a chunky .45 caliber semiautomatic, and put it in his coat pocket.

“For real,” Loverboy said, opening his door and emerging gradually into the slow rain. “These situations just make me cringe.”

*   *   *

“Jesus Christ,” Hump said, as Loverboy extruded himself from the Town Car. “What the fuck is
that?
”

“That's one big-ass Negro,” Bitters said.

“African American,” Hump said.

“Melanesian,” Rudy said.

“That's our clerk,” Loverboy said. He spoke quietly, just above a whisper. In the still night his voice sounded like the rumbling of distant thunder.

“
Your
clerk?” Hump said. “Who the fuck are
you?
”

“You don't want to piss him off,” Rudy said.

“State police,” Bitters said, reaching for his gun. “Back off, Sasquatch.”

Loverboy grabbed Bitters by the crotch with one hand, caught a fistful of his shirtfront with the other and snatched him off the ground, pressing him effortlessly overhead like a power lifter warming up with an unloaded barbell.

“Ack!” Bitters said, dropping his pistol, badge and keys falling out of his coat pocket. “My balls!”

“Have a shrubbery,” Loverboy said, throwing Bitters six or seven feet into a clump of bushes.

“Oops—too late,” Rudy said, leveling his Glock at Hump's face. “Are these men bothering you, Filson?”

“Are you in
sane?
” Filson said. “They're state police!”

“You're in pretty big trouble, then,” Rudy said, reaching under Hump's jacket and lifting his service weapon out of its belt clip.

“Me?” Filson squawked. “
I'm
in trouble?”

Rudy pocketed Hump's pistol. “Well, you are
now
,” he said, pushing Filson toward the Town Car, Glock still pointed at Hump's nose.

“Hey,” Hump said. “I remember you!”

“You do?” Rudy scratched his temple meditatively with the Glock's barrel. “Sorry, I meet a lot of people.”

“It was last spring—you robbed us. Fuckin' A—I knew you looked familiar. Hey, Bitters!”

Bitters groaned from the bushes.

“It's that guy that robbed us. Remember? We tossed that girl cop's apartment, and when we came out some guy pointed a big-ass gun at your balls?”

Loverboy had popped the hood of Hump's red Mustang and was rummaging around in the engine compartment. “Uh-oh,” he said, pulling out a length of hose and tossing it aside. “That can't be good. You gents should have this thing serviced.” The Mustang strained forward a few inches as Loverboy tugged at something under the hood. There was a loud snap, and the Mustang settled back on its springs. “Wow,” Loverboy said, throwing a thick length of rubber belt over his shoulder. “What a mess you've got under here.”

Bitters crawled out of the shrubbery on all fours. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “There's a fire hydrant in those bushes.”

“You shouldn't have used the ‘s' word,” Rudy said. “He hates that.”

“Here's your problem,” Loverboy said, emerging from the Mustang's innards with a fistful of multicolored wiring. “Someone left these in your car.” He held the long tangle of wires aloft like a snake handler brandishing a copperhead in a backwoods church, then turned and threw it in a high, home-run arc onto the roof of the Center for Coastal Studies. “You're lucky I was here to fix that.”

Rudy pushed Filson into the Town Car's backseat and slammed the door. “This was fun,” he said, waving the Glock at Hump. “Let's do it again sometime.”

“We'll look you up, for sure,” Hump said.

Bitters was curled up in a ball on the narrow sidewalk. “Motherfucker,” he said. “I think I ruptured my spleen.”

“That must be painful,” Loverboy said, squeezing himself into the idling Town Car, dropping the shifter into reverse. “You should see a physician.”