Fire Season (23 page)

*   *   *

After the entrées had arrived and been consumed (Coffin's risotto had been perfect—big chunks of steamed lobster, perfectly grilled scallops, and spinach over a bed of rich, seafood stock–infused rice), Dawn Vermilion finished her set and sat down at their table in a gust of vodka fumes, and with a considerable rustling of sequins.

“I was hoping you'd join us,” Coffin said.

“Always happy to see an old friend,” Dawn said. “Especially when he's in the mood to dish some dirt.”

“If you can't say anything nice about anyone,” Coffin said, “Dawn will come sit by you.”

Coffin introduced Kendrick. Dawn and Jamie exchanged air-kisses.

“My,” Dawn said, “what enormous knockers you have.”

“Aren't they something?” Jamie said. “The boob fairy giveth, baby.”

“Did you say ‘baby,' baby? I knew it!” Dawn turned to Coffin. “All right, Detective. Give! What's the latest? Who's this loon that's setting all the fires? Who put the nursing home guy's head in the lobster tank? What the hell is going
on
in this town?”

“The latest is that there's a special agent from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives in town,” Coffin said.

“Well, that's something,” Dawn said, leaning a bit closer. “Is he undercover?”

Kendrick smiled, waved. “Not unless posing as a federal agent counts,” he said. “Strictly advisory.”

Dawn looked Kendrick up and down. “Well, at least he's handsome,” she said. “What is it with all the good-looking cops these days?” She put a gloved hand on Kendrick's arm. “Not that I'm complaining.”

She turned to Coffin. “What else?” Dawn said. “I mean, that can't be all you've got.” She turned back to Kendrick. “No offense, darling.”

“None taken.”

Coffin shrugged. “It looks as though Branstool's head was cut off with a radial arm saw.”

Dawn inhaled sharply. “Well,” she said, fanning herself with a gloved hand. “
Now
we're talking.” She put an arm around Coffin's shoulders and looked at Jamie. “This man of yours,” she said. “He understands what a girl
wants.
”

Jamie patted her belly. “You can say that again.”

“Your turn,” Coffin said.

Dawn shrugged elaborately. “Well,” she said, “it's not much, but here's what I've got.” She peered around the room, checking for eavesdroppers. “The nursing home director, what's his name?”

“Branstool.”

“Right, Branstool. Well, he used to be married, you probably knew that.”

Coffin shook his head. “Nope. News to me.”

Dawn smiled. Up close, Coffin could see a faint five o'clock shadow poking through her pancake makeup. “Well, that's not even the good part. His wife was a big spender—she's the one who wanted the trophy house overlooking the bay. Cars, clothes, you name it—especially jewelry. She maxed out a dozen credit cards, took out a big home equity loan, and ran up a tab like Newt freaking Gingrich at Tiffany's. This was at the height of the real estate market, when everybody thought they were getting rich.” She looked at Kendrick. “You had to be here, honey—it was
nuts.
”

“So what happened to the wife?” Jamie said.

“Well, that's the thing,” Dawn said, lowering her voice to a raspy stage-whisper. “Nobody knows, do they? She's just
gone
. Here one day,
whoosh
—vanished the next. I hate to deal in
rumor
, but the word is that Branstool knew
exactly
where she ended up.” Dawn raised her painted eyebrows. “The beech forest, most likely. Or out in the dunes, pushing up poison ivy.”

*   *   *

“Jesus,” Rudy said, turning around to face the little clerk from the Lincoln's front seat. “Have you lost your mind? What the fuck is up with the gym bag?”

“It's just my workout clothes,” Filson said, unzipping the bag and showing Rudy the contents. “It's step aerobics night at Muscle Beach.”

“Step aerobics,” Loverboy said, “great workout.”

“You've got the combination?” Rudy said.

“Of course,” Filson said. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a folded slip of paper, and handed it to Rudy.

Rudy unfolded the paper. “For Christ's sake,” he said, “it's the same as it was six years ago.”

Filson shrugged. “Why would we change it?”

“Good man. You're in for ten percent. You trust me?”

“I trust your associate,” Filson said.

Rudy pursed his lips, nodded. “Good call,” he said.

*   *   *

Later, at home, Coffin and Jamie lay on a mattress in their otherwise empty bedroom, the only light flickering from a big pillar candle on the floor. “I kind of miss that pissed off stuffed owl, staring at me from the dresser,” Coffin said, cool glass of scotch resting on his belly.

Jamie opened one eye and patted his chest. “Poor Frank. I can call the auction house if you really want him back.”

“Nah,” Coffin said. “That thing would definitely scare the baby. We should get rid of that moth-eaten goat, too. Seriously.”

“The goat stays,” Jamie said, yawning. “It's bad luck to sell your father.”

“I wonder what I could get for my mother.”

“Uh-oh. What now?”

Coffin shook his head. “Who knows? It's some new disaster every week now. Next she'll be running a geriatric prostitution ring, or sneaking Ex-Lax into Mrs. Pickerel's scrambled eggs. I'm going to see her tomorrow. The acting director wants me to drop by.”

Jamie propped herself on an elbow. “Sorry,” she said, “it's funny but it's also really not funny.”

“And then there's Tony.”

“I can't believe he just walked out of the psych ward.”

“He may be losing his mind, but he's not as dumb as he looks.” Coffin sipped his scotch. “Not quite.”

Jamie kissed Coffin's neck, slid a hand down his belly. “Frank,” she said.

He caught her wrist, gently, and set his drink on the floor.

“No?” she said.

“You,” he said, rolling over, lifting her nightgown—a short, hot pink item with black lace at the hem. She wore nothing underneath.

“No, Frank—I feel bad.”

Coffin stopped. “You do?”

“Not
bad
bad, just bad for you.” She stroked his hair. “I haven't been that much fun lately, I don't think.”

Coffin kissed her thigh, her hip, the slight crease where they met. “You've been fine,” he said. “I'm fine.”

“Really? Because fine isn't exactly fantastic. Fine isn't great. Fine is just
okay
.”

Jamie's pubic hair was dark and lush below the curve of her belly. Coffin kissed around its border, nuzzled into the soft nest of it, breathed its salt musk. He found her clitoris with his tongue, felt her thighs open, her hips lift.

“Frank,” she sighed. “What about
you?
”

“I'm fine,” Coffin said.

“Not me,” Jamie said, groaning a little.

“No?”

“I'm great,” Jamie said. “I'm
fantastic.
”

“Great. Fantastic.”

“Frank?”

“Yeah.”

“That thing you're doing with your finger?”

“Yeah.”

“Do it with
two
fingers.”

*   *   *

Later, Jamie pulled the covers over her breasts and looked at Coffin with hooded eyes. “Frank?”

“Yes.”

“That was sublime.”

“Good. I was going for sublime.”

“But now I'm hungry.”

“Ah.”

“Starving.”

“What can I get you?”

“A malted.”

“A malted?”

“Chocolate. From Arnold's.”

“Arnold's? In Eastham? What time is it?”

Coffin checked his watch—almost nine thirty. Arnold's closed at ten. He could make it if he hurried. He swung his legs out of bed, found his pants.

“God,” Jamie said. “You're so
nice
.”

Coffin yawned. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

 

Chapter 17

Thick cloud cover; no stars, no moon. A wet fog crouched across Route 6. Coffin cranked the Fiesta's wipers and defogger, but they failed to keep the windshield clear. The Fiesta chugged tentatively past the dunes and Pilgrim Lake, struggled up the hill at Mayflower Heights, past Branstool's house, Truro center, and Head of the Meadow beach, past the exit for the Highland Light and the sandy little nine-hole golf course that more or less surrounded the old lighthouse, which had been moved away from the crumbling Cliffside a few years before—a delicate operation that had taken months.

Coffin had driven the stretch of highway between Provincetown and Eastham two or three times a week for most of his adult life, and he always felt the same tug of nostalgia as he passed North Truro, the same surge of elation on the way back, cresting the ridge at Pilgrim Heights and looking northeast at the long curve of Provincetown, the sweep of tawny beach, the waterfront with its crowd of white buildings, the Pilgrim Monument looming over everything, casting its long shadow.

Like a sentry
, Coffin thought.
Like a sundial. Like one of those big stone heads on Easter Island.

The Fiesta backfired weakly and the front end shuddered as Coffin steered down the long hill past Gull Pond Road and Truro's Fire and Rescue headquarters. Coffin was concentrating on keeping the Fiesta on the road—the steering wheel felt loose in his hands, and when he pumped the brakes they barely responded, the pedal going almost all the way to the floorboards—when he passed a hitchhiker going the other way. Coffin didn't see the man's face, but from the back he appeared to be heavyset and was dressed in hospital scrubs.

“Tony,” Coffin said, the Fiesta's front end shimmying wildly as it rattled down the hill in near free-fall. “Fucking Tony!” He pumped the brakes again, downshifted after a struggle with the clutch, brought the Fiesta to a gradual stop at the bottom of the hill, and turned around in the parking lot of a little roadside liquor store. It seemed very dark, and Coffin wondered if his one functioning headlight had gone out. He pulled onto Route 6, heading the other way—back toward Provincetown. Tony seemed oblivious—he was sure now that it was Tony—standing in the same spot, thumb out, smoking a cigarette.

“Yo, Frankie,” Tony said, when Coffin had pulled up beside him and reached across to roll the passenger window down.

“Tony,” Coffin said, “for Christ's sake, what are you doing out here?”

“I gotta get to Highland Light.” Tony climbed into the Fiesta, which sagged noticeably under his weight. “Jesus, what a piece of shit this car is.”

“What's at Highland Light?” Coffin said.

“You'll see.”

Coffin shifted the Fiesta into first, stepped on the gas. The little car picked up speed so listlessly on the hill that Coffin felt the urge to pedal. “I've got to go to Arnold's,” he said. “I'm turning around.”

“Arnold's? For what?”

“Jamie wants a malted.”

“Don't turn around, Frankie,” Tony said, looking intently at Coffin's face. The Fiesta's interior was very dark, but Tony's eyes seemed to gleam for a moment.
Jesus,
Coffin thought.
He really is crazy.

“You have to tell me why you need to get to Highland Light, Tony,” Coffin said. “Tell me why, and I'll take you.”

Tony shook his head. “I can't.”

Coffin swung the Fiesta hard left, into the Truro Fire and Rescue lot. The tires squealed dramatically and the brakes seemed even softer than before—he had to pump them again to keep from running into the bright yellow fire truck that was parked outside one of the bays. The station looked deserted, though he knew it wasn't—the dispatcher would be sitting at her desk, playing computer solitaire, listening to the scanner.

“Can't, or don't want to?” Coffin said, both feet on the brake, engine idling, out of synch—missing on at least one cylinder.

“It'll sound too crazy,” Tony said.

“Everything you've said to me in the last week has sounded crazy. Just tell me.”

“I'm supposed to meet them there.”

“Them.”

“Yep. Them.” Tony rubbed his hands over his big, rubbery face. He needed a shave. His hair was wild—he looked like he'd stuck his head in a blender. “Frankie, I swear—this is the last thing. They promised. Just drive me out to the lighthouse and then we're done. Tell Jamie you found me and had to take me home. She'll understand.”

“She's pregnant, Tony. She wants a malted. If I come home without one, she will not understand.”

“Frankie, come on. Seriously. You'll see—it'll blow your mind. There's more to heaven and earth than you ever dreamed of, Horace.”

“Horatio,” Coffin said.

“Who?”

“All right, I'll take you,” Coffin said, pulling back onto the highway. “But if they're not out there we're leaving, and I'm taking you home. If Doris has to call me again after I drop you off, I will personally drive out to your place, cuff you, and drive you back to the psych ward in Hyannis, where they will have every reason to keep you sedated and in restraints. Got it?”

“Got it. You're aces, Frankie,” Tony said, punching Coffin in the shoulder.

“Jesus fuck, Tony,” Coffin said, swerving the Fiesta half onto the narrow shoulder, a hot stinger shooting down his forearm. “Don't
do
that.”

*   *   *

Town Hall was mostly dark—only the police department was lit up; three windows on the west side of the main floor. It had stopped raining, but the clouds were thick. Only a slight silvering at the edges showed the moon's position behind them—high in the sky over the harbor.