Night Kill (12 page)

Bessie Smith.

Damn.

The smoke was probably enough to kill the iguana trapped inside. Ten minutes to get to the store, who knew how long for the fire department to arrive…

A car engine started up down the street out of sight and faded into the distance. I listened and wondered, tamping down a flicker of fear.

I turned back to the house, stopped now by the smoke drifting out the front door. I crept up and peeked inside again. It wasn’t that big a fire, not yet. Still, I didn’t want to go in there. My house had become an alien place filled with dangers. Why couldn’t Rick be here and save his own iguana? But Rick wasn’t here, not even Rick’s cell phone, and Bessie Smith wasn’t going to make it if I didn’t act.

I ordered the dogs to stay on the lawn, grabbed a deep breath, and charged. It took broken field running, football style, to dodge around the obstacles. I slipped on the phone book and nearly went down.

The lid to the iguana’s cage was ajar. I checked; she was still in there and still moving. I secured the lid, yanked the cords on her special light and heater, and heaved the big acrylic and wood box up off the little table by the kitchen door. Staggering outside, I put it down on the lawn and stood panting. I lifted the lid off and used it to fan the inside, trying to flush out the smoke. Bessie could move fast, so ventilation had to be balanced against the risk of escape. Winnie and Range shoved their noses at her, trying to satisfy their long-standing curiosity about iguanas. I shooed them away and resecured the lid. It was too cold outside for her, but there wasn’t much I could do about that.

I straightened up from Bessie Smith’s habitat and turned back to the house. My quick close-up of the fire had indicated it was still in one corner, but that wouldn’t be true for long. Flames were clawing for a toehold on the walls. Driving to the store would give it more time without interference. I wavered—do the sensible thing, risking all my stuff, or deal with it? It took a second to decide again that I wouldn’t be ruled by fear. I’d faced situations far more dangerous than a little bonfire.

Again I inhaled largely and jogged into the house, through the living room to the kitchen. All the drawers and cupboards were open, everything dumped on the floor. The smoke alarm was disemboweled, its battery ripped out. I found the phone and, blessedly, a dial tone. I croaked out my address and the nature of the disaster to the 911 operator. He promised a swift response but asked me to stay on the line. That was clearly impractical, so I hung up and ran back outside. Next time I’d pick a house with neighbors who were home in the evening.

I waited on the damp lawn, gnawing my lip and picturing my worldly goods charring. Why me? Who had done this and for what possible reason? And, come to think of it, why was I assuming that the perpetrator was gone? The rain continued in gentle, pervasive droplets. I tried to get the dogs to patrol the perimeter and let me know if an arsonist was still on the premises, but they were fixated by the fire and intended to stay close to me. I was starting to get creeped out.

No siren. The front door was still open. I paced around, peering in now and then. The fire wasn’t growing all that fast, not really.

I couldn’t stand the inaction. The roof wasn’t going to collapse—the fire was nowhere near the ceiling. I’d been in and out twice with no harm. I had a right to protect my stuff, didn’t I? I looked briefly for the garden hose I was pretty sure didn’t exist. Rick and I hadn’t been much into yard maintenance.

“Cover me,” I told the dogs. “I’m going in.” I took a deep breath.

In the kitchen, I opened the back door for a quick escape route and set a pot under the faucet. That was too slow, so I tried the refrigerator. Half a gallon of milk splashed on the liveliest corner slowed down the fire’s assault while the pot filled. I raced back and forth from the kitchen to the living room, filling and dumping, sticking my head out the front or back door for fresh air. As the fire truck wailed and rumbled into the driveway, I stamped out the last flickers, leaving an unappealing slurry of ash, wet newspaper, and dairy on the floor and my shoes. Tendrils of smoke curled lazily in the corners of the room, but the supply was cut off.

Firefighters emerged from the truck. Pumper? Hook and ladder? Whatever, it was huge and red and carried hoses and ladders. As the crew hooked up to the hydrant half a block down the street, I leashed the dogs, who were too intimidated by helmets, boots, and flashing lights to even consider defending the property or me. The fire professionals toured the house cautiously, stirred the embers, hosed here and there, and emerged to share their deep disapproval of my self-help efforts. The lead firefighter’s lecture on death by smoke inhalation, ordinary common sense, et cetera, halted only when the police arrived. He gave up on me, briefed the two police officers, and ordered his crew to pack up. They drained and coiled their hoses as carefully as zookeepers. The lead firefighter stood aside, now talking steadily into a cell phone.

The reprieve from humiliation allowed me to remember my priorities. “Help me get this inside,” I said to the police persons, both male, waving my hand at Bessie Smith’s habitat on the lawn.

“What is it?” one of them asked.

“A green iguana. She won’t hurt you.” Not unless she got the chance. The rear twelve inches of Bessie was a long thin tail, green and unarmed. The front twelve inches was bulky and ended in a large mouth with many teeth. The front end also contained a tiny brain with the personality of a meth addict. Why had I risked my life for an animal that hated me?

“In a minute.” The police had other priorities. They searched all the rooms, then outside the house and the garage with big flashlights while I waited on the lawn. The dogs were still dismayed, but tried for normalcy by barking and growling at the cops. Bessie Smith kept her mouth shut. I was about to give up and risk all my disks and vertebrae to get the iguana inside when the cops wandered back. “Can you give me a hand?” I asked. “It’s really heavy and she’s too cold out here.”

It wasn’t in their job description, but the shorter officer finally helped me carry Bessie Smith’s home back onto the little table while the other one reluctantly held the dog leashes. I plugged in her life support system. She looked the same as always—no weepy eyes or gasping mouth.

“You know, you’re not supposed to run into burning buildings,” the officer with the dogs said, handing me the leashes. “Especially for pets.”

“Yeah, so they told me. Fire truck took forever.” Pet? Bessie Smith was more like a nasty relative or maybe an abscess, something unpleasant you couldn’t get rid of.

We confirmed that the back door had been kicked in. “Looks like robbery and arson,” the shorter one said.

“What do you think they were looking for?” the tall one asked me. Officer Frank Chester, per his badge.

“I don’t know. I don’t have any money or expensive jewelry. Is the DVD player gone?” It wasn’t. I tied the dogs to the bedroom doorknob, freeing my hands to sort through the wreckage.

The shorter one, Officer Gonsalves—a really good-looking guy, now that I’d calmed down—followed me into my bedroom. It was in the same condition as the living room and kitchen, but with less smoke damage and without the water. It was hard to tell whether anything was missing. He double-checked window latches and nudged stuff on the floor with his foot. My scattered cotton underwear embarrassed me, but it wasn’t clear what style of undies would be appropriate for the situation. An intruder pawing through my clothes…I pushed the dismaying sense of violation aside, aware that it would be back.

“Frank,” Gonsalves said, “you think this is tied in with those break-ins closer to downtown? Could be our guy was loaded on something when he did this one. Flipped out when he didn’t find anything good and fired the place?”

Frank shook his head. “He knows what he’s doing. Even ripped. This one is a bozo.”

“Bozo?” I asked.

“Amateur. Look at the dresser drawers. He started at the top and messed the stuff up too much to close it all the way. He had to haul the drawer out and dump it on the floor to get to the one below. A professional starts with the bottom drawer and leaves them hanging open.”

“Do you think he’ll be back?” I asked.

They pondered and shrugged. “Depends on why he was here in the first place. You have any idea at all?”

Nope.

They doubted fingerprinting would yield anything useful. Assuring me they would check on the house a couple times that night and warning me not to touch anything until the arson specialist took a look, they climbed into their cruiser and departed. The fire truck followed them out, leaving me alone.

Don’t touch anything? I sighed and called my parents. It was 1:00 AM and they were asleep, but once I’d said the word “fire” a few times, they kicked into emergency mode. I hung up and set the kettle on the stove for tea and coffee. For a few minutes, the house was silent. Was this fire my next lesson in how fast life can change? A stranger pawing through my things…Since I didn’t know what he was looking for, I had no idea whether he would return. None of it made any sense, and I was sure the house would never feel safe again. I surveyed the chaos, unable to imagine what the next step was.

The arson specialist showed up before my folks. The dogs, who were loose and nosing around the mess, erupted into a frenzy of intimidation when she knocked. I snapped on leashes again and asked to see her ID, which I couldn’t read in the dim porch light with the dogs seething and yelling around my knees. For some reason, she hesitated to step in. I considered shoving the dogs out the back door, but the latch was ruined and the door wouldn’t stay closed. I tied them up to the doorknob instead.

A small, frowning woman maybe forty years old, she was appropriately attired in a beige trench coat. “You really should not have gone into the house once you knew it was on fire,” she said. Everybody knew that but me…She pulled up the carpet under the most charred corner and had a cool little machine to check for gasoline sloshed about. The machine seemed to say there wasn’t any. She wanted to know the color of the smoke and whether I’d seen anyone flee the scene.

She was asking about renter insurance (none), suspects I could think of (none), and relationships gone bad (yes, but irrelevant) when my parents arrived. I made the introductions as we stood around the living room in puddles. Mom immediately walked to the kitchen and emerged with four cups of tea, her reflex strategy in any crisis. I expected points for having the water boiling. She returned for milk and the sugar bowl, and I explained why I was out of milk. She and the arson specialist gave me the same unbelieving look. I looked to my dad for support, but he was gazing at the charred corner.

The arson lady poked around and took pictures, then told us that this looked like an impromptu job and didn’t seem to be linked to the series of fires she was focused on. My impression was that normally she wouldn’t have gotten out of bed for my unprofessional little house fire. I asked, and she said she had no idea what he was looking for or whether he might come back.

“Why burn the place at all?” I asked.

“Maybe to hide his tracks, maybe revenge for something. Could be lots of reasons. You live here alone? I don’t think I’d be too comfortable with that.”

That was enough for the parents, who insisted I come home with them to spend the rest of the night. “If he does come back, all I’ll find in the morning is a pile of charcoal,” I said, but that didn’t convince even me.

The arson specialist left, saying I’d be hearing from her later and that it was okay to clean up. I loaded the dogs in the truck and back we went to Portland.

The next day was Sunday, also a day off. We slept in, ate breakfast, and drove back to clean up. The house was not a heap of ashes; Bessie Smith had not expired. It was the same mess we’d abandoned the night before, except that the puddles had drained.

My dad set up fans to dry out the living room, and we started picking up and trying to determine what had been stolen. Rick’s computer was missing, but he might have taken it with him to Denny’s. I’d have to ask.

Leaving Mom at the house to finish putting the kitchen back together, Dad and I drove to the hardware store on Vancouver’s Main Street and loaded up on security gear. I drew the line at a motion detector, what with the dogs, but we got locks, latches, and bars for windows. They had pepper spray, too. We picked up groceries since most of mine were ruined.

Back home, the air smelled of cleaning supplies, stale smoke, and scorched milk. I fed Bessie her greens and veggies. She ate, so she wasn’t at death’s door, but she lacked her usual vigorous hostility. Maybe she appreciated that I rescued her. Fat chance. Rick was the only person she had ever tolerated.

At Mom’s suggestion, I checked in with the neighbors to see if they had noticed anyone prowling around. The house on the west side was vacant. The house on the east was inhabited by a scrawny young man who worked night shift and was sure he knew nothing about anything. No one was home, as usual, at the houses across the street.

I called the landlord and got his wife. They were Russian immigrants and it was not at all clear that her English was up to “burglary” and “arson.” However, the word “fire” produced a flurry of unintelligible words. I agreed with whatever she’d said and ended the call. I’d done my duty as a renter—if the landlord wanted more information, he knew where to find me.

For awhile. Moving was looking good to me.

Mom climbed a stepladder and washed the living room walls to remove the smoke grime and the smell. She left reluctantly to prepare for teaching her high school classes the next day, eager to assist with house shopping in a better neighborhood. My dad spent most of the day installing the security devices, and I spent it vacuuming and mopping, bitter about doing that twice in one weekend. We didn’t talk much, but now and then one of us would try out an explanation.

“Probably thought you had money hidden,” was Dad’s first effort.

“Why? It would make more sense to look in an expensive house than a little rental.”