Chasing Fire

by Nora Roberts

  “Let it be, Ro. You can’t fix every damn thing.”

  He hissed through his teeth when she said nothing. “Look, L.B.’s going to stand for the base, and Marg and Lynn, because they worked with her. Matt, well, he’s like kin now with Jim’s baby and all. But L.B. and I talked about it. The way things ended up here with Dolly, it’s probably best to keep it to a minimum. Probably be easier on Dolly’s mom.”

  “Probably,” she agreed, but frowned as she studied him. She knew that face, with or without the hole, and those big camel eyes. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing except your interrupting my soap opera. Orchid’s going to get hers when Payton finds out she’s been playing him for a sap.”

  She knew a brood when she was sitting next to one. “You’re sulking.”

  “I’ve got a frigging hole in my face and I’m watching soap operas, then you come along and start carping about dead Dolly and funerals.” He shot her a single hot look. “Go find somebody else to rag on.”

  “Fine.”

  She shoved up.

  “Women suck,” he repeated with a baffled bitterness that had her easing down again. “We’re better off without them.”

  She opted not to remind him she happened to be a woman. “Altogether, or one in particular?”

  “You know the one I hooked up with last winter.”

  Since he’d mentioned her about a hundred times, shown off her picture, Rowan had a pretty good idea. “Vicki, sure.”

  “She was coming out in a couple weeks, with the kids. I was getting a few days off to show her around. The kids were all juiced up to see the base.”

  Were, Rowan thought. “What happened?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know. She changed her mind, that’s all. She doesn’t think it’s a good idea—I’ve got my life, she’s got hers. She dumped me; that’s it. She won’t even tell me why, exactly, just how she has to think of the kids, how she needs a stable, honest relationship and all that shit.”

  He turned, aiming those angry, baffled eyes at Rowan. “I never lied to her, that’s the thing. I told her how it was, and she said she was okay with it. Even that she was proud of what I did. Now she’s done, just like that. Pissed off, too. And . . . she cried. What the hell did I do?”

  “I guess . . . the theory of being attached to somebody who does what we do is different from the reality. It’s hard.”

  “So I’m supposed to give it up? Do something else? Be something else? That’s not right.”

  “No, it’s not right.”

  “I was going to ask her to marry me when she came out.”

  “Hell. I’m sorry.”

  “She won’t even talk to me now. I keep leaving messages, and she won’t answer. She won’t let me talk to the kids. I’m crazy about those kids.”

  “Write her a letter.”

  “Do what?”

  “Nobody writes letters anymore. Write her a letter. Tell her how you feel. Lay it all out.”

  “Shit, I’m not good at that.”

  “And that’ll make it even better. If you’re hung up enough to want to marry her, you can write a damn letter.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Hell.”

  “Women suck.”

  “Tell me about it. Write a letter,” he repeated, brooded into his Gatorade. “Maybe. Talk about something else. If I keep talking about her, I’m going to try to call her again. It’s humiliating.”

  “How about those Cubs?”

  He snorted. “I need more than baseball to get my mind off heartbreak, especially since the Cubbies suck more than women this year. We’ve got murder, and fire starters. I heard there was another one, another body. And whoever did it started the fire. The cops better catch this bastard before he burns half of western Montana. We can all use the fat wallet, but nobody wants to earn it that way.”

  “He got a good chunk of Idaho, too. It’s scary,” she said because they were alone. “We know fire wants to kill us when we’re going there. We know nature couldn’t give a damn either way. But going in, knowing there’s somebody out there killing people and lighting it up who maybe wants to see some of us burn. Maybe doesn’t give a shit either way. That’s scary. It’s scary not knowing if he’s done, or if the next time the siren sounds, it’s because of him.”

  She looked over as Gull came in. “What did the cops say?” she demanded.

  “It’s not official, but it’s a pretty good bet what we found out there is what’s left of Reverend Latterly.”

  Cards bolted up. “The priest?”

  “Loosely.” Gull dropped down in a chair. “They found his car out there, and nobody can find him. So, either we did, or he’s taken off. They’re going to be talking to Brakeman after the funeral.”

  “They think he killed him and burned him up?” Cards said. “But . . . wouldn’t that mean . . . or do they think he killed Dolly and—Her own father? Come on.”

  “I don’t know what they think.”

  “What do you think?” Rowan asked him.

  “I’m still working on it. So far I think we’ve got somebody who’s seriously pissed off, and likes fire. I’ve got to clean up.”

  Rowan followed him into his quarters. “Why do you say ‘likes fire’? Using it’s not the same as liking it.”

  “I guess since you’re dressed—and you look good, by the way—you’re not going to wash my back.”

  “No. Why do you say ‘likes fire’?”

  Gull pulled off his shirt. “I increased my passing acquaintance with arson after Dolly.”

  “Yeah, you study. It’s a thing with you.”

  “I like to learn. Anyway,” he continued, dragging off his boots. “Arsonists usually fall into camps. There’s your for-profit—somebody burning property to collect insurance, say, or the torch who lights them up for a fee. That’s not this.”

  “You’ve got the torching to cover up another crime. I have a passing acquaintance, too,” she reminded him as he took off his pants. “Murder’s sure as hell another crime.”

  “Maybe that’s what it was with Dolly.” Naked, he walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower. “The accident or on purpose, the panic, the cover-up. But this, coming on top of it, when the first didn’t really work?”

  He stepped under the spray, let out a long, relieved groan. “All hail the god of water.”

  “Maybe it was a copycat. Somebody wanted to kill Latterly. Brakeman had motive, so did Latterly’s wife if she found out about him and Dolly. One of his congregation who felt outraged and betrayed. And they mirrored Dolly because of the connection. It’s the same motive.”

  “Could be.”

  She whipped back the shower curtain. “It makes the most sense.”

  “In or out, Blondie.” He skimmed those feline eyes down her body. “I’d rather in.”

  She whipped the curtain back closed. “The third type doesn’t play out, Gull. The firebug who gets off starting fires, watching them burn. It doesn’t play because of the murders.”

  “Maybe he’s getting a twofer.”

  “It’s bad enough if it’s to cover the murders. That’s plenty bad enough. What you’re thinking’s worse.”

  “I know it. If the vibe I got from the cops is right, it’s something they’re thinking about, too.”

  She leaned her hands on the sink, stared at her own reflection. “I don’t want it to be somebody I know.”

  “You don’t know everybody, Ro.”

  No, she didn’t know everybody, and was suddenly, desperately grateful she knew only a few people who connected with Dolly and Latterly.

  But . . . what if it was one of those few?

  “Dolly’s funeral. Where can they have it?” she wondered. “They couldn’t have planned on Mrs. Brakeman’s church, even before this happened.”

  “Marg said they’re having the service in the funeral parlor. They don’t expect much of a crowd.”

  “God.” She shut her eyes. “I hated her like a hemorrhoid, but that’s just
depressing.”

  He shut off the water, pulled back the curtain. “You know what you need?” He reached for a towel.

  “What do I need? Gee, let me guess.”

  “Gutter brain. You need a drive with the top down and an icecream cone.”

  “I do?”

  “Yeah, you do. We’re third load on the jump list, so we can cruise into town, find ourselves an ice-cream parlor.”

  “I happen to know where one is.”

  “Perfect. And you look nice. I should take my girl out for ice cream.”

  “Cut that out, Gull.”

  “Uh-uh.” He wrapped the towel around his waist and, still dripping, grabbed her in for a kiss.

  “You’re getting me wet!”

  “Sex, sex, sex. Fine, if that’s what you want.”

  He managed to chase the blues away, make her laugh as she shoved him back. “I want ice cream.” Since he’d already dampened her shirt, she grabbed his face, kissed him again. “First. Get dressed, big spender. I’ll go check with Ops, make sure we’re clear for a few hours.”

  PHOTOGRAPHS OF DOLLY BRAKEMAN, from birth to death, were grouped together in a smiling display. Pink roses softened with sprigs of baby’s breath flanked them. The coffin, closed, bore a blanket of girlish pink and white mums over polished gloss.

  As she’d helped Irene by ordering her choice of flowers, Ella sent pink and white lilies. She noted a couple other floral offerings, and even such a sparse tribute overpowered the tiny room with scent.

  Irene, pale and stark-eyed in unrelieved black, sat on the somber burgundy sofa with her sister, a woman Ella knew a little who’d come in from Billings with her husband. The man sat, stiff and grim, on a twin sofa across the narrow room with Leo.

  Sacred music played softly through the speakers. No one spoke.

  In her life, Ella thought, she’d never seen such a sad testament to a short life, violently ended.

  Ella crossed the room, took her friend’s limp hands. “Irene.”

  “The flowers look nice.”

  “They do.”

  “I appreciate you taking care of that for me, Ella.”

  “It was no trouble at all.”

  Irene’s sister nodded at Ella, then rose to sit with her husband. “The photographs are lovely. You made good choices.”

  “Dolly always liked having her picture taken. Even as a baby,” she said as Ella sat down beside her, “she’d look right at the camera. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to bury my girl.”

  Saying nothing—what was there to say?—Ella put her arms around Irene.

  “I’ve got pictures. All I’ve got’s a lot of pictures. That one there, of Dolly and the baby, is the last one I have. My sister Carrie’s bringing the baby soon. She’s been a help to me, coming up from Billings. She’s bringing Shiloh. I know Shiloh won’t understand or remember, but I thought she should be here.”

  “Of course. You know you can call me, anytime, for anything.”

  “I don’t know what to do, with her things, with her clothes.”

  “I’ll help you with that when you’re ready. There’s Reverend Meece now.”

  Irene’s hand clutched at Ella’s. “I don’t know him. It’s good you asked him to come do the service, but—”

  “He’s kind, Irene. He’ll be kind to Dolly.”

  “Leo didn’t want any preacher. Not after what . . .” Her eyes welled again. “I can’t think about that now. I’ll go crazy if I think about that now.”

  “Don’t. Remember the pretty girl in the photographs. Let me bring Reverend Meece over. I think he’ll be a comfort to you. I promise.”

  Though she wasn’t much of a churchgoer, Ella liked Meece, his gentle ways. Irene needed gentle now.

  “Thank you so much for doing this, Robert.”

  “No need for thanks. It’s a hard day,” he said, looking at the coffin. “The kind of day that shakes a mother’s faith. I hope I can help her.”

  As she led him to Irene, she saw a trio of staff from the school come in. Thank God, she thought. Someone came. Leaving Irene with Meece, she went over to take on greeter duties as Irene’s older sister seemed unwilling or unable to shoulder the task.

  She excused herself when Irene’s younger sister arrived with the baby, her husband and her two children. “Carrie, would you like me to take the baby? I think Irene could use you.”

  As people formed their groups, quiet conversations began, Ella cuddled the chubby, bright-eyed orphan.

  And Leo surged to his feet. “You’ve got no business here. You’ve got no right to be here.”

  The outraged tone had Shiloh’s lip quivering with a whimper. Ella murmured reassurance as she turned, saw the small contingent from the base.

  “After what you did? The way you treated my girl? You get out. You get the hell out!”

  “Leo.” Across the room, Irene sank back into the sofa. “Stop. Stop.” Covering her face with her hands, she burst into harsh sobs.

  Ignoring Leo, Marg marched straight to Irene, sat to embrace the woman, to let Irene cry on her shoulder.

  “Mr. Brakeman.” Irene watched a ruddy-faced, towheaded young man step forward—his jaw as clenched as Leo’s fists. “That baby there is my blood as much as yours, and Dolly was her ma. Wasn’t a year ago I buried my brother. We both lost something, and Shiloh’s what we’ve got left. We’ve come to pay Shiloh’s ma our respects.”

  The livid color in Leo’s cheeks only deepened. For one horrible moment, Ella imagined the worst. Fists, blood, chaos. Then Lieutenant Quinniock and a woman stepped in, and fear flickered briefly in Leo’s eyes.

  “Stay away from me,” he told the young man. Matt, Ella realized. Matt Brayner.

  “That’s your uncle,” Ella whispered. “That’s Uncle Matt. It’s okay now.”

  Leo turned his back, moved as far away as the narrow confines of the room allowed, folded his arms over his chest.

  Ella stepped to Matt. “Would you hold her? I’d like to take Irene out for a minute or two, get her some fresh air.”

  “I’d be pleased.” Matt’s eyes watered up when the baby reached a chubby hand to his face.

  “She favors Jim a little.” Lynn spoke quietly. “Don’t you think, Matt? She favors Jim?”

  Matt’s throat worked as he nodded, as he bent his head to press his cheek to Shiloh’s.

  “Come on with us, Irene.” With Marg’s help, Ella got Irene to her feet. “Come on with us for a bit.”

  As they led the sobbing woman out, Ella heard Meece’s gentle voice coat over the ugly tension in the room.

  ROWAN LICKED her strawberry swirl, enjoying the buzz of pedestrian and street traffic as she strolled with Gull.

  “That’s not really ice cream,” she told him.

  “Maple walnut is not only really ice cream, it’s macho ice cream.”

  “Maple’s for syrup. It’s like a condiment. It’s like mustard. Would you eat mustard ice cream?”