Fire Season
Page 28
There had been many toasts: to Coffin’s mother, mostly, but also to the men and women of the Provincetown Fire Department, who had performed heroically given their fraught relationship with their equipment, and despite not actually having put out any of the fires.
The Crown fire had been enormous: an eight-alarmer, with fire trucks and crews coming from as far away as Sandwich, lined up half the narrow length of Commercial Street, unable to get close enough to help. The crowd of spectators had grown large and boisterous: The startled Tall Ships and the weeping drag queens had been joined by a contingent of drunks from the Old Colony Tap, and another group of drinkers from the Captain Alden. People from all over town and then Truro and the rest of the outer Cape had showed up to watch the old hotel burn: sparks and embers swirled and stormed overhead. Sheets of burning roofing had drifted up to High Pole Hill and started small brush fires there, which had mostly been put out by residents. The entire Crown and Anchor complex had ultimately burned to the ground, as had a small indoor shopping mall next door that contained three gift shops, a tattoo parlor, a taco stand, and a spiritual reader’s practice. It had looked for a time as though the rest of the waterfront might go, too—the wind was stiff and burning embers were sailing everywhere. But then the rain had begun: a hard, drenching rain that fell through the night and late into the morning, finally putting the fire out.
Coffin’s house had been a total loss, too. Only the chimney had been left standing. The stuffed goat’s head that hung above the mantel was scorched, but otherwise more or less intact. Coffin and Jamie were staying in Lola’s condo until the insurance check for the house came through; Lola and Kate were living together in Kate’s little rental house on Allerton Street.
There were toasts to Coffin and Lola, too, for finally catching the arsonist—the burn on Coffin’s neck was still bandaged, though not quite as ostentatiously as it had been a couple of days before.
Coffin sat at the bar, Jamie beside him, a long arm draped around his shoulders. “Well, Frank,” she said, “Satisfaction” thumping from the jukebox, the buzz of conversation all around them, “you’re a hero. Again.”
Coffin shook his head. “I’m not a hero. I never would’ve figured out that it was Maurice if it wasn’t for the Seal Baby. And he burned down half the town before we got him. Not our best work.”
“I’m not talking about that,” Jamie said. “I’m talking about the way you saved me and your unborn daughter from a burning building. That’s some mighty sexy stuff right there, Detective.”
“Chief.”
“Acting chief.”
Coffin grinned. “You’re a lot more athletic than I am—you could have climbed out of that window without any help from me.”
“But I didn’t have to, Frank—that’s the point.” She kissed him on the cheek. “You saved me.”
Kotowski slouched down to their end of the bar, Newcastle Ale in hand. “So what’s this I hear about a dream?” he said.
“Here we go,” Coffin said.
“Frank was having a recurring dream about a fire in our house, and a baby that turned into a seal, and then the last time he had the dream the Seal Baby looked like Maurice.”
“So then we went looking for Maurice, and it turned out he was the arsonist,” Coffin said.
“Whoa,” Kotowski said. He looked at Coffin with something like respect. “You are a fucking freak of nature, Coffin,” he said. “I’m impressed. Too bad you didn’t catch him before he burned down half the town.”
“Quibbler,” Coffin said, sipping his scotch.
Kotowski belched softly, thumped his chest with a loose fist. “We’ve got firemen who can’t put out a fire and cops who can’t catch a criminal. What’s next—garbage men who take your trash and throw it all over your lawn? What are we paying you public employees for, anyway?”
“The firefighters are volunteers,” Coffin said. “We’re not paying them anything. And they were pretty damned heroic—you should have seen them at the church fire—completely fearless. And don’t forget Ginky the cat.”
“So what’s your excuse?”
“I blame the police artist,” he said. “Strangely, his cubist sketch of the suspect failed to produce any leads.”
Kotowski laughed, drained his beer, opened another. “I’m going to miss your ma,” he said. “She was a real pistol.”
“That she was,” Coffin said. “I’ll miss her, too.”
“She’s in the next life now,” Jamie said. “I wonder what that’s like.”
“Feathers,” Coffin said. “Wind. Roadkill.”
“Frank thinks she came back as a crow,” Jamie said.
Kotowski frowned. “Jesus, Coffin—if I didn’t know better I’d think you’d gotten all spiritual on us. Next you’ll be telling us about your freaking yoga practice.”
Jamie cleared her throat, raised a hand. “Ahem! Yoga instructor.”
“I know that,” Kotowski said. “I’m talking about him. If he goes all New Age yoga-crunchy on me—no offense—I won’t be able to tolerate him anymore. Who the hell am I going to drink with?”
“Don’t worry,” Coffin said. “It’ll pass.”
“It’d better,” Kotowski said. He took a long slug from his beer.
“I’m going to let you two gentlemen hash this out,” Jamie said, patting Coffin on his unburned shoulder. She stood, round and radiant, golden late-afternoon light slanting in through the big front windows, illuminating her hair. She kissed Coffin on the cheek again, then navigated slowly through the crowded bar toward Lola and Kate, who were leaning on the jukebox, heads together.
“Christ on a cracker,” Kotowski said, watching her. “She’s like some freaking fertility goddess. How’d a toad like you ever land such a gorgeous female?”
Coffin shook his head. “Life is full of mysteries.”
“So when’s the baby due?” Kotowski said.
“February fifteenth. Give or take.”
“What are you going to do about a house? You can’t move in with me, you know—no squalling brats at Chez Kotowski, thank you very much.”
Coffin shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll buy something, I guess. We’ll get some money from the insurance company, and Jamie’s got some family money. I haven’t had time to really think about it.”
“So you’re staying here? I knew it. Your kid’s going to grow up to be some moody, ironic hipster, you know. And that’s best-case scenario.”
“If it was up to me, I’d probably buy a place in Wellfleet, or maybe Eastham. But Jamie likes it here.” Coffin shrugged. “What can I say? I’m not in charge.”
“Oh my God,” Kotowski said. “You are such a pussy.”
Acknowledgments
My sincerest thanks to the many readers who’ve gotten in touch, one way or another, to tell me they enjoy these books. Thanks also to Marty Wood and Karen Havholm (an URCA grant is a wonderful thing), to Peggy Govan and John Pollitz at McIntyre Library, to Brent Halverson for the great simile, and to all of my friends and colleagues who’ve said supportive things about these books. Thanks to Brady Foust for asking me every Friday for two years if the book was done yet. Yes, Brady—it’s done. Much gratitude to Maria and Kelley, as always. Thanks to Polly Burnell, Stephen Desroches, Jimmy McNulty, Jen Rumpza, and all the other wonderful P’town folks who took the time to talk fire and/or UFOs with me. Enduring affection and thanks to Roger Skillings, simply one of the best people on the planet. As always, big-time love and devotion to my wife, Allyson, who lets me take time away from the life of our busy household to write things (next year, it’s your turn).
And, a special note of acknowledgment and thanks to my friend and researcher, Ian Jacoby, for compiling and distilling much of the factual information necessary for the completion of this book. Without him, no one in Fire Season would have given mouth-to-mouth to Ginky, the Siamese cat. Ian’s work was funded by a Faculty-Student Collaborative Research Grant through UWEC’s excellent Office of Research and Sponsored Prog
rams.
Also by Jon Loomis
Mating Season
High Season
Vanitas Motel
The Pleasure Principal
About the Author
JON LOOMIS, a college professor, is the author of two Frank Coffin mysteries and two collections of poetry. The recipient of a number of fellowships and awards, including the FIELD Poetry Prize, he lives in Wisconsin with his family.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
FIRE SEASON. Copyright © 2012 by Jon Loomis. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Loomis, Jon.
Fire season / Jon Loomis.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-66813-6 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-01486-3 (e-book)
1. Police—Massachusetts—Provincetown—Fiction. 2. Arson investigation—Fiction. 3. Provincetown (Mass.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3562.O593F54 2012
813'.54—dc23
2012010696
e-ISBN 9781250014863
First Edition: July 2012