A Question of Fire

by Karen McCullough

  She turned to look at him.

  "You're a good listener. Thanks."

  She shrugged. "No problem."

  He didn't smile back. The green eyes continued to watch her solemnly and, fascinated, she stared at him in return. She wasn't surprised when he leaned towards her and put an arm around her shoulders to draw her closer. She watched his eyes until she couldn't focus any longer, then she didn't look at anything for a while. The kiss was long and deep, satisfying and provoking at the same time. She wanted it to keep going, but finally she felt his arm slacken and pulled herself away.

  "I'll call you tomorrow," he said as she gathered her wits and let herself out of the car.

  She went through the rest of the evening in something of a daze. She did her job, and someone else's too, without paying much attention. She was good enough that she made no serious mistakes, but everyone, including Ray, noticed and commented on her fog-bound condition. She refused to offer any explanation, which didn't keep people in the office from speculating.

  On Friday morning at ten, she had an appointment with a lawyer in a nearby city. It was a forty-minute drive on a fairly new section of interstate highway, but the day was getting a head start on being a scorcher. She found the office without incident and was directed right in.

  John Farrigan was in his early fifties, a trim, serious, dignified man with an easy manner. As soon as she was seated, he handed her a stack of loosely bound papers. "Here's the transcript you asked about, and I've reviewed my files. I remember it, though, it was kind of an unusual case. May I ask what your interest is?"

  "I'm helping a friend, Peter Lowell, with a case he's working on," she explained. "Eventually, of course, I hope to get a story out of it, but for now we're mostly concerned with the case for his client. A young man accused of arson. He claims he was framed and we have good reason to believe he's telling the truth, but no evidence to prove it. Is this beginning to sound familiar?"

  Farrigan's face didn't change, but he was silent for several minutes, thinking. "If I understand correctly," he said, "you could be onto a very big story."

  Cathy heard the question and answered it. "Very big. But, at the moment, we're just scratching the edge, trying to find a loose thread."

  "How long has this been going on?"

  "I've only gone back five years in my research; all I can tell is longer than that."

  "How many have you got?"

  "Ten possible cases. No other goats, but, in at least one and possibly more, the intended goat died in the blaze." She let him absorb that before she asked her next question. "Would you mind telling me about your client?"

  Farrigan picked up a piece of paper from the folder and started to read. "Charles Lamont Smith, male, black, twenty-three years old, construction worker; one previous arrest and conviction for disorderly conduct. Now serving five-to-ten for arson." He dropped the paper back onto the desk. "He was innocent."

  "You're sure?" Cathy asked.

  "Not as sure as you seem to be about your client, but I've been an attorney for nearly thirty years; I think I've developed a pretty good instinct for when someone's lying to me. Charlie wasn't when he said he'd been framed. But I couldn't even begin to prove it."

  -20-

  Friday

  "Cathy?" The voice on the other end of the telephone line was Peter's. She'd gone straight to the office when she got back in town and had just arrived at her desk when the phone rang. "Mrs. Townsend called back this morning."

  "Already? That was fast work."

  "Amazing the effect the right lubricant can have," Peter agreed. "What's the situation around there? Do you mind giving up another dinner hour? According to his wife, Joe wants to meet us at eight-thirty tonight."

  "It’s quiet so far, thank goodness. I wasn't sure I was going to survive last night. No, I don't mind giving up another dinner hour in a good cause. I'll grab something to eat at my desk. Where do we meet him?"

  "Not far from Sable Creek Mall. You know the creek across the street from the shopping center? The main road out of the mall crosses it on a bridge, but if you turn left and drive along next to it, there's a footbridge half a mile from the road crossing. It's not far from the back entrance to the mall, but the land drops off sharply, so you can't see it from the parking lot or the road."

  "It sounds rather isolated," Cathy commented.

  "Like I said, it's not very far from the mall, but I think it's pretty well hidden. Bring your can of pepper spray just in case."

  "You better believe I will."

  "Good. I'll pick you up about eight-fifteen." Peter hung up the phone.

  Among other things she liked about him was his punctuality. His Datsun waited for her at the employees' entrance when she got there at eight-thirteen. On the way to the shopping center, she filled him in on her talk with John Farrigan that morning.

  "So you're convinced there is a pattern?" he asked.

  "There are just too many coincidences. Too many fires where a 'street-person' died after possibly setting the fire; too many fires to be accidental, it seems to me; every one—every single one—of the buildings was insured; but the clincher is this other man, Charlie Smith. His story is so much like Danny's, it's stretching coincidence too far. How likely is it that two young men of dubious past and no great intellectual ability should come up with nearly identical stories of being framed for arson?"

  "Not very likely," Peter pointed out, "unless you can show the two men knew each other."

  "Danny claims he's never heard of Charlie Smith before."

  "Maybe he knew him by another name; or maybe he's lying. They're only a few years apart in age, live in cities only thirty miles from each other, and move in similar circles. It's certainly possible they've met."

  "You think Danny's lying?" Cathy asked.

  "No," Peter answered, "but I'm trying to show you how the prosecution will present it."

  "It doesn't help Danny's case?"

  "It's circumstantial evidence and pretty flimsy at that. Gordon's prosecuting, and he's sharp. He'll shred it like a cheap tissue."

  "Oh."

  Peter looked at her. "Hey, don't let it get to you. It may not be much, but it's better than what we had yesterday. And we've still got a couple of good possibilities to work on. If we can find whatever Bobby hid, that might clear up everything. Are we still on for the junkyard tomorrow?"

  "I hope so. I called Ike to tell him we were coming and why. He said it was all right with him."

  "Good." Peter was silent for a thoughtful minute. "You know, a few things are beginning to make sense. Suppose what Bobby found was, in fact, proof of a conspiracy to defraud insurance companies by razing highly insured buildings. If that's the case, this has been going on for some time, it's organized, highly profitable, and involves some thoroughly ruthless people. Professional criminals, in fact. No wonder Bobby was terrified when he realized what he had."

  "And no wonder someone was willing to commit murder or pay for it to be done to keep the operation secret," Cathy added. "I'm beginning to get a bit terrified myself."

  "Whoa," Peter advised, "this is all supposition. Still, it won't hurt us to be careful."

  Cathy could see the elongated, irregular roof line of the shopping mall looming in front of them. The road they traveled would shortly cross the bridge and run straight to the back parking lot of the building. Just before they got to the bridge, Peter turned the car onto a side street which ran parallel to the creek for a little ways.

  The creek was now between them and the shopping center. A steep embankment rose on the far side of it, effectively blocking their view of the building. Not far ahead, Cathy saw the top of the stone arch that formed the footbridge. Ten feet across and four feet wide, it spanned the shallow, rocky stream. Beyond the footbridge, a series of steps had been chopped into the embankment so that, after crossing the bridge, one could ascend to the level of the shopping center parking lot.

  Peter pulled the car over and parked along the s
ide of the road nearest the creek. He and Cathy sat in the car a moment, surveying the scene. They couldn't see anyone else. A pickup truck was the only other vehicle parked on the street; it sat on the other side some two hundred feet away. A quiet residential area stretched away from the mall. In the falling twilight, they could hear the calls of children and see a pair swinging in their backyard. Further up the street, a young boy rode his bike in an aimless, leisurely manner.

  A strip of grass, twenty feet wide, grew between the street and the creek. It was deserted for all they could see. If there was anyone lurking in the deepening shadows under the arch of the bridge, they were unable to tell. Peter turned to look at Cathy. "Shall we get out and take a walk?"

  She nodded, but waited for him to come around and open the door before she got out. They walked slowly, hand in hand, across the stretch of green to the bridge. She was acutely aware of the evening noises: the chirping of crickets and cicadas, birds calling, distant children's cries, even the swish of grass underfoot. It was the sound she didn't hear, the noise of another human being approaching, that bothered her.

  Peter steered them so they angled towards the creek, stopping when they neared the edge. From there, they could see the narrow strip of land that ran along the bank under the arch. No one waited there. Cathy turned and looked down into the creek itself. No more than two feet deep at the center, the water ran fast and clear except for occasional sandy eddies. Most of the bed was rocky; small fish swam between the stones. The embankment rose almost straight up from the far side, and traffic noises, vague and muffled, sounding more distant than they really were, floated down to them.

  Peter's arm tugged at her, and she moved with him along the grass on a path that would take them around, rather than under, the bridge. The silence stretched, not complete but uneasy, and he seemed to share her reluctance to break it. A few crickets chirped around them. She looked at him. The low, slanting rays of the setting sun picked out gold sparks in his sandy hair and cast dramatic highlights across the strong bone and muscle of his face. With his erect carriage and athletic grace, he was distractingly attractive.

  Peter looked ahead and around, eyes sweeping the landscape warily. They came even with the bridge and stood in front of it, looking up. About a yard wide, a set of four steps led to the walk across the creek, which was lined on either side by a three foot high parapet. It was quiet and appeared deserted.

  Still holding hands, they continued around the bridge, then halted in surprise as the other side came into view. A man leaned against the far side of the bridge, calmly smoking a cigarette. He must have been waiting all along, since he couldn't have arrived without them seeing him. But he'd been unnervingly quiet and still. He glanced up and saw them watching him, dropped the cigarette, and ground it under his heel before he spoke. "Lowell?"

  Peter dropped Cathy's arm and moved forward. "I'm Peter Lowell, this is Catherine Bennett. You're Joe Townsend?"

  He nodded. The shadows weren't deep, but the man would be hard to describe even in the best of light. Middling tall, average build, brown hair and brown eyes, the only distinctive thing about him was that there was nothing distinctive. He looked about forty but his face was bland. "I understand you want to talk to me?" he asked.

  "I'd like to ask you some questions."

  "So ask," the man answered.

  "Bobby Stark came to see you the day he was killed."

  "Who's Bobby Stark?" he interrupted.

  "A young man," Peter explained. "He talked to you about a week and a half ago. He was trying to prove that his brother hadn't set a fire—"

  Cathy saw an arm appear over the parapet of the bridge, followed shortly by the head and torso of a man, with another crouching behind. Her inarticulate cry distracted Peter and the direction of her glance warned him. Both figures crested the parapet and rested only a second before leaping to land on the ground behind Peter. One of the men held a cudgel, which he raised as he jumped. The blow should have landed squarely on the back of Peter's skull, but he'd seen it coming and reacted quickly, twisting away. The cudgel just missed his left ear, glancing off the side of his head to drive harder into his shoulder.

  Meanwhile, the second man from the bridge and the man who'd called himself Joe Townsend grabbed Cathy and started dragging her back to the street. She decided it was time to draw attention and opened her mouth to scream. She was forestalled. The second man poked something hard and cold into her side and said, "Keep your mouth shut, lady." Cathy subsided, watching the struggle between Peter and the other man as they pulled her away.

  Peter was down on his knees, but not out, as the plan had intended. As the other man landed, thrown off balance by the missed blow, Peter turned toward him and slashed the wrist holding the cudgel. The club went flying, but the man kicked upward and hit Peter on the jaw with his foot. The force of the blow drove Peter backward and the other man charged him. Peter gathered himself and was able to land a right hook, followed immediately with another to the stomach. His adversary collapsed backwards, dazed, and Peter turned to see what else was happening.

  The two men holding her arms saw Peter heading in their direction, and Cathy decided it was her turn to do something while their attention was distracted. She pretended to stumble and doubled up, twisting away from the man holding the gun, until she could no longer feel it poking her side. Blessing the medium-spiked heels she wore, she kicked up and drove one into the shin of the man with the gun. He gave a loud yelp and reached down. Unbalanced and unable to stop the momentum of her fall, she landed face down in the dirt, her right cheek connecting painfully with a rock. She rolled onto her back, to find herself nearly at the feet of the grimacing man who still held the gun in his right hand. She kicked straight up, catching him in the groin. He let out a strangled scream, dropped the gun, and doubled over beside her.

  As she dove for the weapon, rough hands grabbed her arm and tried to drag her to her feet. The hold was loosed again just as suddenly. Peter had an arm around Townsend's neck and struggled to hold onto the writhing man. Townsend chopped back with an elbow, catching Peter in the side and forcing him to release his grip. Cathy scrambled for the gun, a nice little semi-automatic Browning, and picked it up. When she turned back, Peter was on the ground, with Townsend standing over him, about to deliver a devastating kick.

  "Don't do it," she yelled, and both men turned to look at her. The gun pointed, level and steady, at Townsend. He froze. Peter got to his feet, and backed away, well out of range of any shot she might fire. She grinned; Peter wouldn't know about this piece of her background. Another leftover from growing up with all those brothers—she didn't have quite as much experience with handguns, but she'd spent a lot of time on firing ranges as a teenager, and had medals for marksmanship with her favorite .22 rifle. Cathy checked the safety without lowering the gun and discovered, as she'd suspected, that it was still on. She clicked it off, grinning more broadly when she saw Townsend's eyes widen. She signaled him to move closer to his moaning companion, and he did so without argument.

  "Get him on his feet." She pointed to the man on the ground. Townsend pulled the other man upright, or something close to that position. The clatter of footsteps on the bridge distracted them all. The third man—the one who'd initially attacked Peter—had recovered and was now fleeing across the bridge. Peter took off after him.

  Cathy turned back to the other men, and discovered that Townsend had used her lapse to turn and run, dragging his bent partner with him. They were thirty feet away from her. She yelled, "Stop!"

  The men ignored her and kept going, speeding across the street, angling toward the pickup truck. She started to run after them, stopped to aim and discovered she didn't have it in her to shoot two unarmed, fleeing men. No doubt, they'd counted on that.

  She lowered the gun, then had another thought, and started after them again. She was still pursuing when they jumped into the pickup truck, started it, and drove off. She tried to read the license plate but was defeated b
y the dusk and a smear of dirt. She raised the gun to fire at a tire, but realized she was too far away to damage it with a handgun and there was too much risk of hitting something else. As the truck rounded a corner and disappeared from sight, she retreated back to the bridge.

  Peter and the other man had disappeared. She crossed the bridge and ran up the steps, stopping at the top to look around for them. Numerous cars sat in the parking lot or moved along the lanes, and people scooted back and forth from vehicles to the mall, but she couldn't pick out Peter's fair hair. She retreated down the steps and across the bridge. Her purse, strap broken, lay in the grass near a large tree, and she sat there to rest and press a folded handkerchief to her bleeding cheek. The dusk deepened and she kept the gun in her hand while she waited for Peter to return.

  -21-

  Friday

  At the top of the steps, Peter halted briefly to search for the man he was chasing. The sun had set and twilight was fading into darkness, but Peter saw him speeding across the parking lot in the direction of the shopping center. He set off in pursuit.

  Running across the hard asphalt surface made him wish for proper footwear and shorts rather than the hard-soled shoes and suit pants he wore. His quarry had the advantage of tennis shoes. Nevertheless, Peter was well coordinated and kept himself in good physical condition for a man of his age and sedate profession. Going flat out across the parking lot, he gained slightly on the other, who still had a lead of nearly forty yards.

  Peter wanted to catch him before they got to the entrance of the shopping center; the possibility of hiding or losing him in the crowd would be greater inside. But there just wasn't enough asphalt left to close the gap in time.

  The mall was anchored at either end by a large department store. He was still some twenty yards behind when the man ran into the garden shop of one of those stores. The entrance was large and open and Peter could see him weaving through the area, dodging displays of rose bushes and overhanging tomato stakes. His quarry ran around a porch swing suspended from the ceiling in the center of the garden shop and reached the glass doors into the store itself just as Peter reached the outer entrance.