Burn You Twice

by Burton, Mary

  “Understood,” he said before the boys set off in search of wood.

  Ann watched as Nate and Kyle vanished into the shadows. “We’ve never talked about the College Fire.”

  “It was a near miss for us both. We should count our lucky stars.” She tucked her feet in, trying to be relaxed and casual as the fire consumed the wood. She was not in the mood for a counseling session about PTSD or phobias.

  “Fire makes you nervous,” Ann said.

  “No wonder, given my history,” Joan said.

  “I didn’t notice it in college, but Clarke did. He said you always kept your distance at the bonfires.”

  “We all have our quirks.” She heard the boys arguing about which types of wood to collect. Kyle’s theories about the proper wood-to-burn ratios were as strong as Nate’s. “They’re having fun.”

  “Nate hasn’t seen Kyle all summer, and he’s missed having his cousin around. The other boys at the elementary school tease Nate about leaving them behind this fall. Some are intimidated by his intelligence, but Kyle doesn’t seem to care.”

  “He has the Bailey good heart.” Joan drew in a few breaths, feeling her throat tighten and her palms sweat. “I wish them both happiness.”

  “I doubt Gideon really has been happy since you left.”

  Joan stared into her wineglass and the play of light from the fire. “I don’t believe that.”

  “He’s always felt like he failed you, Joan. Wished he had tried living back east with you.”

  Joan had realized her mistake two months after the fire. She had called Ann, fear tangling with hope as she’d asked about Gideon.

  “He’s married, Joan,” Ann had said.

  Joan had gripped the phone, certain it was a bad connection. “What?”

  “He married Helen. She’s pregnant.”

  Joan had sat down, her head spinning. “What?”

  “She’s eight weeks along, and before you say anything, Clarke and I are also married. I’m pregnant, too.”

  Now, in the distance, an owl hooted and brought Joan back to the present. She cleared her throat, hoping she sounded steadier than she felt. “I’m not sure I can make anyone happy. I’m moody and difficult on my best days, and if you hadn’t noticed, I’m a workaholic.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Ann said, smiling.

  Joan allowed a small smile of her own. “Yep, it’s true.”

  They sat in silence for a moment before Ann asked, “What do you think you’re going to do about Elijah? He’s served his time. He’s free to do whatever he wishes.”

  “I thought about that on the plane. There’s nothing I can do legally, but I feel in my bones that he has a bigger agenda.”

  “What kind of agenda?”

  “You told me how angry he was after his conviction and how he still insists he’s innocent. He’s back in Missoula because he wants something. You think it’s revenge?”

  Ann paled. “I don’t know what Elijah wants.”

  “If he and I can build a rapport, maybe he’ll reveal himself to me. Secrets always have a way of coming out. The trick is to be on the lookout for the signs.”

  The flames in the pit crackled as they ate through the wood. The tripod Nate had built collapsed in a flurry of sparks and fire.

  “I hope you know what you are doing,” Ann said.

  “I don’t. But that’s never stopped me before.”

  Confessions of an Arsonist

  Burning brush and wood has its own pleasure, but watching the fire eat through property and destroy what others love . . .

  It’s a rush beyond measure.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Missoula, Montana

  Saturday, September 5, 2020

  7:15 p.m.

  The fire sirens wailed in the distance as Elijah Weston sat on the front porch of his new residence, a boardinghouse five blocks from the university. It was a split-level, five-bedroom house and his home until he could get a better place.

  But for now, he would share a bathroom with Rodney DuPree, a recovering drug addict. And if he was really hard up for company, he could sit in the den during the evenings and watch television with the other two residents. Their names escaped him, which suited Elijah just fine.

  The owner of the house, Ax Pickett, was a former Vietnam vet who had opened the boardinghouse as a tribute to his dead wife, Delilah. In his early seventies, Pickett had a long, lean frame and weathered features that suggested many years in a saddle.

  Though Delilah was long gone, her porcelain cups, blousy pink drapes, and overstuffed furniture covered in rose chintz remained. Her recipes were cooked at mealtime, and her rocker remained beside Pickett’s on the porch. Delilah’s house rules, which had straightened out Pickett, also still applied. There was no cussing. Smoking was limited to the front porch. And according to Rodney, Pickett did not allow drinking except for the first Saturday of the month, when he indulged in his six-pack limit.

  Elijah sat forward, listening as another fire truck’s siren raced down one of the central streets. His heartbeat kicked, and a familiar pleasant tension pulsed in his veins as he imagined the flashing lights and the truck racing toward the blaze. Those first few seconds at a fire were always exciting. Fires were an enigma, even to those closest to them.

  He drew in a breath and forced himself to sit back in the chair as he stared at the remains of the black graffiti, ARSONST LEAVE! spray-painted on the sidewalk. The misspelled warning had been waiting for him when he arrived last night, and he had spent a couple of hours today scrubbing the paint with hot soapy water and a wire brush. A faint outline of the words still remained, but he would see to it again tomorrow.

  As tempted as he was to go and witness the fire, the words were a reminder that being seen near a blaze would be his one-way ticket back to prison.

  Missoula was one of the biggest towns in Montana, but the reality was it was a small town with fewer than seventy thousand people. There were three fire departments in town. The one on Pine Street served the city, whereas the other two were on the outer edges of town. Of course, all three would respond to any fire that needed all hands on deck.

  Hearing the multiple sirens confirmed that the blaze was growing larger and fiercer.

  The front door squeaked open, and Elijah looked over his shoulder to see Pickett step out onto the porch. Nodding a greeting, the old man walked toward the porch rail and removed a cigarette packet and lighter from his jeans pocket.

  Pickett struck the flint of his lighter, holding it up for a moment before he pressed it to the tip of his cigarette. The tip flared with an orange glow magnified by the graying sky. White smoke puffed and swirled around narrowing eyes that looked toward the direction of the sirens.

  Elijah understood this was a test. The town arsonist was living in his house, and fire engines were blaring down the center of the city.

  Pickett offered him a smoke.

  Elijah held up his hand. “I don’t smoke.”

  Pickett shrugged and tucked the packet into the breast pocket of his jean jacket. “I’ve been smoking since I was twelve. I hear it can kill me, but given the way I’ve always lived my life, the smokes are the least of my worries.”

  Elijah decided to stick to compliments, just as he had with prison guards. “That was a fine dinner you served us tonight.”

  “As long as you don’t get tired of old-fashioned cooking or barbecue, you’ll always be happy with what I serve.”

  “I’m happy to eat anything served to me on this side of the prison wall. I’m a fair cook and willing to help.” The reminder of the shared meal was calculated. He wanted everyone to remember where he had been when that fire started.

  Pickett inhaled, holding the smoke in his lungs before slowly releasing it. He pointed the cigarette toward the sirens. “What do you think is burning?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “I don’t want any trouble.
” Pickett flicked the glowing tip into an ashtray shaped like New York State. “I’m taking a chance on you. There are a lot of folks in town who don’t want you around.”

  “I doubt I’m wanted anywhere.” There was no self-pity or bravado behind the statement. Life was easier to navigate if a man simply accepted what was fact instead of dreaming about what could be.

  Pickett faced him. “Should I ask if you’re behind that fire?”

  “I am not responsible for that fire. I was here eating meat loaf with you.”

  Pickett regarded him as he inhaled and then exhaled what looked like worry. “Whatever is burning ain’t that far from here, and you look fit enough.”

  “Running the yard relieves stress.”

  “It can also keep you fit enough to cover distance quickly.”

  “I didn’t set the fire.”

  He pointed the lit cigarette toward the stain on the sidewalk. “I didn’t say you did. But there’ll be people who will think you did.”

  “I have always maintained my innocence.”

  “The guilty usually do.”

  “If you think I set the College Fire ten years ago, then why take me in?”

  He shrugged, stared at the tip of his cigarette. “Because a part of me believes any man can be redeemed. Change the course of his life for the better.” He stubbed out his cigarette on the star marking Albany.

  Elijah asked, “Why New York for the ashtray?”

  Pickett studied the ashtray, which was already half-full. “You ain’t the only one who did time. I pulled mine in New York.” He let the rest of the story dangle like a baited hook in a fishing stream.

  Elijah did not care but heard himself asking, “What did you do?”

  “Murder,” he said with no hint of apology. “I was drinking in those days. But I was also defending a lady’s honor in a bar.”

  “Delilah’s?”

  “I wish. But she drove the two thousand miles to see me. Told me that when I was able to come back home, she would be waiting.”

  “And she was?”

  “Yes, sir. She certainly was.”

  A flicker of envy sparked in Elijah. “I suppose that’s why you married her.”

  “A loyal woman is hard to find.”

  “You might be right about that.”

  Pickett reached for the doorknob. “Delilah gave me a second chance, which is why I’m giving you one. But like she told me nearly thirty years ago, ‘If you fuck this up, I’ll scalp you.’”

  Elijah smiled and went inside the house.

  As Gideon watched Fire Chief Clarke Mead walk toward him, he thought about the woman he had seen before the blaze destroyed the building. The thunderous flames now hissed as the firefighters sprayed water on the ruins.

  Clarke removed his helmet and ran his hand over his salt-and-pepper hair, now damp with sweat despite the cooling temperatures. “It’s still too hot to walk the wreckage and conduct any kind of investigation. That’s likely to be tomorrow.”

  “Can you tell what caused the fire?” Gideon asked.

  “Hard to say. I did issue the building owner a citation a month ago. Several of her beauticians had rigged electrical outlets to carry a higher load beyond code. They were supposed to hire a licensed electrician to fix the problem. I was due back to check next week. They also improperly stored flammable chemicals, which explains the intensity of the blaze.”

  “Who owns the building?” Gideon asked.

  “Jessica and Darren Halpern.”

  “Names aren’t familiar.”

  “They are new to the area. Came here about a year ago from California. They liked the idea of Big Sky Country.”

  The building had gone up quickly and burned to cinder. It could have been electrical, but Gideon was not ruling out arson. “How are the Halperns faring so far?”

  “They said they’re doing well. Mr. Halpern complained about the winter, but then most of the new folks do.”

  “This past winter was fairly mild.”

  “That’s what I told him.” Amusement briefly softened the frown lines around Clarke’s mouth before his brow furrowed. “We haven’t had a chance to talk about Elijah Weston. He was released yesterday from prison.”

  Gideon’s face hardened. “I am very aware of that.”

  “Biggest fire this town has seen in a decade, and Elijah is living less than a mile away.”

  “We’re a long way from making that accusation, Clarke.”

  “You’re the cop, so I’ll leave it to you. But I would be paying the man a visit.”

  “I will.”

  Gideon and Clarke had both attended college in Missoula and had roomed together three doors down from the house Gideon’s parents had rented to Joan and Ann.

  Weeks before the fire, Joan had begged him to move back east with her, and he had refused. With tears in her eyes, she had broken up with him. But during their days apart, he had gotten drunk and landed in bed with Helen. That fall from grace had proved to him how much he loved Joan. He had been ready to move east, at least for the summer. That would give them time to sort out their lives. But his plans to fix things between Joan and him had been delayed by the College Fire and then destroyed by Helen’s pregnancy.

  Regret for the lost love rose up in Gideon’s chest. He should have long been over Joan, but thoughts of her still hurt.

  His phone rang, and, seeing Kyle’s name, he drew in and released a breath and expelled the anger before he answered the call. “Hey, pal.”

  “Dad, I’m at Aunt Ann’s with Nate.”

  “Great.” He and Kyle lived in a house about a half mile from Ann’s, on Bailey land. Nate and Kyle had been close as younger boys, and now that they were settled, the first cousins were getting reacquainted. “Be sure you listen to Aunt Ann.”

  “I will, Dad.”

  He raised his gaze to the charred structure that had been the beauty shop hours ago and knew he would be on scene for several more hours.

  He said goodbye, hung up, and then pushed the phone into his back pocket as he moved toward the rubble. The air was thick with the acrid smell of charred wood and chemicals. “Looks like our boys are having a sleepover at Ann’s tonight.”

  Clarke shifted his stance and rolled his shoulders. “It was my night with Nate, but when I heard the sirens, I knew I’d better drop him off at Tim’s.”

  “Ann’s going to have her hands full with those two.”

  “My wife can juggle more than any woman I’ve ever met.”

  “She’s always been that way.”

  “I haven’t had the chance to say it yet, but it’s good to have you back, Gideon. Missed you this summer.”

  “Kyle and I needed the break. To unplug. By the end, neither one of us missed the cell phone.”

  Clarke chuckled. “How long did it take Kyle to reattach to his phone?”

  Gideon grinned. “Thirty seconds.”

  Smiling, Clarke shook his head. “Not sure Nate could survive without his. That boy has his mom’s brains and is going to be building his own computers one day.”

  Gideon’s boy was rough-and-tumble. He was plenty smart but would rather play soccer or ride horses than crack a book. Kyle was a chip off the old block, and he liked the idea of Kyle hanging out with his more studious cousin. “Nate will be running the state and then the country one day.”

  Clarke’s grin reflected his pride. “Who’s to say the two boys don’t partner up and run the state?”

  Gideon laughed. “Kyle will be running the ranch, but he’ll help your boy whenever he needs assistance.”

  “Chief Mead!” The callout came from one of the firefighters, Samuel Thompson. “Like you to see something.”

  As Gideon and Clarke walked toward the building, the radiating heat stopped them before they could get within ten feet. “What is it?”

  “Around back,” the firefighter said. “One of my men found a purse.”

  They followed Samuel around the building toward the alley that cut between t
he Beau-T-Shop and the law offices behind it. Gideon knew the attorneys well enough from his divorce and subsequent custody battle. He had spent a good bit of treasure and time on those folks.

  Samuel paused at the mouth of the alley and pointed toward a blue purse leaning against the brick wall. “Seems odd that it would be here.”

  Gideon reached in his coat pocket and removed a pair of protective gloves. Normally, he might not have been so conscious of forensics with a lady’s purse, but it was too close to the fire for it to have been a coincidence. He worked his large hands into the gloves and knelt beside it.

  The purse, which did not appear expensive, was sitting upright, as if it had been placed carefully. If it had been stolen, the chances were that it would be lying haphazardly on its side. Thieves, in his experience, did not take the time to carefully set down a stolen purse. It was also zipped closed. Again, that did not fit the profile of a stolen item.

  He searched around the purse and then grabbed his phone and took several pictures.

  “Why the careful handling?” Clarke asked.

  “It just doesn’t look right to me.” He unzipped the top and noted the wallet inside. He removed it, unfastened the clasp, and discovered three credit cards and thirty-six dollars in cash.

  He glanced at the driver’s license. It had been issued to Lana Long and listed a Denver address.

  “You think she might be the woman you saw inside the shop?” Clarke asked.

  Gideon rose and looked at the burned-out structure. “If she was, she’s dead now.”

  Confessions of an Arsonist

  Each time I stare at one of my fires, I feel in control.

  When I hear the flames roar, I feel power. When I see the black smoke rise toward the heavens, I believe I can accomplish anything. However, when the fire finally dies out, as they all do, that control, power, and optimism vanish.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Missoula, Montana

  Saturday, September 5, 2020

  9:55 p.m.

  As Gideon parked, his headlights swept the front of the three-hundred-unit apartment complex located on the outskirts of Missoula. Each of the buildings had three floors, with weathered wood siding and a pitched roof that mimicked a ski resort. Age and too many harsh winters had taken a toll on the buildings, which now looked worn and dated. But because housing in Missoula was not easy to come by, he knew the rents here would have been steep.